Plenty has been written on the steady toll that aging takes on us, physically and mentally. This blog — being, of course, a “Geezer Alert” — has touched on it and, with millions of fellow baby boomers now entering their final glorious decades, most media regularly visit the subject.
That’s life, we all know. Be ready for it, prepare for it, deal with it.
Fine. Most are pressing forward (kinda).
But entering the “September” of my years has brought on at least two curious conditions that I haven’t seen mentioned elsewhere: Claustrophobia and an acute sensitivity to cold swimming water.
Facing these strange developments, I’m left pondering, as I have before regarding my geezer sensations: Is this just me? Or are these things another fun part of growing old for the majority of us?
Of the two, claustrophobia is by far the most troubling. It affects all tightly packed situations, such as crowds, airplanes and, to my surprise, MRI (magnetic resonance imaging) tests.
It was my recent experience with an MRI that revealed how bad this condition has gotten.
Approaching the MRI machine at Little Falls Hospital, I was pretty confident it was doable. It is open on both ends. My body would only be slid in about three or four feet.
My only concern was the memory of an isolated panic attack I once suffered on an airplane. It was maybe five or six years ago.
That cross-country flight was on an unusually hot, cramped plane. I had a window seat in a row of three seats and, out of the blue, this horrible feeling came over me of being trapped. I had to get out. I tried total-focus reading (moving my bookmarker down each sentence as I read it), sleeping and mind-over matter (“This is ridiculous. There’s nothing wrong. I’ve been in this situation countless times. No problem.”).
Nothing worked. I finally had to get out of my seat and walk down the aisle to the back of the plane, where I asked the flight attendant if I could stand there awhile. She said no, not possible. I returned to my seat and forced myself to weather the panic attack.
Several fellow passengers, hearing me mention my anxiousness to my seatmates, piped up that the heat and cramped rows in this particular small plane were very unusual. That gave me confidence that this was just a freak occurrence and not an indication of a more serious condition.
Still, after that, it’s been only aisle seats with extra legroom for me. No sense risking another awful feeling of panic.
Just in case, though, I mentioned my fears of panic to my doctor and he prescribed a relaxant for me that he referred to as a “pocket pill.” He said just having the pill in one’s pocket during airline flights is enough to calm nearly all potential claustrophobics — the knowledge that any feeling of panic can be blocked or halted.
That worked for me on two eight-hour flights to France last year and two subsequent cross-country flights.
So I approached the MRI with guarded optimism. The calming, friendly nurse gave be a squeeze ball to hold. It was attached to a rubber tube. One squeeze and she’d wheel me right out of the MRI.
Eyes firmly shut, I gave the nurse the go-ahead to slide me in the tube. Then, about 10 minutes into the 25-minute exam, I tried to move my arms, felt how constrained I actually was and was overcome with a wave of utter, horrible panic. I squeezed the rubber ball as hard as physically possible.
Then I felt silly. I apologized to the nurse, asked for a brief breather and agreed to give it another try. The second slide-in lasted, oh, about two seconds.
Now I was a confirmed claustrophobic. In coming days, I would learn I am most definitely not alone, either among the senior set or the general population. At great expense, “open” MRIs have been created for us, allowing freedom of arm movements, calming and spacious surroundings, piped-in music of our choice over headphones and personal accompaniment during the exam.
One problem: The MRI machine still is just inches from a patient’s face. Once I saw that, I panicked anew. It was time for a relaxant pill, prescribed by my doctor at twice the strength of the one I received for airline flights.
I was still nervous but got through it, with the help of cheerleading from the nurse and a radiology technician, not to mention a strangely comforting beanbag mask and a CD of Rossini opera overtures, conducted by the incomparable Leonard Bernstein, barely audible over the machine’s grinding roar.
Even as I learn from casual conversations about lots of younger people who suffer from claustrophobia, I still wonder if advanced age brings it out for many, like it did for me.
Yes, I can recall being uncomfortable during childhood games that called for hiding under a bed. I didn’t stay there long, and I’ve avoided any similarly confined conditions over the years.
Still, neither non-aisle seats on airlines nor packed crowds (like one that brought on a panic attack while boarding a recent flight) ever bothered me in my younger days. Now, just looking at pictures of huge throngs — like hundreds of kayakers gathered to break the Guinness Book of World Records — fills me with dread. Same with even the thought of being trapped under rubble after an earthquake.
So, it may not be an entirely new mental frailty but it has worsened with age.
The cold water thing, though, came out of nowhere.
I can recall swimming in near-freezing ocean, lake and creek water. In the ocean, my body acclimated after a few minutes of riding the waves into shore. In lakes or creeks, just a little moving around was needed before I felt comfortable. At all of them, I could then stay in the water for long periods.
Likewise, when I began my current lap-swimming fitness routine about five years ago at indoor pools, the opening chill dissipated after just five or six 25-yard travels.
Then, a new swim coach arrived at the college where I’m a member of the Aquatics Club. She began turning down the water temperature, reportedly to better prepare her teams for conditions they would find at away meets. Eventually, I learned conventional wisdom holds that competition pools should be kept around 76-78 degrees so that swimmers will have the stamina needed to perform at peak levels.
(Side note: I have swum at more than a dozen college pools that are home to championship-caliber swim teams and keep their temperatures around 80 or even higher. Very comfortable and very conducive to fast swim times. One of those pools — at the University of Southern California — once hosted the Olympics.)
(Side note #2: Amazingly, the change of just a single degree in water temperature makes a huge difference. New simmers or non-swimmers are always very surprised to learn this.)
Soon, either due to a pool malfunction or the coach’s desire (the actual reason depends on who you talk to), the temperature at this particular pool dipped into the mid-70s. I found I could only make a few laps before my muscles and head began to ache. I had to get out.
Subsequently, I learned that I can only tolerate (i.e. swim for any length of time) temperatures above 78. Once the temp dips even slightly below that, I immediately can tell the difference. And with the regular reduction in temperatures at my chosen pool (the only one in my area to offer public swim times that are convenient for regular lap swimming), I’ve had to resort to a wetsuit for the duration of the swim team’s season.
I repeat: A wetsuit . . . in an indoor pool. While the chilly water produces a lot of complaining among the older swimmers, only one other person wears a wetsuit at this pool. Others may just avoid swimming during the cold-water months but the majority just swim and bear it.
So, that begs the question: Is it just me — a person who once readily dipped into water that barely reached 60 degrees — who is now hyper-sensitive to water temperatures in my golden years? Or are those fellow geezers who continue to swim in cold water without wetsuits just too cheap, or prideful, to buy one?
Like most life situations, there’s probably no clear-cut, black-and-white answer; it’s probably a little of both.
But, having been surprised by the arrival of claustrophobia and cold-water intolerance, I have to wonder what other joys await me as I amble forward through the adventure that is aging.
That’s life, we all know. Be ready for it, prepare for it, deal with it.
Fine. Most are pressing forward (kinda).
But entering the “September” of my years has brought on at least two curious conditions that I haven’t seen mentioned elsewhere: Claustrophobia and an acute sensitivity to cold swimming water.
Facing these strange developments, I’m left pondering, as I have before regarding my geezer sensations: Is this just me? Or are these things another fun part of growing old for the majority of us?
Of the two, claustrophobia is by far the most troubling. It affects all tightly packed situations, such as crowds, airplanes and, to my surprise, MRI (magnetic resonance imaging) tests.
It was my recent experience with an MRI that revealed how bad this condition has gotten.
Approaching the MRI machine at Little Falls Hospital, I was pretty confident it was doable. It is open on both ends. My body would only be slid in about three or four feet.
My only concern was the memory of an isolated panic attack I once suffered on an airplane. It was maybe five or six years ago.
That cross-country flight was on an unusually hot, cramped plane. I had a window seat in a row of three seats and, out of the blue, this horrible feeling came over me of being trapped. I had to get out. I tried total-focus reading (moving my bookmarker down each sentence as I read it), sleeping and mind-over matter (“This is ridiculous. There’s nothing wrong. I’ve been in this situation countless times. No problem.”).
Nothing worked. I finally had to get out of my seat and walk down the aisle to the back of the plane, where I asked the flight attendant if I could stand there awhile. She said no, not possible. I returned to my seat and forced myself to weather the panic attack.
Several fellow passengers, hearing me mention my anxiousness to my seatmates, piped up that the heat and cramped rows in this particular small plane were very unusual. That gave me confidence that this was just a freak occurrence and not an indication of a more serious condition.
Still, after that, it’s been only aisle seats with extra legroom for me. No sense risking another awful feeling of panic.
Just in case, though, I mentioned my fears of panic to my doctor and he prescribed a relaxant for me that he referred to as a “pocket pill.” He said just having the pill in one’s pocket during airline flights is enough to calm nearly all potential claustrophobics — the knowledge that any feeling of panic can be blocked or halted.
That worked for me on two eight-hour flights to France last year and two subsequent cross-country flights.
So I approached the MRI with guarded optimism. The calming, friendly nurse gave be a squeeze ball to hold. It was attached to a rubber tube. One squeeze and she’d wheel me right out of the MRI.
Eyes firmly shut, I gave the nurse the go-ahead to slide me in the tube. Then, about 10 minutes into the 25-minute exam, I tried to move my arms, felt how constrained I actually was and was overcome with a wave of utter, horrible panic. I squeezed the rubber ball as hard as physically possible.
Then I felt silly. I apologized to the nurse, asked for a brief breather and agreed to give it another try. The second slide-in lasted, oh, about two seconds.
Now I was a confirmed claustrophobic. In coming days, I would learn I am most definitely not alone, either among the senior set or the general population. At great expense, “open” MRIs have been created for us, allowing freedom of arm movements, calming and spacious surroundings, piped-in music of our choice over headphones and personal accompaniment during the exam.
One problem: The MRI machine still is just inches from a patient’s face. Once I saw that, I panicked anew. It was time for a relaxant pill, prescribed by my doctor at twice the strength of the one I received for airline flights.
I was still nervous but got through it, with the help of cheerleading from the nurse and a radiology technician, not to mention a strangely comforting beanbag mask and a CD of Rossini opera overtures, conducted by the incomparable Leonard Bernstein, barely audible over the machine’s grinding roar.
Even as I learn from casual conversations about lots of younger people who suffer from claustrophobia, I still wonder if advanced age brings it out for many, like it did for me.
Yes, I can recall being uncomfortable during childhood games that called for hiding under a bed. I didn’t stay there long, and I’ve avoided any similarly confined conditions over the years.
Still, neither non-aisle seats on airlines nor packed crowds (like one that brought on a panic attack while boarding a recent flight) ever bothered me in my younger days. Now, just looking at pictures of huge throngs — like hundreds of kayakers gathered to break the Guinness Book of World Records — fills me with dread. Same with even the thought of being trapped under rubble after an earthquake.
So, it may not be an entirely new mental frailty but it has worsened with age.
The cold water thing, though, came out of nowhere.
I can recall swimming in near-freezing ocean, lake and creek water. In the ocean, my body acclimated after a few minutes of riding the waves into shore. In lakes or creeks, just a little moving around was needed before I felt comfortable. At all of them, I could then stay in the water for long periods.
Likewise, when I began my current lap-swimming fitness routine about five years ago at indoor pools, the opening chill dissipated after just five or six 25-yard travels.
Then, a new swim coach arrived at the college where I’m a member of the Aquatics Club. She began turning down the water temperature, reportedly to better prepare her teams for conditions they would find at away meets. Eventually, I learned conventional wisdom holds that competition pools should be kept around 76-78 degrees so that swimmers will have the stamina needed to perform at peak levels.
(Side note: I have swum at more than a dozen college pools that are home to championship-caliber swim teams and keep their temperatures around 80 or even higher. Very comfortable and very conducive to fast swim times. One of those pools — at the University of Southern California — once hosted the Olympics.)
(Side note #2: Amazingly, the change of just a single degree in water temperature makes a huge difference. New simmers or non-swimmers are always very surprised to learn this.)
Soon, either due to a pool malfunction or the coach’s desire (the actual reason depends on who you talk to), the temperature at this particular pool dipped into the mid-70s. I found I could only make a few laps before my muscles and head began to ache. I had to get out.
Subsequently, I learned that I can only tolerate (i.e. swim for any length of time) temperatures above 78. Once the temp dips even slightly below that, I immediately can tell the difference. And with the regular reduction in temperatures at my chosen pool (the only one in my area to offer public swim times that are convenient for regular lap swimming), I’ve had to resort to a wetsuit for the duration of the swim team’s season.
I repeat: A wetsuit . . . in an indoor pool. While the chilly water produces a lot of complaining among the older swimmers, only one other person wears a wetsuit at this pool. Others may just avoid swimming during the cold-water months but the majority just swim and bear it.
So, that begs the question: Is it just me — a person who once readily dipped into water that barely reached 60 degrees — who is now hyper-sensitive to water temperatures in my golden years? Or are those fellow geezers who continue to swim in cold water without wetsuits just too cheap, or prideful, to buy one?
Like most life situations, there’s probably no clear-cut, black-and-white answer; it’s probably a little of both.
But, having been surprised by the arrival of claustrophobia and cold-water intolerance, I have to wonder what other joys await me as I amble forward through the adventure that is aging.