Shrinkage No. 1: Brain Fade

It started small. An idea – shiny, promising, full of potential – popped into my brain during a brainstorming session with my brother Ken. I held onto it while he finished his thought, nodding like a man who definitely remembered the clever thing he was about to say. But by the time it was my turn, the idea had fluttered out the window.

I deployed the classic stall tactic: “What if…” Which bought me two seconds, maybe three. That sometimes used to be enough.

But not this time. Eventually, I had to admit the truth: “It’s gone.”

I figure memory blanks increase with age. One per year in your twenties, one per month in your forties, once a week by your sixties. This was my second blank in a single meeting – a personal record since being diagnosed with my ever-so-fun health issues. I didn’t know whether to laugh or mourn it.

Shrinkage No. 2: Height & Humility

Turns out the shrinkage isn’t just cerebral. It’s literal.

At a recent doctor’s appointment, they did something I hadn’t been asked to do in years: measured my height. Pretty sure I hadn’t grown since the Carter administration, so I didn’t think much of it – until the nurse read the results out loud. I was a full inch shorter than I used to be.

I gently disputed the findings (as one does when their dignity is on the line), and she offered to remeasure. But I declined. It was easier to pretend it was a clerical error than to face the hard truth: I was now officially closer to hobbit height.

And yes, I wondered where that inch had gone. If I had any say in the matter, I would’ve donated it from my midsection. But no one asked.

Shrinkage No. 3: Volume Control

My voice, too, has joined the disappearing act. Some days I sound like myself. Other days I open my mouth and out comes whispery Marlon Brando auditioning for The Godfather. Now when my phone rings, before answering it, I borrow a page from pre-call rituals with a “mic check, 1-2-3,” so when I answer, only one of us is surprised. Texting was probably invented for me. Except I can hardly type anymore (see Shrinkage No. 4).

For audio proof of voice issues, I offer this sample from today, during which I was about a 5 out of 10 on the Brando scale.

Shrinkage No. 4: Typing, Interrupted

My left hand has joined the shrinking rebellion. Fingers twitch, misfire, lock up. The “d” key, in particular, gets pressed without invitation, thanks to Mr. Birdie (as christened by my high school typing teacher, Mrs. Jensen). He’s tall, impulsive, and now a bit of a loose cannon. Chances are there’s at least one stray “d” in this post, even.

I know what you’re thinking: at least it’s not your right hand. Except I’m left-handed. Life loves a punchline.

Shrinkage No. 5: The Great Handwriting Mystery

Once upon a time, I could sign a birthday card and feel confident people could read it. These days, my handwriting looks like a cryptic note left by someone fleeing a haunted house. I can’t even decipher it myself.

Turing and the Enigma team would’ve taken one look and said, “Pass.”

A Fine Whine

After our brainstorming session, Ken walked me to the Hive’s front door. I said, “I know it doesn’t sound like it, but I am actually still in here. It just takes a little longer to get the me out.”

He gave me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, the kind of thing you do when someone says they’re fine, but they’re clearly held together with duct tape and chewed-up gum, and gave me a reassuring, “I know.”

I shuffled to the car, half proud at how centered between the stripes I managed to park this time, half wondering when I became the kind of guy who shuffles. But somewhere between the driver’s seat and Joe Bandidos, it hit me:

Maybe this slowness, this faltering voice and hesitant hand – it isn’t a fade-out. Maybe it’s just a recalibration. For decades, I did my best to fill empty space with words, jokes, ideas, volume. The outbound stuff. Now, words take longer. And in the waiting, I’ve started noticing what was always there – how someone’s eyes light up when they speak, how a hand hesitates before it reaches out, how love often whispers long before it declares itself, and how an uplifting thought lands gently in a moment of need. Inspired inbound stuff.

It turns out, when I speak less, I hear more. And maybe that’s not shrinking. Maybe that’s just growth in a needed direction.

Note: Age progression image generated via ChatGPT and exaggerated (hopefully) for effect.

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