When I moved to Mexico City and we started dating, I posted a photo of us to Instagram, and my American friends lost their minds.
The daddy references started immediately.
When one person asked if I was a sugar daddy, I pointed out that Uriel makes more money than I do.
I was self-conscious at first, but the insecurity faded when it became obvious the age gap wasn’t a big deal in Mexico.
Eventually, we were just a couple who shared common interests and a crusty little white dog, Maggie.
Maggie lived on the streets until she moved in with us.
She still has the annoying habit of gulping down anything that remotely looks like food she finds on the sidewalk, and sometimes it doesn’t agree with her.
About a month ago, one pavement goodie led to a trip to a veterinarian.
We circled among three clinics in our neighborhood, looking for a vet who was actually available; either he wasn’t there, or the office was closed.
Defeated, we decided to head home and try again the next day.
I tripped on the sidewalk, and while I stayed upright, I landed hard on my right leg.
At first, I seemed OK, but within a couple of blocks, my knee let me know that something was decidedly wrong.
By the time I limped in our front door, I could barely walk.
After spending two days in bed with an ice pack and Advil with little improvement, I knew it was time to see a doctor.
After examining the X-rays, he gave me the worst possible news. “You’re getting older,” he started, and I immediately knew this wasn’t going to end well. “You have arthritis in both of your knees, but it’s much worse in your right.” I’d had creaky knees for years, and I’d known that it was part of getting older, but severe arthritis?!
He gave me a shot in my knee and told me I’d probably start needing to get them regularly soon.
I’m not at the replacement surgery stage yet, but I probably will be in a few years.
I had a reaction to the shot and spent the next three days in bed with my old friend, the ice pack, getting waited on by Uriel.
He prepared all meals and did the laundry while I propped myself up on the headboard, pecking out essays on the laptop and watching Instagram reels.
I’d gone from 30 minutes on the elliptical daily to struggling to stand up; Father Time had headbutted me.
After the swelling went down and I was able to leave the apartment again, I still had to walk more slowly.
Curbs and ramps were suddenly a low-key obstacle course.
Normally, Uriel would be asking me to slow down; now, I was the one holding him back.
It reminded me of our recent visit with my mother, who is 90 and uses a walker, moving at a snail’s pace.
Suddenly, I couldn’t stop picturing nursing homes.
Had he thought about the implications of the age gap and how it would affect him?
He’d thought about it before we got serious, he said, but assumed any real issues were a decade or two away.
That left plenty of time to figure it out. “You’d do the same if something happens to me,” he told me. “If you care about your partner, you’d do it no matter what.” Three weeks later, my partner twisted his ankle.
As he lay on the couch with the ice pack, he looked at me and teased, “Have you considered the impact on your life as I get older?” I paused, laundry basket in hand, and deadpanned, “Maggie and I will take you to the vet when it’s time to cross the rainbow bridge.”
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