Today, as I was riding to lunch with my friend, we discussed the "new normal" that comes when our health becomes precarious. In some ways we're lucky because we are the first generation to have (some of) the information we need and (hopefully) the funds and insurance to pay for it.
But my friend told me today that one of the best things she bought to help care for her husband was a whistle so he could wake her up in a hurry. (What a great low cost tip!) But I'm again reminded that even with all the information and help available, getting older is still fairly uncharted, unrecorded territory.
I, myself, am trying to stay reasonably comfortable this summer while we figure out where this Meniere's disease is going. Hopefully, far, far away. So, even though I'm laying low, I'm getting better and feeling grateful every day for this one amazing life.
Here is one of Chana Bloch's poems. It was printed in the July 7th issue of the New Yorker (two months after her death.)
DYING FOR DUMMIES
I used to study the bigger kids --
they'd show-and-tell me
how to wiggle my hips
how to razz the boys.
Now I'm watching my cohort
master the skills at each grade
of incapacity
and get promoted to the next.
To the oldest I'm a novice.
"These seventy-five-year-olds,
they think they know everything,"
say Cousin Leo. He's ninety.
Who thinks, Leo? Who knows?
We're too busy reading "Gratitude."
and "Being Mortal,"
passing around the revised edition
of "Dying for Dummies,"
still trying to get it right.
And the young study us.
***
