As I ever so slowly enter the world of the septuagenarians, I am encountering a new plane of existence; that of illness and physical disorders. Many years ago my aunt Arma Jo gave me some sage words of advice. She said, "I wish someone had told me to enjoy my 60s. After that, things seem to go wrong." As always, she was correct.
In the last few months alone I have had a dear friend suffer from a fast growing bladder cancer, et. al., and a second suffer a severe stroke. It definitely feels like I am entering into a new way of being in the world. I virtually journey with my friends one by one into the world of medical centers, hospitals, skilled nursing facilities, etc. The question resonates, is this what we do now? We stand as witnesses to whatever malady befalls our community of aging women and try our hardest to remain erect and ask the right questions so when we retell the story it makes some sort of sense - even though none of it does or can. We are somehow always surprised that this terrible thing has happened. Despite the fact that we are all approaching or way over the age of 70 and all of these things are to be expected, we don't expect them. None of them are out of the ordinary and yet we are surprised. I am discovering that it is one thing to prepare ourselves for the shock of our own physical decline; it is quite something else to come to the realization that we will also be watching with the same sense of helplessness the demise of each and every one of our friends experience the same downward spiral. It is like watching some sort of weird domino construction collapse in slow motion one by one by one.
We sit alongside the comfy chair of our friends; we listen, taking it all in and try to build them up saying, "You can do this," when all the while we have no idea if they can or not and what it is that is theirs to do. We have tracked their progress from ICU or surgery to the Step Down Ward or recovery and onto rehab or the regular wing of the hospital until they can finally return home. Yes, finally we can "do" something. We bring coffee and lively conversation, we leave dinner on the porch, and always, always we pray. We comment on the text chain or comment on CaringBridge and somehow are relieved to know that we have a community of worriers and pray-ers; that we are not alone.
Added to this struggle to be present for our friends is the realization that their life, whatever it was the day before, just got put on a shelf to be taken down later or perhaps not at all again. Stroke victims don't usually return to the life of a substitute teacher. Cancer patients take up to a year to once again feel "normal." Much like a death, it can be a whiplash-like experience to realize how quickly the world will go on without you in it. There will be no waiting for you to get better. This, too, is no surprise. Human bodies are temporary and life is extremely fragile but still, we are surprised by it. And again, the grand epiphany is that this too will also be our own experience. As important as we think we are, the world, our world, will barely skip a beat on the first day we don't show up to volunteer or attend a Zoom book club meeting.
With each of these events comes the nudge to reevaluate our own plan for the future. What are the preparations for my own decline? Granted, not knowing what mystery danger will take me by surprise makes the planning and preparing challenging. But once again, we want to "do" something. So we begin the search for multiple levels of care from independent to assisted to long term care waiting for the someday that we or our children can put the plan into action. We want to be ready, be proactive, DO something.
Lurking beyond these concerns of illness, medical care, and the world not caring is the notion that one day the call will come to inform us of something even worse. One of these notifications of a disease or disorder is going to end in announcing a friend's death, a leaving. As shocking as it is to adjust to our community afflicted by pain and worry, the thought of saying a final goodbye is something we are never ready for. Once again we are inexplicably surprised. We know people who have died: grandparents, parents, even those who have passed by tragic accidents of illnesses decades earlier. But yet, we aren't prepared when it happens to you or you or you. Each person is a distinct relationship and one we do not care to consider living without. So yes, this too will come as a surprise over and over again.
It is reassuring to know that just like any other new thing in life, we too adjust to this feeling of change and loss. With each passing day I adjust to my friends' suffering and do all that I can to open my mind to what is possible for me to lose; memory, mobility, and yes, life. In place of the surprise, the shock of disease and disorder, appears gratitude. I give thanks each day that I have woken to a new day, that my friends are still here with me, and that we can continue to grow in the love of one another's presence on the planet no matter what form it takes.
