Thin Skinned

Some people have childhood injuries they recall, or perhaps some trauma from teen years. And me, well, a memorable injury for me occurred just last summer.

In fact, there were two injuries. And they both occurred while we were visiting our daughter and her family.  We were in London for the birth of one of our granddaughters.  Among other things, I was occasionally preparing an evening meal. One evening, as I was heating a casserole in the oven in our daughter's family flat, I  pulled the casserole out to examine how "done" it was. Unfortunately, the whole dish began to slip. Since I envisioned the entire family's dinner going on the floor, I grabbed the metal casserole dish with bare hands.  Standing right next to me was our oldest grandchild--who was 2 and 1/2 years old. I said to her--Anna, grab the hot things.  Thankfully, she was quick thinking and knew I meant the hot pad holders.

The result was that I burned all but three of my fingers on my two hands.

Of course, with time I healed. But for months that memory was seared into my granddaughter's mind. She would retell the event, or ask to see my hands, even when we were talking by Face Time.

That same summer, I sustained one other injury. Thankfully, this one, while it occurred while I was with the same granddaughter, she was unaware of it.  We had gone to a carnival in a nearby neighborhood park. And there was a carousel!  What child can resist a carousel.  So I went to the man operating the carousel, gave him the necessary tickets for my granddaughter to ride it, and proceeded to help her choose a place to ride.  OH NO, said the man--you can't just put her on the carousel; you have to ride with her.  So in a panic (the ride was ready to start) I quickly climbed up. The side of the carousel was much higher than I expected, and I scraped my leg.

I knew instantly I was injured, but I kept the news from my granddaughter. After all, she already had the searing memory of my burning my hands.  As we rode up and down on the carousel horse, the man next to us looked over. He exclaimed--you're bleeding.  I quietly replied--I know.

And, that is how I found out that I am now "thin-skinned." This is one of the less than thrilling side effects of growing older.  I now work very hard to avoid bumping my extremities--arms or legs.  And, yes, in the photo above you could see my injured leg.  But, I won't point it out.

Not very memorable injuries, except of course, I remember. More because I don't want my granddaughter to have such memories of Nana being a klutz, or being hurt.

That Time of Year*

Not surprisingly, literature abounds with images and themes of aging. Aging is presented in literature as something to be celebrated, something to be avoided, something unavoidable to be lived.  That about covers it.  

For instance, Shakespeare has multiple sonnets on the theme of aging (a favorite of mine is Sonnet 73).  And one of his most powerful play focuses entirely on the ravages of aging: King Lear.

While I could focus this whole blog on literature as it deal with aging, where my thoughts take me on the subject of growing older is more personal.

Over the past several decades, I have been the primary responsible party for various members of my family.  The first family member who named me the "person to contact" was my step-grandmother. She had married my grandfather and enjoyed a brief marriage, as he died after they had been married 7 years. I visited her in the retirement home where she lived, and when there were special opportunities, she turned to me. For example, when a photographer came to the home, she could have her portrait taken with a family member. So she asked me...and I sat along with my son for a portrait with Grandma Mary.  When she suffered a stroke some years later, she was asked who should be called--and she said "Donna."

So I transitioned into being effectively her "power of attorney" family member. (She had no such document, but had named me.) As I slowly took over some of her affairs, I discovered that she had stopped paying the monthly charge at the nursing facility where she was. And I discovered that she was really "broke."  For a few months, my husband and I paid her monthly charge. But when it became clear she would not be returning to her room where she lived independently, I did all the work which got her on to Medicaid, a program for indigent people.  

When she died, immediately after the funeral the family was gathered to celebrate and remember her life. In addition to her step-family, she also had nephews from her birth family. The subject arose--who would take care of settling Grandma Mary's affairs--and again, someone said "Donna."

Some 20 plus years ago, my mother died. While she and my father had moved to a retirement village and were independent, her death meant that my father needed someone to turn to in every day circumstances.  So, he confided some of his deep grieving, and when he began to think about remarrying, I heard about his hopes. Thankfully, he did remarry.  

But as my father and step-mother have grown older together eventually they have had to live in two different levels of care, in the same facility. And once again, I have been named as power of attorney for each of them.  Given the care that nursing facilities render, that means every time there is some untoward event--a slight fall, an inadvertent nick--I get a call. When it is more serious--a trip to the hospital--I also get a call.

Recently, it has occurred to me that I am now the age that once was seen as old age and I am still being the "responsible party" for people older than me.  It has been a long haul--from the time I was first named by my step-grandmother (I was about 34 years old) until now, when I am 71.
  
--------------------  
*Sonnet 73 
by William Shakespeare

That time of year thou may'st in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day,
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by-and-by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.
   This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
   To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

All Fall Down

I have now started this blog post three times...it's not that I have writer's block (I don't). And it's not that I had something in mind when I shared the prompt of "falling" (I didn't).

It's just that thus far I have read the falling entries of some fellow bloggers...and I almost feel as though I have little left to say.

So what I’ve settled on for the prompt of “falling” is to recount two personal experiences.

It is no wonder that fear of falling is one that many people have. And, for some of us that fear is coupled with a fear of heights.  Stands to reason—when you are somewhere high, falling seems so much more likely.

But some times, we fall in the most prosaic of ways.

I did. While I have fallen more that twice, two stories will have to do.

Since I recently wrote about a portion of my childhood, you know I went to boarding school. By the time I was ready to enter Form 1 (roughly equivalent to 7^th grade) I was attending a government run boarding school in Bulawayo.  This was my first steps into “adulthood.”  Not really, of course but it seemed like it. Each of the dorms in which we slept were somewhat self-governed. And to head up the internal governing of each dorm was a head prefect—a girl elected by her dorm classmates.  By some fluke, that girl was me…for a short while.

We all made our own beds, tidied our own space, stored our clothing in footlockers.  And on Saturdays we changed the sheets.  One such day, with the beds stripped, we got to being the children we were. We were giggling and bouncing. Jumping on the beds. Until.

Until one of the beds broke. The metal springs simply gave way, and crashed to the floor.  When the house matron came around to investigate, she zeroed in on me. I have no idea if I was really to blame, but as head prefect, I was the one who was blamed.

What I remember most clearly is the house matron’s verdict: You’re demoted.

I was stunned. How could something my fellow classmates picked me for be taken away? And how was I the only one to blame when it was a group activity?  Never mind—I alone was the one who fell from grace.

The second story about falling happened just last Hallowe’en. In our township, there is a designated night for “Trick or Treat”.  With the doorbell ringing periodically, my husband and I switch off between one of us answering the door, and the other keeping the dog calm.

Since my husband had answered the door several times in a row, when the doorbell rang again—I jumped up and said: I’ll get this one.  I went hurrying to the door and—yes—caught my foot on an end table. In an instant, I was falling, completely unable to stop. I fell SPLAT into the entry way of our house. The front door was open with only the glass storm door between me and the outside. There stood a young child and her horrified mother.

While I was lying face down, my husband rushed to me and asked if I was OK—my only response was: just get the door.

Of course, that fall was foolish and painful. I thought I must have broken some bones, but somehow I had not. Oh, I had a fat lip from banging my face. And a few weeks after, my one shoulder began to stiffen. I sought the help of a physical therapist who put me through a series of exercises (which I still do).

Now as a woman of a certain age, no longer a school girl, I understand that falling is a hazard.  And, I try to walk very carefully. 

Autumnal Musings

As the growing season draws to a close, I am often drawn to thoughts about growth. Growth in the plant kingdom is something I observe every year--I love to plant annual flowers and then revel in their blooming glory all summer long. Growth abounds in the summer, but growth is not an ever outward process--the end of summer comes.

Of course, then comes autumn. Much as I love autumn, I always rue to impending death of the flowers I have enjoyed. Of course, as I garden I observe, and muse, and draw conclusions about life...about living.

Much of my time of late has been taken up in continuing to help my father and step-mother as they age and transition. In many ways, it is like the life cycle I observe in the flowers.  (Before anyone takes offense, I am not suggesting that people aging is the same as plants aging,  but as in everything nature has much to teach humanity.)

Since my parents live in a retirement village, and are now in sheltered care, transitioning to nursing care, I observe many facets of what it means to age.  Frequently, when I am visiting I encounter other elderly people--people I don't know. But I always try to be cheery, to be helpful, to say a kindly word. And it is the reactions that amaze and baffle me. 

A few people simply don't/can't hear me, and so my cheery comments fall on "deaf" ears. A few reciprocate--smiling and responding, even if briefly.  It is the other portion of responses that always surprise--the people who harrumph, and complain and are downright unpleasant.  One day, as I was exiting the elevator, I caught and held the door for an elderly man on a motorized scooter who was entering the elevator.  Rather than say "thank you" to me for holding the door, he snarled I CAN DO IT FOR MYSELF.  OK, then. So much for being nice.

While that example is somewhat extreme, it is not an isolated example.  And what it has made me do is examine my own aging process and the way I respond to people.  Of late, I find myself very intentionally cultivating an attitude of being grateful, of expressing thanks.  

In every encounter I have at this retirement village, especially with staff, I try to say--THANK YOU. Thank you for the work you do, for the care you give, for the thorough professionalism you display while you are also showing great care and compassion.  Maybe my efforts of overdone--but given that I have observed so much ingratitude I feel my verbal affirmation is the least I can do.

As I deliberately try to show gratitude, I am hoping that it is also cultivating in me a growth tendency--as the twig is bent, so the tree's inclined.  If the day comes that I am a resident in such a facility, I hope the attitude I display will not be curmudgeonly and grudging. 

Maybe by now you are scratching your head and thinking--wasn't she talking about fall flowers.  Well, yes I was.  The way a flower grows, even as it draws near the end of its season, is greatly influenced by the encounters along the way.  I know, I know--the analogy is imperfect. A flower can't decide to water itself to enhance its growth and beauty. But it can make the most use of the water and sunshine it receives.

Where does that take me? What I have determined for myself is that I will cultivate gratitude and thankfulness. I do not want to be the person who pushes away help with a curt--I CAN DO IT FOR MYSELF.  I want to be more like a flower that blooms in its time, in response to water and sun. The beauty of that flower remains long after the petals have fallen.

Too soon old; too late schmart!

Confessions of a 70 year old.

Today is Søren Kierkegaard's birthday. That is note-worthy for this blog as it was Kierkegaard who noted that “life must be understood backwards. But then one forgets the other principle: that is must be lived forwards.” 

To put that philosophic thought another way, we have the Pennsylvania Dutch expression: we grow too soon old, and too late schmart.

Indeed.

This year, I celebrated my 70th birthday. I was born in February, just months before the close of World War II. Of course, I don't remember that event, but the proximity of my birth to the end of the last world war helps frame the span of my life.  It also means that I was on the cusp of the Boomer generation.

So by now, I should have the “understanding life” part down.  I do have a few confessions that perhaps have come with looking back over life and understanding it:

1. I don’t feel 70.  While I have no desire to be a 20 or 30 year old again, and while I have certainly matured, my inner sense is not all that different from what it was decades ago.

2. I don’t look 70. I recently had a conversation with someone who had come to do some work at our house. In the course of the conversation, I noted that my husband and I have lived in our house for 35 years--whereupon the worker asked how old I was. I replied--70. In response to my reply, the worker burst out--NO WAY. Then he asked how I managed to not look 70. The answer is:  good genes; good luck; and no smoking.  Of course, I could be like a well-preserved antique car that, suddenly one day, has all its wheels fall off.

3. And I feel 70.  OK, so this contradicts # 1 above.  Let's just say my MIND feels young, while my body throws in an occasional creak and moan to say "Not so fast."

OK—enough of confessions.

Here’s another part of growing older.  There is a somewhat tired joke that the first thing one does in the morning is read the obituaries—if your name isn’t there, go ahead and make a cup of coffee.  Well, I do confess to reading the obituaries. Having lived in one place for 50 of these 70 years, there are many names I recognize.  And occasionally, someone’s death is recorded and I write a note to the ones who remain behind.

It isn’t so much that growing old makes you think more often of death—although of course you do because—well, because it’s inevitable. That’s one of the understanding life insights.  What I do think of is that the passing of a person from this life leaves behind a void. And for a time, loved ones and acquaintances remember. And then we fade from view.

I want to note in particular a recent death of a blogging friend—Philip Robinson. I never met Philip in person, but through his blog I learned to value this singular person. His blog—entitled Tossing Pebbles (which is still available to read) reveals a man with a wide array of interests. Through his blog I learned that he was a father who raised a son virtually alone; that he was a very proud grandfather to three accomplished grandchildren. I learned that he was interested in and dedicated to subsistence living—I shuddered every year when I read his blog about chopping enough wood to see him through a northern Canadian winter. He was passionate about history and about politics. It was always a delight to read his thoughts in any given blog post.

Now, he has died. He learned in January that he had pancreatic cancer, and even though he had surgery and received good medical care, this aggressive disease overwhelmed the best efforts. 

Living life forward, understanding life backwards. Thus it ever was. Or as my Pennsylvania Dutch ancestors might say “too soon old, too late schmart."

To Sleep, Perchance...

...to dream.

Of course, "to dream" is the continuation of the line from Hamlet's famous "To be or not to be" soliloquy.  But, there are times when I think the "perchance" applies to the "to sleep" part.  At least, that is what it seems to be for me some nights.

And last night was such a night.

When my husband and I had both retired, and were free--like water--to seek our own level, we found we have different body clocks.  Work requirements, of course, impose a body clock on any of us.  I am perfectly capable of getting up early in the morning.  In fact, after our son, our first child, was born and I was still teaching college, I had a 7:30 a.m. class.  So I got up at 5:30 a.m. on those days, got myself ready, woke up our son and got him dressed.  Then we headed off to campus, where one of the faculty wives living on campus took care of him.  I nursed him, then headed off to class by 7:30 a.m.  

But, when given the opportunity to go to sleep when I was ready, and get up when I was done sleeping, I found my natural timing was late to bed, late to rise (sorry, Ben Franklin).  I rarely wind down before midnight, and usually prefer to sleep to around 8 a.m.

As I have gotten older, a new dynamic has crept in--occasional insomnia.  It takes me a long time to unwind--make that, a L-O-N-G time.  I read at least a half an hour, then turn out the light and even then stay awake maybe another half hour before I finally drop off the sleep cliff.  I am doomed if I fall asleep a bit, then awake immediately.  That dooms me to an even longer struggle to go to sleep.  As I said, last night was such a night.  I turned out the light at 12:05 a.m., then fell asleep somewhat quickly, but awoke within 5 minutes with a tickling cough.  And that was it--I could not get back to sleep.  All told, it took me an hour and a half to get back to sleep.

My mind jumped from project to project that I COULD do--say, clean out a closet, or tidy up the basement.  But I made myself stay in bed.  However, my body seemed to think adrenalin was called for, which woke me even more.  Eventually, I got out of bed, went to where one of the cats was curled up, and snuggled up to her for a while--that is very calming.

The one thing I didn't do is read--because, frankly, reading just wakes me up.  Finally, I did get to sleep.

I find it humorous that one of the proverbial ways to drift off to sleep is to "count sheep."  My luck--I would end up shearing them, carding the wool, weaving it into yarn and then knitting a sweater--all before I finally got back to sleep.

Hope your sleep is less disturbed than mine.  Sweet dreams.

The Last Word...

...for a time, dear reader, just for a time.

When I first became aware of blogging, I began writing and reading.  My first blog entry was about a trip to Spain we had recently completed.  Once I wrote up the entire vacation experiences, I moved on to other topics--plumbing childhood memory depths, then observations about teaching, life, movies, along with the occasional rant.

I also began reading other writers' blogs.  Blogging is so much more satisfying for me than tweeting, or than reading Facebook entries.  First, almost every subject I can think of as a potential writing topic requires more than the truncated entry requirement of Twitter, and more than the clever or titillating bon mot that catches my eye on Facebook.  Second, I tend to limit whose blogs I read, which I also do with Twitter (for me, the least used of these self-expression media), but which I am less inclined to do with Facebook.  While I don't accept every request to "be friends" on Facebook, I have a wider circle there than I do in the blogging world.  

But what I observe is that blogging is slowly falling out of favor.  Some of the early blogs I read no longer exist--in a few instances, the writers have died: they wrote bravely about their struggles with diseases that eventually silenced them.  Some of the blogs I read have fallen by the wayside as the writers move on to other ventures.  Some bloggers are still perking along, bubbling with a fountain of creativity as prolific as Ponce de Leon's mythical fountain of youth.  Sometimes I find a new blog to read and enjoy (see Pieces of Peace). 

I know, in the core of my writing being, that Facebook will also fade.  And as I peruse the entries each day, I see it fading.  No need to catalog the Facebook complaints and woes here.

So, why my dire "The Last Word..." title?  Because I am about to take a mini-blogging break.

While you know we have traveled--both to the west (California, here we come!) and east (maybe something to do with this sweetie),  ----------->
I will soon be venturing down a path that age has set me upon.

SIGH.  The knee that has plagued me since college basketball is about to be replaced.  And I will provide humor fodder for my husband as I try to make my way around with a walker. 

When I muster enough energy to come back to writing, I will.  Maybe I will have some new hospital stories.  Maybe I will have a rant or two.  But, whatever I do, I will pick up the proverbial pen and resume writing.

The View in the Rear Mirror

Just the other day, the high school classmate who has taken on the task of keeping all the members of our class in touch informed us that a classmate had died.  Now, this is not the first death, by any means.  As a class that graduated in the 1960s, we had a smattering of classmates lost to combat deaths.  And we have also had classmates who disease has over-taken.

This particular death notice did not really affect me much--frankly, I pulled up the wrong face from my mental file.  So, when I went to a yearbook to confirm my presumed image, I saw another face there.  So much for the accuracy of memory.

I find myself musing on the lives of both high school and college classmates.  Most of them I have lost touch with.  I have only attended one high school reunion--more on that in a bit--and two college reunions.  I confess, the first thing I did at all of these reunions is take furtive glances at the faces of these classmates, and wonder.  Those who I had envied most seemed not to have fared so well.  And, there were one or two whose now faces did NOT match up with my mental image, nor with their high school or college photos.  In fact, at one college reunion, I had someone come up to me and say--Remember me?  And I did not.  Then, when he told me his name, it was all I could do to refrain from saying--No, you're not.

I was only in the high school from which I graduated for two years--having moved around and attended various schools through my elementary schooling.  So, it was with some longing that I watched other students who had grown up together, and been pals since kindergarten.  I felt like an outsider.  But, I tried to compensate, and threw myself into various activities.  I tried out for sports--unsuccessfully.  I tried out for the school play--and did win a part...cast as the mother!  I was more successful in school chorus--a large enough group that my non-solo voice didn't matter.  I can definitely carry a tune, and I am a fairly decent alto.  The coup for me was getting admitted to National Honor Society, no mean feat considering my short tenure in high school.  So, it was the popular kids that I really wanted to see at the reunion.  And, therein, I found vindication.  Time had marched all over them, just as it does us all.

College was better, more rewarding, more welcoming.  And I find myself thinking about those classmates.  The reunions I attended there were not so much occasions for gloating, or grimacing--but more for commiserating.  We shared career and family news.  We traded maladies.  And we just enjoyed, for an afternoon, basking in the glow of remembering a time long ago. 

Not long after the last reunion, where I had learned of the serious and life-threatening illnesses two college friends had suffered, I got news that the classmate who had organized the reunion had triple by-pass surgery.  Time keeps marching.

There's no great revelation in all this musing.  It just occurs to me that though we have to live our lives going forward, we only really understand in reverse.  So, the view on the rear mirror lingers.  I find myself glancing backwards, almost as much as forwards.  But, I wonder--does the caution printed on the mirror apply?  Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear?  Or should that be further? 

ENOUGH!

When is enough enough?

This past week, most of the various national news media carried the story of an 87 year old woman in an independent living facility in California.  She collapsed during lunch, and--in keeping with the policy in place at the facility--staff called 911 for an emergency medical transport to come.  The 911 operator asked about the woman's immediate state--was she breathing?  And when the staff person said that the woman was breathing only faintly, the 911 operator sternly instructed the staff person--you have to start CPR right now.

When the staff person, identified as a nurse, demurred, the 911 operator became very insistent and said--she might die.  And, therewith, the focus of the story became clear.  The only fault seemed to be the refusal of the nurse to begin CPR.

But there are other questions that should have been asked.  Did the 87 year old woman have an advance directive?  Did she want CPR to be given in the event that she suffered cardiac arrest or some other catastrophic health event? What did her family want for her treatment? How effective is CPR?  What were her chances of survival even with CPR?  Perhaps predictably, none of those questions was asked--the initial news coverage seemingly tripped over itself trying to make the story as negative and sensational as possible.  I must, however, give credit to NBC which did begin to raise the questions.

We have been so accustomed to seeing CPR performed as part of a dramatic scene in a television drama that we most likely assume it always works.  But does it?  The short answer is no. 

One website indicates that CPR is rarely effective:

• 2% to 30% effectiveness when administered outside of the hospital
• 6% to 15% for hospitalized patients
• Less than 5% for elderly victims with multiple medical problems

WOW!

Recently, my husband and I updated our wills, which--this time--included advance directives.  We want our preferences to be known to family and health professionals.  There comes a time when enough is enough.

This is not an easy subject to broach.  And the question goes beyond end of life care--it should even be raised in smaller ways.  Part of the reason that Medicare consumes the amount of money it does is because so many procedures are paid for.  True, they are paid for at Medicare's rate--but, to my knowledge, there is no information for patients that says "you don't  have to have every procedure a doctor recommends." 

I am currently helping my elderly father (93) and my step-mother (80) make various decisions.  I am struck by the number of times that a medical provider simply schedules the next appointment for 6 months.  True, these appointments are well-care appointments, and--generally--that is the best approach to medicine.  But when I picked my step-mother up from her recent dermatology appointment, the nurse scheduled her for a 6-month checkup.  So I pushed back a bit--why 6 months?  The nurse said--well, there' s a history of skin cancer.  So I asked my step-mother--how long ago?  She couldn't quite recall, but said nothing recently.  I have had multiple basal cell skin cancers--and I go for checkups once a year.

I suggested to my father and step-mother that they can decline to schedule appointments if they feel they are unnecessary.  To my thinking, this is especially true for simple skin care--skin cancers (other than melanoma) takes YEARS, even decades, to develop.  And is that a serious concern for someone in his or her 80s or 90s?  Please understand, I also ask myself the question--at my age. 

So, it all comes back to the question of when is enough enough?  I think part of American obsession with youth, with seeming never-ending life, feeds the tendency to think we must always intervene--always give CPR.  But, part of the human bargain is this: we are born AND we die. 

Sometimes enough is enough.

The Face is Familiar...

I was charmed recently while listening to Terry Gross conduct an interview on Fresh Air with Anna Quindlen.  Quindlen has long been one of my favorite writers.  She knows how to turn a sentence as one would turn a prism--slowly, holding it up to the light, giving time for all the colors to sparkle.

I was a huge fan of her writing when she wrote opinion pieces for the New York Times.  To my great dismay, she announced in 1995 that she was giving up writing a regular column.  It turns out she was devoting her writing energies into writing novels (she has written 5 thus far) and non-fiction.  And then in 1999 Newsweek recruited her to write the last page column which she did for 10 years.

When I was teaching, I used one of those articles Quindlen had written about plagiarism.  An article she wrote had been lifted, almost wholesale, by Wayne Newton when he was asked to write a guest column.  She called him on the appropriation of someone else's work (which is what plagiarism is) and his defense was--my, isn't it interesting how our minds were so in tune that our words matched.  Um....no.  I had to stop using it, however, when students asked me--who is Wayne Newton?  Oh my.

Well, I had best get to the reason for my rumination.  Her most recent work is a book, a sort of personal memoir, titled Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake.  It was the publication of this book on which Terry focused her interview.  Among many topics covered, Terry queried Anna Quindlen on one admission in her book--she has had Botox injections, and some facial fillers.  Why? Terry wondered.

And I wonder too.  Quindlen's reasons are her own, and they are perfectly good reasons.  After all, any decision to alter one's appearance is personal.  Quindlen compared her periodic Botox injections, to relax muscles on her forehead that tighten and give her an unintended scowl, to periodic eyebrow waxing.  Small tweaks to improve an overall appearance.

Let's face it.  Our society puts a great deal of emphasis on how we look--but the pressure is greater on women than men.  Sometimes, when I watch a news show and see a male reporter with a face that shows every wrinkle acquired over decades of living, I can't help but muse that a female reporter with a similar road map of life on her face would not be on television.  Think Morley Safer--is there a woman reporter whose faces shows as many decades as his does?

It is a rare woman in public life who has not felt the pressure to have "some work" done.  Some women trumpet it, making sure that every tweak is noted, while others deny, deny, deny all the while their looks belie.  Sometimes the results are gentle and hardly noticeable, sometimes the results are disastrous.  And sometimes, she no longer looks familiar.

I know I am not in the public eye, but a long time ago, I vowed--my face gets to age as it will.  No nips, no tucks, no tighenings.  That way, perhaps the face will stay familiar.

After the Fall

Well, I did it again.  I fell.  And, since I indicated "again" obviously it's not the first time.


I should interrupt myself briefly to explain that I am not talking about the usual falls a person can take--growing up, learning to ride a bike, roller-skating or ice-skating, playing sports, climbing trees.  Those falls can, of course, be dangerous and result in broken bones.  What I am referring to is falling as an adult who is not growing any younger.


The first time I fell, I mean really fell, was a number of  years ago during our first visit to Paris.  My husband and I were out walking around.  I am an inveterate map-reader, and that's what I was doing.  I was reading a map of Paris' convoluted streets trying to get us back to our hotel.  In my preoccupation, I did not see that I had just stepped off a curb.  I knew I had fallen only after I was once again upright, sitting on my butt on a Paris sidewalk.  My husband, who witnessed the whole graceless event, said I bounced.  And what I bounced on was my right shoulder.


Over the next several days, my upper arm began to discolor until it was an amazing array of colors that resembled a piece of modern art--all shades dissolving into each other.  I found out in short order how incredibly dependent we are on having two working arms.  Small tasks were now almost impossible:  I needed help getting in and out of a bath, help fastening my bra, help pulling a shirt on and off, help doing so many things.


When we got home, I decided against seeing a doctor, as clearly nothing was broken.  But over the next several weeks, I favored my right arm so much that I began to lose range of motion.  Finally, I showed a doctor friend of ours how I was not really able to raise my arm much beyond straight out from my side.  He practically ordered me to see an orthopedic doctor, which I did.  True, nothing was broken, but the severely injured shoulder and my favoring it was likely to lead to long-term inability.  He marched me off to a physical therapist and several weeks of restorative exercises.


So, with the announcement that I did  it "again" you guessed it.  I fell.  This time, I was out walking our dog who, in her rambunctious spring fever, pulled so hard on her leash that I tripped and went down splat on the sidewalk.  I did a great three point landing--left knee, left palm and right elbow. When I returned home, my husband immediately rigged up two ice-bags that he strapped to my knee and my elbow.  His quick response helped ameliorate excess swelling.  Also mindful of my  prior experience, I keep moving my right arm, raising it over my head and forcing the muscles to expand as much as possible.


Of course, I was embarrassed to go splat on the sidewalk, but even more I am concerned to remember to walk as carefully as I can.


Falls are serious business.  Many a senior has begun a health decline following a fall.  Now, maybe I am not quite yet to that age, but I don't want to be fool-hardy and ignore the consequences of a fall.  According to the CDC, the LEADING cause of unintentional injury in the U.S. for all age groups is falling.  Imagine that--for every age group, falls cause the moist unintentional injuries.  Ahead of vehicle accidents.  Ahead of insect bites and stings.  Ahead of poisoning, cutting, dog bites, fires, and all the other calamities out there.  


So, I will redouble my efforts to walk carefully.  

Double Six in View

Maybe the title sounds like an ode to a famous route, or a high-roll with a pair of dice. But, no, dear reader--the title alludes to my natal anniversary, looming straight ahead of me.

Sigh.

I am now official a Medicare beneficiary as well as someone collecting Social Security. I guess I join the ranks of curmudgeonly seniors snarling--get your hands off my entitlements. Oh, please don't let me become self-centered and selfish.

Anyway, it is time to run a bit more of my parents' biography. This story is taken from my father's account of the day I was born. While all the details, and most of the words are his, I have edited it a bit. At the time of my birth, my parents were living in Waukena, California, where my father was the pastor of a church in central California, and also a public school teacher in a school some 25 miles away.

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I was born on February 13 on a Tuesday evening. Because the due date was five days later, my father had gone to school that morning all unsuspecting that "today" was the day. While my mother was beginning to have feelings and symptoms pointing to the fact that she would likely soon deliver their first baby, she had not told my father. It was his week to drive to school. After school, he had dropped off his fellow teacher with whom he car-pooled at her home. When he arrived home, he found a friend there with my mother, who had been having labor pains all day long and she was beginning to become concerned knowing that my father did not know. She had walked over to a local store and Post Office in the morning and told the store owner. Eventually, word got around to the friend who stopped by just before my father got home; she was prepared to drive my mother to the hospital.

When my father got home and learned that "now" was the time, his first feelings and emotions were to be overwhelmed at all that was happening. So he took my mother in his arms and hugged her, with the friend hovering over them and urging--go, go, go.

So, off they went to the "East Tulare Hospital", about twelve or thirteen miles away. About halfway on the trip, the car began a knock in the car engine, and my father felt the car losing power. He kept the accelerator down and kept moving until they got in closer to town. They had to cross a railroad track, the Southern Pacific Rail Road, as they approached the hospital. Looking ahead, my father saw a slow moving southbound freight train coming to the crossing. Trying to keep his speed up, for fear the engine would die, he turned on to another street to avoid the crossing altogether.

As he slowed to make a left turn the motor died completely. It would not budge. They coasted to the side of the street. My father jumped out and ran across the street to a house where several people were sitting on their front porch. He said to them, "I'm taking my wife to the East Tulare Hospital and my car died." They had seen and observed that fact, and the "East Tulare Hospital" was a maternity hospital only. So they took in the situation immediately. A young man there jumped up, ran into the house saying, "Where are my keys?", grabbed his car keys, ran out to the carport at the side of their house, backed out and pulled his car up beside their car. My mother was transferred to that car, and the three of them sped across town to the "East Tulare Hospital."

With my mother safely in the hospital, my father made his way to the house of one of his church members. They then took him back across town to the car to tow it back to his place. It was parked where he had left it, parked at an angle partly out into the street. After they all got back to the church members’ house, my father wanted to go back to the hospital right away. But the church members assured my father that it could be hours and hours yet, that the first baby usually took a long time coming. So they insisted he eat supper with them.

By the time my father got back to the hospital, I had been born. My father came into the room to see my mother just as a nurse came along and popped a thermometer in her mouth. Anxious to learn of his child, he asked her, "Is it a boy?" And she shook her head "NO". My father then said, "Is it a girl?". And she shook her head "YES".