Writing for our Lives

I recently finished reading Isabell Allende’s autobiography, The Soul of a Woman. She has been an almost life-long, since the age of 5, advocate of women’s rights and recognition. She watched her mother, abandoned by her husband, provide for her 3 small children without resources or voice. On page 169 she writes, “Since the beginning of time women have gathered at the well, the kitchen, the cradle, and in fields, factories, and homes. They want to share their lives and hear others’ stories. There’s nothing as entertaining as women’s talk, which is almost always intimate and personal. Our nightmare is to be excluded and isolated because alone we are vulnerable while together we thrive.”

I think of the gatherings here at Spring Lake Village. While many are planned and organized, some are spontaneous. Almost every day Ruth and I meet for breakfast in the Bistro. As the months have rolled by, other women have joined us. Yesterday we were 7 gathered around a large, round table. We agreed it was a good way to start the day.  

Years ago, when I was taking psych courses at the University of Oregon, we learned of an experiment conducted at the University of Chicago. From a normal 4th grade classroom, the boys were led outside to a nearby empty lot and told they could do anything they wished as long as they stayed in the lot. The boys stood around, found a stick and a rock, argued about rules, chose sides and played a game resembling baseball.

The next day, the girls in the same classroom were led out to the empty lot and given the same instructions. They sat down on the curb and talked. 

When I ask residents at SLV what they like best here, the answer among women is “the friendships.” Some say, “the residents.” “The thoughtfulness of the the residents.” “The new friendships. We are friends for life.” “Life-long friendships… as long or short as they may be.”  

Any reason to gather is good enough. Those of us who have pacemakers have formed a luncheon group that meets once a month. We don’t necessarily talk about our pacemakers. We tell our stories. When I asked to hear about her high school boyfriend, a member said, “He was captain of the football team,” and told us a memorable, touching story.

On the back of Isabel Allende’s book is a question: What do women want?  To quote part of the answer: “To be safe, to be valued, to live in peace, to be connected.” I think we want to be heard.    

Remember the Oliver Wendell Holmes poem, “The Wonderful One-Hoss-Shay”? About a horse-drawn vehicle that was so perfectly crafted it lasted 100 years.

     Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss-shay,
     That was built in such a logical way
     It ran a hundred years to a day,
     And then, of a sudden, it—ah, but stay,
     I’ll tell you what happened without delay,

     Scaring the parson into fits,
     Frightening people out of their wits,—
     Have you ever heard of that, I say?

After several verses, we see

     Do I tell you, I rather guess
     She was a wonder, and nothing less!
     Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
     Deacon and deaconess dropped away,
     Children and grand-children—where were they?
     But there stood the stout old one-hoss-shay
     As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake day!

That’s what I’ve felt like. For 97 years I enjoyed good health. A mishap once in a while, a surgery now and then, but generally my maladies were in some way cured or repaired. 

Then, one night in October of 2024, I fell and bonked my head.  Memory has wavered, The heart rate has raced or lagged.  Appliances, ie, heart valve and pacemaker, and pills have become standards. In the mornings these days, by the time I’ve inserted the hearing aids, washed my face and rubbed in moisturizer and sunscreen, brushed hair and teeth, positioned the new bridge, and finally found my glasses, half-an-hour has passed. No longer as functional as the one-hoss-shay, I gather my forces and face the day. 

And I look at our resources! Within our life-times the hard-of-hearing have progressed from a cupped hand or large hearing-horn to tiny ear-buds or magnetic “ears.” New meds treat macular degeneration and slow its destruction of sight. New implants or bridges replace faulty teeth. We are fortunate to have medical expertise on campus and nearby. 

Out the door, it’s a nice little walk to Resident Health Services for pills and help in pulling on compression stockings. The nurses fuss at the hammer-toe pad.

Then the new day can begin. A short walk—you note I still walk—to a Logger Breakfast in the Bistro. Crispy shoestring potatoes, choice of eggs prepared three ways, muffins on Mondays, waffles on Tuesdays, donuts on Wednesdays, French toast on Thursdays, blintzes or egg wraps on Fridays. And, best of all, blueberry pancakes and bacon on Saturdays! 

 Fortified and encouraged by what still remains of me, I thank the years to come. We don’t fall apart all at once. A little here and more there, we have time to adjust. So, after all, I am not yet like the one-hoss-shay. Maybe at age 100, I will look in the mirror and, to paraphrase the final verse,

     When I get up and stare around
     The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
     As if it had been to the mill and ground!
     You see, of course, if you’re not a dunce,
     How I went to pieces all at once,—
     All at once, and nothing first,—
     Just as bubbles do when they burst.

Almost every day we at Spring Lake Village hear, “You may need a walker” or “Be careful,” and “Don’t fall.”

We fall. So, since we continue to fall, I think we should learn how to fall. I wanted to learn how to drop, roll, get up… and dance in the end zone like the 49ers do. 

October, 10, 2024, in the middle of a dark night, in the hallway on the way from the bathroom, I fell. I twisted onto my left elbow, rolled onto a sitting position and tipped back to whack the back of my head on the floor.. . a feeble attempt for a 49er fall. I got up and went back to bed. 

Next morning, memory failed. When I woke up and sat up, I didn’t remember what had happened. I was dizzy, called Resident Health Services, went to ER in an ambulance. I asked Spring Lake Village’s Dr Greene his professional advice. “You have a concussion,” Dr Greene said , “Get rest, drink water, get therapy.“ 

I had blood on the brain. I needed brain therapy. Daily. Likely in San Francisco. A woman named Susan came to my place to assess me. Then she came again to lead me in exercises and speech therapy. She thought we could proceed with therapy right in the living room of my #63 at SLV. A physical therapist and occupational therapist came several times a week.

Meanwhile I had daily care-givers watching over me, medicine dispensers bringing meds and vitamins twice a day. I ordered meals and they were delivered. Son Sam came bringing affection, cheer, strawberries, and prunes. Son Matt and Joan came to stay over a few days at Sam and Lisa’s and to be sure I had what I needed. Daughter-in-law Holly came. Friends sent flowers, cards, good wishes. When I could return to walking to the dining rooms, care-givers walked with me to meals. I felt supremely supported and encouraged. I thought of my mother and how she felt like an employment agency for care-givers during Pop’s final months. After he died, she moved to a care center, then to her new private home, then to a rehab center for the last 3 years. I like my independent living arrangement and hope it is stable.

The prognosis is good. The main concern for me is the loss of memory. I’m afraid I will lose myself, that my perspective will change, my thinking will warp. Will I still be able to lead the Obituary Writing sessions? I hope I won’t lose the appreciation of all that is good in my life.

My early goal was to be well enough to attend grandson James’ graduation from Cal State Monterey on Dec 13. … and to have Christmas with Matt and Joan and James. I needed to arrange for Christmas gifts.  At the November Book Fair I bought books for 22 relatives. In a jam pantry in my place, pints of applesauce and raspberry jam were waiting to be gift-wrapped.

I needed rides. Santa Rosa Son Sam drove us an hour to San Francisco where son John met us and took an hour to their home in Los Altos. After an early Christmas with John’s family, Matt and I drove an hour over to Aptos to his and Joan’s home. I went with them to James’ graduation celebration. 

The long-term results of the fall are that I am more forgetful, less confident, more cautious. Son Sam says, “It’s too late, Mom, to fall and roll like a 49er. Be careful. Don’t fall.”

“You are a Super Ager. Nice to see that.” The doctor studied the results of my blood test. I was in her office for my annual check-up.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“You are hydrated. Your sodium is normal. The potassium is normal. The renal function, liver, and protein are all normal for your age. Actually they are normal for a person a decade or so younger.” I am 96.

“Yes?…..and…”

“A Super Ager is someone older than the age of 80 who tests as you have. Congratulations. Unless you need me for something, I’ll see you in a year.”

So, feeling like I’d won the race, but still not understanding, I went home and googled Super Ager. At Northwestern University’s Feinberg School of Medicine in Chicago in the Human Longevity Lab, Emily Rogalski leads a team of researchers. They have found that not only physical health, but psychological health plays an important role. 

Dr Rogalski says, “A Super Ager is a person 80 years of age or older who exhibits cognitive function that is comparable to an average person who is middle-aged….50 to 60.”  Super Agers tend to be resilient. They find the positive rather than dwelling on the negative, the best in a stressful or difficult time. They are curious. They have goals, a cause, a reason to get up in the morning. They enjoy social relationships. More.

The information from the Feinberg School is long and complex and not unique. Dr. Sofya Milman is Director of Human Longevity studies at the Institute for Aging Research at Albert Einstein College of Medicine in New York. Their goal is to develop therapies that will mimic the beneficial function of longevity genes. They are interested in enhancing the health span vs the life span of everyone.

At lunch the other day, we were talking about Super Agers. A friend asked, “Do you get a cape?”

“Come have tea on Thursday!” I invited 5 friends for mid-afternoon. We sat down around the table and viewed little cucumber sandwiches, small lemon tarts, and sweet strawberries. Mary said, “I haven’t been to a tea party since high school and that was 75 years ago!” I poured.

Ruth reported that she’d read an article in The New York Times that teas are currently gaining in popularity. In these times of anxiety, a tea party is an oasis of peace. It’s less active than a cocktail party. You sit down, you sip something warm and comforting. You eat a little sweet and talk quietly with friends.

 Patricia pointed out that she’d seen tea sandwiches for sale in an up-scale grocery store, in a pretty pink bakery box. Nancy’s granddaughter in Seattle had written that she likes to bake and was planning to invite friends to a Saturday afternoon tea party. She was going to wear her pearls. Her grandmother sent her a tiered plate. 

“Like this one?” I asked. 

“Yes. Where’d you get this?”

“I made it! Well, a daughter-in-law and I did. We have made 14 of them.” I answered their questions. “Yes, she and I shop in thrift stores, find pretty plates of various sizes. We have a friend who knows how to drill drainage holes in flowerpots and so has drilled holes into these plates. We sent away to Amazon for the hardware, learned how to determine the center of the plates. Then we chose a pleasing combination of 3 sizes, usually a dinner plate, salad plate, and saucer. Sometimes a salad plate and a bread-and-butter plate only. That small size is nice for jewelry on the dresser.”

Joan reached for a strawberry. “How did tea parties get started? Do you know the history?” 

I had done a little research. “I think 2 dates are credited for their beginning. One is in the 1700s and the other, the one I remember better, started with Queen Anne in England who wanted a little food between luncheon and dinner. She enjoyed a snack and a cup of tea in late afternoon. Eventually she invited her friends. That was in the 1840s. Tea was being shipped from China and I think from India…… and here we are.”

“And what kind of tea is this?”

I answered, “This is herbal tea that a granddaughter made from rosemary and lavender and other herbs she grew in her backyard. It strengthens our memory.”

Betty recalled having high tea at Brown’s Hotel in London. High tea is more than a snack. It sometimes substitutes for dinner. Brown’s Hotel tea is more elegant than our sitting around my table in a senior residence, but still we enjoyed being together and feeling like well-behaved young ladies.  

I am officially an eclipse chaser. On Friday, April 5, at San Francisco Airport, son John, daughter-in-law Holly, and I boarded a plane for St Louis. We were going to visit their daughter Sarah, her husband, and 2 young sons.

On Monday, 5 of us were going to drive to Carbondale, a city of 22,000, to see the total solar eclipse at 12:59 from Saluki Stadium at Southern Illinois University. The school band would play and NASA speakers were to explain the eclipse. We missed the speakers. We arrived late, the traffic was slow; 200,000 people. But we had plenty of time to find our reserved seats and to practice with the special viewing glasses, the glasses that protected our eyes while looking directly at the sun. At 12:47 we put them on, faced the sun, and saw only a dark sky with a globe that resembled a full moon. An announcer called out, “Two minutes, 1 minute.” The crowd of 13,000 viewers stamped, clapped, shouted, prayed, held hands; some wept. A small nibble, a bite, a crescent of the sun, daylight fading. A curved half-light, a slender crest, the sun totally blacked out, only the corona glowing around the edges. Deep shadowy views across the stadium, Venus shining above. Mercury lower. A total eclipse for 4 minutes, 8 seconds, I was surprised to be tearing up. If ever an event inspired awe, this was it! It was the power of nature. Not a thing humans could do to manipulate it. Just sit and watch. Feel a part of the Universe. 

As the light and warmth returned, some people rose to leave. Some sat as though stunned. We walked out onto the football field. John paused to let a woman in a wheelchair pass. Her husband said, “Thank you for your kindness.” Our 5-year-old, Mason, released, ran to the goal and back and challenged his grandmother to race with him. Then he asked his grandfather, finally his mother. I wondered if he’d ask me, but he knew better than to ask his great grandmother to run.

Back in the car, we anticipated another 3-hour drive. We played games and occasionally fell into thoughtful silence. Suddenly Mason began kicking the seat in front of him. He thrashed around, demanded to be let out of the car. His mother looked at her watch. “Yes,” she announced, “5 o’clock. Dad, would you pull into that Dairy Queen over there?” We all piled out and gathered inside where orders were a milkshake, fried onion rings, a dip of soft ice-cream, French fries, and a small hamburger with no condiments, just plain meat and bun. We snuggled back into the car, Holly handed out napkins and bottles of water. All were quiet and at peace. Sarah said, “Mom, do you remember when I was 5 years old and 5 o’clock would come and I’d have the fall-aparts? Sometimes with Mason I feel as though I’m bringing up myself.”

Back home, Mason ran into the house and to the window in the breakfast room to look out and shout, “Two eggs!” He pointed to the robin’s nest and explained to me, “Yesterday there was 1. Maybe tomorrow there will be 3!”

A day of contrasts and wonder.  

The next total solar eclipse will be in 2044. Mason will be 25 then. His parents with be in their 50s. his grandparents will be almost my current age. Will they chase the eclipse?

At home last Sunday morning, I lay in bed thinking of the excursion that 4 of us grey-haired friends had taken the day before. We had visited the Sonoma County Art Museum, idled through the History Museum, and found a sweet little bakery, Marla’s, in Santa Rosa’s Railroad Square. An Outing worth remembering. 

But it was time to get up. Throwing back the covers, I sat up and then stood. Oooops! A wooziness swept over me. I bent over, lowering my head. That was better. I straightened and the wooziness returned. When I called Resident Health Services, a nurse came and checked the vitals and recommended I go to an ER. A friend drove me down to Providence Memorial Hospital and after the ER exams, we were directed upstairs to the Cardiology Department.

And that’s where the fun began. Given a drafty green hospital gown and bright yellow gripper socks, I was led to a bed with a view. I watched wide-winged clouds morph into various images as staff people with equipment on wheels flowed in and out of the room. Some wanted vital statistics, one took x-rays, one took blood. One brought me a cup of tea. A lovely young doctor talked about hiking in Italy, which led to an enthusiastic exchange about the benefits of walking, then to my experiences walking across the United States, to ultimately her saying she will order the book I wrote about that. 

A doctor’s assistant came in, sat on the bed, and told me, among other things, that she is a distance walker. I suggested she get together with the hiking doctor.

The hospital chaplain arrived.  “I understand you live at Spring Lake Village. Your chaplain and I are friends. Used to work in Hospice together.”  

A 26-year-old student nurse came to record information onto a large computer (on wheels) and offered to walk with me around the hallways. She said, “We can talk.” We paused to sit on a bench in the sunshine and discussed her life-plans.

A young male nurse with a southern accent is in California with his also-a-nurse wife. He leaned against the door-frame and drawled, “We’re here for a few years, saving our money to build a house back home before we have 2 children.” 

A  nurse smiled proudly and patted her tummy-bulge, saying, “I’ll deliver our daughter in April. We already have a 4-year-old son.”

I met a teaching nurse who has been at Providence Memorial for 30 years. She is a friend of son Sam and Lisa’s and I told her I felt I had an advocate in her. She didn’t exactly puff up, but replied, “In this hospital you don’t need a special advocate. Everyone on the staff is your advocate.” I watched as staff greeted patients, introduced themselves, gave an encouraging shoulder pat, offered a glass of water. Not exactly a resort, but close.

I don’t watch much TV here. The entertainment is live. The other patient sharing this room is an elderly Spanish-speaking woman with a thin grey braid down her back and a rough cough. In the evenings she is surrounded by her large middle-aged children. One told me there were 12 of them, all born in Michoacan, Mexico. Last evening they streamed into her space, the final man bringing a red-blossomed cactus in a tin can. They chattered and chuckled, spoke gently to their mother.

I came to the hospital because I was woozy. In 3 days, while waiting for the med-adjustments, I have met dozens of likable, dedicated people. Probably more than I’d have met at the pool of a resort. I’ve eaten satisfying meals. Not wine and gourmet, but more like comfort food. I have found a new Club Med Tourism Company. How about CLUB MEDS?

Those who know me, know I frequently suggest, “Write that.” or “That’s a good title! Write it!” I encourage the writing of stories for several reasons. A major one is that studies have concluded that children who know where they came from grow to be more flexible, more resourceful, more confident than those who don’t know their antecedents, their context. Writing your story for your family is a gift only you can give. 

I might go on and on about this, but recently son John sent a short paragraph that says it much better than I. 

Richard Wagamese says, “All that we are is story. From the moment we are born to the time we continue on our spirit journey, we are involved in the creation of the story of our time here. It is what we arrive with. It is all we leave behind. We are not the things we accumulate. We are not the things we deem important. We are story. All of us. What comes to matter then is the creation of the best possible story we can while we’re here; you, me, us, together. When we can do that and we take time to share those stories with each other, we get bigger inside, we see each other, we recognize our kinship — we change the world, one story at a time.”

After all these years, I think I’ve got it.

When we were little our parents taught us to look both ways before stepping out to cross the street. A car might be coming. ”Car! Car! C-A-R!” we’d shout and wait until it had passed. We didn’t want to get hit. We might die.

Recently a cardiologist recommended I take Eloquis, a costly heart medication. When I told her no, I didn’t want to take it, she asked why. “Because it’s advertised on TV and our family tends to not buy whatever is advertised on TV.” She stared at me and said, “You might die.”

Here in our Senior Residence, much conversation revolves around treatments for our ailing and failing bodies. I have thought we were fighting a losing battle against death. We exercise, drink water, eat our vegetables, get plenty of sleep… all in efforts to delay death.

For most of 96 years, that’s what I’ve been thinking.

But I was wrong! I just figured it out! It’s not to delay death. It’s to enjoy life. It’s to be healthy and able. We exercise because we enjoy particular exercise classes. We like the music we hear in exercise classes. We want to be able to move; we enjoy moving. We enjoy the fact that we are able to move. It’s fun. Walking in the warm water pool returns me to ballet lessons when I was a chubby 9-year-old girl dreaming I’d become graceful. Maybe become a star in the movies. The other day a friend stopped by the pool and asked, “Are you practicing to become as graceful as Esther Williams?”  

Like so many shifts in perspective, this is quiet and subtle, but none-the-less, Important. It makes all the difference. Getting up in the morning is more fun.

Anticipating the day is more exciting. Yesterday during an early morning walk, I asked a fellow resident how he was doing. He grinned and said, “Upright!” and gave a thumbs-up. I chuckled and kept on walking.

In the 1960s our family was a father, a mother, 4 grammar-school boys, a foreign  student attending College of San Mateo, Pepi-the-dog, and Alice-the-cat. Each morning, the father took the commuter train to his office in San Francisco. Each week-day the boys walked to school. The foreign student drifted in and out, and the mother volunteered in the community and held the family together. She plugged in the iron for smoothing the clothes. She plugged in the slow-cooker to prepare dinner. She plugged in the old vacuum sweeper to clean. Her life seemed to balance on what she was plugging in.

Early in a December, the father asked the mother what she would like for Christmas. She answered, “Anything. But not something that plugs in.” Christmas morning came. New bikes, books, puzzles, a basketball dominated the scene. To one side stood a 4-foot high box with a big red bow. The card said, To My Wife. She opened it and there stood a very sturdy, well designed, pale green Hoover Upright Vacuum Sweeper. She backed off, turned around, faced her husband. “What is this? It plugs in!”

He said, “I thought I’d save you time.”

She said, “If you want to save me time, get me a cleaning lady.”

The next week Lovie Mae came. She came every Wednesday until the boys were grown and gone and their father had left, too. The wife gave the 15-year-old still-functioning upright pale green vacuum sweeper to a young college student.