Category: aging

Patient, Heal Thyself

When more than a year passed and none of the pain in my body had decreased, I decided to take a different approach: give up. I’ve spent thousands of dollars and countless hours seeing dozens of healers and doctors—time that might have better gone to hiking my favorite trails or reading my favorite books or spending more time with friends. In the meantime, I got behind on all my chores and projects, and I’m still trying to catch up.

 After I told one of my three physical therapists that, after a year of therapy, I wasn’t doing any better, she asked “Are you having a lot of stress?” As a matter of fact, yes. I was going to at least one appointment a day, sometimes two. This required reading all my notes from the last appointment, making a list of questions for the healer/doctor, and then afterward typing up the notes from the doctor, so I would have them for next time. Often, I did my own research: how did spinal stenosis result in sciatica? Why did the nerve pain in my hands indicate neuropathy but the joint pain mean I had arthritis—but of what kind? 

I thought that if I could just find the right healer—the one who would connect all the dots and figure out what was causing the pain in my body—I would be cured.  But the neurologists and rheumatologists had different opinions or diagnoses –often conflicting—that didn’t help. I so desperately wanted a savior, someone to take care of me, or at least my health, it took a long time to realize that none of doctors, at least, could cure me, or even knew why my body had turned against me.  Not only did I give up on them, but several gave up on me, including one neurologist.

Even my acupuncturist was honest enough to tell me that my body pain would never get better, that she couldn’t do anything because it had been going on too long, that it had settled in my body and that’s where it would stay. All I can do is to prevent the pain from getting worse.  

I felt I had to figure it out on my own, but I was never good at science and am still working out how glucose and cholesterol levels differ and how each affects my heart, which apparently is still in danger of a heart attack, even after a stent. Or that my fingertips have nerves while the rest of the hand has joints, further confusing a diagnosis.  

So I enlisted alternative healers, who gave me exercises, supplements and strong encouragement. They seemed to genuinely take an interest in my inscrutable pain. Ultimately, they didn’t cure me, but they gave me more tools than my neurologist and rheumatologist, who alternated different medications that were supposed to get rid of the pain but never did.

My naturopathic doctor gave me a list of supplements that would help the pain and hopefully calm down the inflammation and bolster my immune system. In addition, she told me to rub my hands in castor oil and insert them in gloves that I put into a heating pad. Another healer advised Epsom salts in hot water. I alternate between the two and manage to hold off the pain for a while.

My hand therapist showed me how to move my hands and fingers to deal with the pain—exercises I still do every day—and stressed that I needed to be gentle rather than push myself.  

A physical therapist who worked on my spine gave me exercises that stopped the pain in my left leg. Better yet, she showed me how to crouch without making the sciatica worse. In her words, bend down like I was aiming for the toilet.

My rolfer carefully examined my posture, which could affect the pain in my body as well as the spinal stenosis. She showed how my back, knees and head didn’t align, which could be causing the pain. She encouraged me to stand up straight and overcome my childhood tendency to stoop by opening my arms wide in a gesture of pride in my body.  

The chiropractor chided me when I came in for a session and saw me slouching, and I hear his voice every time I’m standing at the kitchen sink or in a grocery aisle: “Stand up straight!”   

A yoga teacher once told our class that laying on a yoga bolster every day for a half hour would straighten out our spines. Not only do I feel my back settling into its rightful position, I relax into the earth just as I should.  

The best advice was from a natural healer who said the only way to get rid of the inflammation was to lose the stress. I’m trying.

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My Father in His Last Years

Some mornings, when I open the curtains to see the pink light of sunrise on the distant mountains or on the trees, I spontaneously break into one of my dad’s favorite songs: “Oh What a Beautiful Morning.”  In Chicago, he didn’t have the mountain vistas I do to inspire him, but somehow he found great joy in just getting up and starting a new day.

He loved to sing, often at the drop of a hat, whether it was from the musical Oklahoma or a popular ditty from the 1930s or ‘40s. Music was his first love. From an early age, he taught himself to play the piano, the harmonica and accordion—all without learning to read music. At any social occasion he would bring out his accordion and start playing. Of course, this embarrassed his children, but now, in my older years, I can see that he liked making people happy as much as he enjoyed making music.

He wasn’t always that joyful. In his younger years, my father was often angry. In his middle age, he had to start a new company while supporting a family of nine. But, as he got older, he mellowed, especially after a quintuple bypass heart surgery. His heart changed, as if it were cracked open—not just physically but emotionally. When his youngest daughter told him she and her husband were divorcing, he cried—not something he would have done when he was younger.

As he aged, he suffered other impediments: first severe memory loss, which didn’t seem to bother him, except when my mother scolded him for forgetting to take out the garbage. Otherwise, he was happy to see the sunrise and sunset, to talk with old friends and to work in his garden. I remember once his delight when my mother told him that his granddaughter would be visiting him later that afternoon. Of course, he forgot, so when Laurie showed up later, he was delighted all over again, his happiness doubled.

In the last year of his life, he suffered a severe stroke. Suddenly, he could no longer play the piano or accordion; couldn’t swallow, so his food had to be mashed in a blender; and had a hard time talking—a small tragedy for a sociable man. Yet his caregiver could make him laugh, and I could make him happy by singing with him or finding his favorite music on my Spotify account. He still enjoyed Jeopardy and reruns of Lawrence Welk. When we drove him to McDonald’s for one of his favorite treats—an ice cream shake—he was delighted when we passed the school playground and he saw the children playing. Of course, nothing made him happier than his wife. When he woke in the morning, in his separate hospital bed, he would wave to her, as if delighted to find her there.

Where did this joy come from? Is it innate, or do we have to strive harder as we get older, finding the sweetness in life rather than dwelling on the hardships? It’s not easy.

I think of a friend who, in his 80s, lost his mobility and ended up in a wheelchair. Like my father, he had some inner happiness that he spread to others. In a somewhat decrepit nursing home and dependent on others for all his needs, my friend managed to find and spread some joy by rolling himself from room to room to comfort those who were lonely, sad, angry or frustrated.

I’m sure it made him feel better, just like my father was happy when he made people smile or even sing along to his piano playing. Maybe it’s a case of giving to others. Maybe that distracts us from our own pain or suffering.

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The Shame of Aging

A few years ago, I overheard a real estate agent telling a prospective buyer of the house next door that the tall bushes along our fence must be there because the owners (us) either must like their privacy or they were old and couldn’t keep up.

For some reason, this comment stung. I do like my privacy, yes, but I had to check myself: Had I let things go?  Were neighbors noticing our somewhat unkempt yard, which I preferred to lawns partly because I wanted to preserve some small bit of land for insects, birds and other creatures? But, in a subdivision of mostly neat lawns, were my neighbors gossiping about the old ladies on the block who couldn’t keep it together?

I stopped thinking about this incident until I was recently visiting a relative in her 40s. She and her family had moved into an older neighborhood where most of the original homes were small, maybe 1,000 square feet at most, the kind that were perfectly adequate when my generation, born in the 1950s, was younger. But a new generation wanted bigger houses for their families—I don’t blame them—and was either replacing the smaller houses with bigger ones or adding a second floor. My young relative complained that a lot of the people on the block weren’t renovating their houses but were letting them go, which was bringing down the property values for the whole neighborhood.

Of course, without her saying so, I knew that the people who were content with their plain old small brick houses were my generation, who didn’t need anything bigger or fancier. They had raised their children, who were now gone, and wanted nothing more than their small houses and gardens. Even though my cousin complained about this innocently, not even thinking, I’m sure, that I was one of those old people, I had to cringe.

Yet our yard and house are nowhere near as bad as the older neighbors down the street whose belongings spill out from the garage and whose two decrepit cars are stuffed. There’s no question they are hoarders, but I wonder if young people in the neighborhood think this is what happens when you get old. Of course, the younger generations grew up with computers, where most of their life is stored, so they don’t have old letters, vacation photos, records and DVDs or stereo systems taking up so much physical space.

While I have too much stuff, I don’t have enough memory, which is embarrassing when you’re standing in front of the car service guy and trying to remember the name of your car part that needs replacing. I routinely find myself in situations where store clerks, waiters and medical staff slowly explain things to me, not without some condescension. Or am I feeling shame because I can’t figure out how the self-serve coffee machine in my doctor’s office works?

I was recently at a doctor’s appointment and the young physician’s assistant suggested two procedures that would help my condition. When I went to make an appointment for one of them, I confused one procedure with the other, and the receptionist (but that’s not what they call them, is it?) questioned me. To straighten it out, the PA came out and assured the receptionist that she was right. Did I notice a glance pass between them? —another confused old person?

Recently I took part in a webinar with both younger and older people. One older woman kept interrupting the proceedings because was she having trouble with Zoom. I cringed, not only ashamed for my generation that doesn’t understand technology, but also for this woman’s obliviousness at hogging the proceedings.  

Maybe the worst is our shame about our physical deterioration—wrinkles, balding or gray hair, the canes we use to hold ourselves steady, our stooped bodies, drapes on our arms, or how we sometimes struggle to get up from the chair. How do we fight that judgment in a society that values youth, beauty and physical strength? I recently read that teenage girls (!) are getting Botox, already trying at that young age to have perfect faces. It seems the standard of beauty keeps getting higher.

So how do we seniors even try to keep up? We dye our hair, work out at the gym, get surgery to remove wrinkles, and wear tight jeans so someone might possibly mistake us for a 25-year-old.  Are we accepting society’s shame? Are we disgusted by our bodies and of what they will become? We fear ending up in nursing homes, where there’s a smell of decay—of bodies that can no longer move and can’t take care of themselves—that can be sickening. Maybe that’s why some older folks work hard to make sure their houses are clean and neat, no dirt behind the fridge, no bad smells.

The other day I crossed paths with a younger man, maybe in his 30s, who was jogging. I looked at him with wonder and envy—that he could lift his legs so high without pain and move so effortlessly. Yet I can’t help but feel that, in my older years, I have one leg up on him.  I don’t know this man, but I know it takes a long time to acquire what I have—more understanding and compassion for myself and the world; and the useful ability to not take myself too seriously. He may be physically stronger, but decades of hard knocks have made my heart emotionally sturdy.

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