Desperately Seeking Community

When we moved to this subdivision, some 30 years ago, my friend and I were the youngest on the block, surrounded on either side by neighbors who were 20 years older than us. They were friendly, almost too friendly to the point of nosiness, but I enjoyed our conversations over the fence. Now we’re the oldest ones on the block and I long for that camaraderie.

While we’re not exactly shunned, no one seems interested in our lives. I’ll go out of my way to ask the young couple next door about their new baby daughter, exclaim how fast she’s growing. They’re polite, even friendly up to a point, but it’s obvious that they’re not interested in the lives of two old women. The family across the street totally ignores us, not even bothering to wave when we’re both out shoveling snow or gardening. Another house has become a vacation rental, while next door a good friend and her husband just moved to a different city.

I strongly feel the loss of community–one where we connect to others around us and where we’re not alone. I grew up in a neighborhood where everyone knew everyone else. Walking down the street, I’d wave to Mrs. Ross, see Mr. Fox in his backyard gardening, stop across the street to see if my friend Sally wanted to play or next door if our other friend Darlene wanted to join us. My parents were friends with most of the adults on the block and frequently socialized with them. That was the era (the 1950s) when people dressed up in their finest clothes to drink martinis in the bars that everyone was building in their basements.

In a two-block area, I never lacked for someone to play with or children to babysit. The boys played softball in the school fields beyond our houses. My girlfriends and I gathered together to play board games, ride to the swimming pool or walk to the ice skating rink in winter.

But when we all grew up and left home, my parents moved from the big house where they raised our family to another neighborhood where they didn’t know anyone. Maybe by that time the culture had shifted or no one was interested in a couple in their 70s. My parents complained to me that people weren’t friendly. When my father asked the man next door, in his 30s, to do him a favor every morning when the neighbor went for a jog—to throw his newspaper from the sidewalk to the front door—he refused.

I can see why my parents finally decided to move to a retirement community. They made friends quickly and enjoyed meals with their new friends. My father, a consummate musician, was delighted to play the piano for an appreciative audience during happy hour.

Today, in this world full of divisiveness, where an increasing number of people eat alone or spend all their social time online, it feels like community is needed more than ever, whether it’s among neighbors, spiritual or church groups, or book clubs. Our generation was lucky to experience togetherness when we were young.

So maybe more than other age groups, we appreciate a shared world, even if it’s something as simple as hiking with other seniors, playing cards at the senior center, or joining others for a yoga or tai chi class. When I shop in the grocery store, I notice it’s we older ones who nod to each other or even, amazingly, talk to each other (in simple phrases, like “did you notice the price has gone up on this cereal?”). I have a friend who, when she swims in the local pool, starts conversations with others. When friends and I go for a hike, we make sure to greet everyone who comes down the trail, even when they have their earbuds on.

And now friends are starting a small movement by protesting together. It’s these small actions that can make a difference, that hopefully might lead to something bigger, a society composed of people who want to be together and help each other.

Can we start a crusade? An uprising of community? We have nothing to lose by trying.

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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.

8

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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