July 12, 2017
Hello, Mary!
Your letter arrived a day ago and I have read it with both a
sad kind of recognition of old age we each are living in, and a firm sense of
the joy of friendship, which we still enjoy.
I’m reading about Karl and the cords of his oxygen machine winding
through the rooms and feeling sympathy for what you both are experiencing. And
a new kind of sisterhood with you, Mary.
Don and I don’t have tubes stretching through the house, but we do have a
device that Don hates, which apparently, if he decides to use it, will allow
him to sleep soundly (even though it rattles all night. ) Ear plugs for me.
Unlike you two, we haven’t lost weight, but we do not travel
well anymore. Don still drives, but unhappily, and we both inch our ways out of
car doors and wonder why we decided to go to where ever we are. I have been in a very bad-walking period in
the past few months, lower back pain, dragging heels, and one day I looked at
myself as I shuffled my way past a reflecting window and thought, “My god, that’s
an old lady.” Don gets dizzy and needs
to lean against passing buildings. Sometimes my back hurts so much I want to
sit down on the next curb. We hold hands to support each other, not to indicate
our close relationship, and we meander along the sidewalk in such a way that people
approaching us step aside to get out of our way.
We just had a small argument over whether I should defrost
the pork chops in the freezer or whether he should walk down to Safeway and buy
new ones since he’s discovered we still have fuel in the barbecue and he’d like
to cook at least once this summer. “They’ll
defrost fine,” I reassure him.
“You always move in on what I’m doing,” he
answered.
I acknowledged a need to control our meals, remembering on past experience. "And besides, it’s a beautiful day.” We could sit on the terrace, relax while the meat softened.
I acknowledged a need to control our meals, remembering on past experience. "And besides, it’s a beautiful day.” We could sit on the terrace, relax while the meat softened.
“No." He will walk to Safeway.
“You always buy five times what we need, and
impulse-buy in every aisle,“ I answered, remembering a recent blackening container
of hummus. “You always…”
“You always say that,“ he murmured,
going back to his New York Times.
At 82, I’m too old to keep the you always argument going. I
remember Mom and Dad using that phrase. I recall the chapter on family
counseling in my professional life that warned against it. I wonder if our grave stone will read, “You
Always.” I need to do something.
I just did it. “Do
whatever, honey. I’ll be happy to eat
whatever you bring home.” I smiled. He
smiled. We’re at peace, sort of. The sun’s still glowing on the terrace.
I’ll work on the phrasing of my next accusation
about the socks left like mating varmints under the bed, discovered this morning
by the rug-cleaner who almost sucked them up into his machine.
Living this long with another person is difficult, especially
when you have forgotten who, if anyone, is in charge. Tonight, he’s
cooking. Tonight, I’m having a glass of
white wine. In the end, it all works out, they say.
Mary, call me. Even
though we haven’t seen each other in years, we’ve gotten to this place together. We need to talk, like we did when we were thirteen. Jo
This was a poignant read, and something most of us who are aging can relate to. The conversation you've related about the pork chops sounds like a conversation me and the missus could have had.
ReplyDeleteSorry for the typos; I swear I corrected them. I always do. Always.
ReplyDelete