So much has happened in the short time since I finished Helping Yourself Grow Old.
I read the page proofs in defiance of my knowledge that it is nearly impossible for a writer to accurately proof-read her own work. (Our brains tend to see what we meant to say, missing little things like transposed letters.) And, I read it while sick, as though I could tell illness “this is inconvenient; I don’t have time right now.”
All the while I was telling my doctor about my lack of energy and stamina, a doctor who may have thought I was just complaining about the natural consequence of being ninety. I did know that he was wrong about that, but I did not yet know that I had a bleeding tumor. A routine blood test supplied the evidence in the nick of time, and the publication of this book of “things I said to myself when I was almost ninety” was interrupted for a couple of months.
The day after surgery to remove the nasty intruder from my colon, a young, masculine, bursting-with-energy kind of person, bounced into my room and said, “I’m your PT. Come on, we’re taking a walk.”
I assure you that I did not want to take a walk. I did not want to move. I knew I had fallen into the hands of a professional torturer. But I got up.
The heartless therapist courteously fastened the back of my gown in crucial places, and we took a walk, back and forth, in the hall. When he brought me back to my bed, I felt quite proud of myself.
The next morning we did it all again, adding a lap, and then in the afternoon it was my son who got me out of bed, reminding me that in one month I had to dance at his wedding, as promised.
Less than three weeks after surgery I was living alone again, supplied with various helps—a chair for the shower, two walkers (one with wheels and a basket), and an extended potty seat to help my weakened legs. These were first a big help and then just obstacles. As soon as I could get up from my rocking chair I picked up the potty extension and asked someone to carry it to the basement storeroom for me. It was nice, but it was a crutch. A person with two good legs might walk with crutches until she forgets how to walk on her two feet. Or so I was persuaded. And I do want to keep all the abilities I have for as long as I can.
This includes, I hope, the ability to give new life to this blog, sharing my thoughts about the little disasters and discoveries of life at the age of ninety.
Helping Yourself Grow Old really is what I was thinking as I approached ninety, but neither having a birthday nor pronouncing the book finished and publishing it has caused life to quit happening or me to stop thinking about it.
Stay tuned. I will tell it like it is. Share a piece of your own story with me, if you like. Raise a question for discussion. We have things to learn yet and chances to learn them.