I am living vicariously through an 87-year-old woman
I am living vicariously through an 87-year-old woman
an essay about life, love, and chronic pain
The first day I meet her, she tells me that she is the oldest of eight. “Seven now–my brother Tom died on my birthday two years ago.”
“That’s terrible,” I say because what else can you say when presented with such unfortunate facts?
“Oh no, not at all, I feel honored that he went out on that day. I’ll always think of my brother Tom on my birthday.”
She tells me stories from her childhood–exploring the northwoods with her brothers, picking ripened berries in late summer and making jam with her mother and sisters, a pet deer named Trixie that would follow her to school and nibble grass from the palm of her hand. “Simpler times back then. We didn’t have a lot but we sure had fun.”
She tells me how the war changed her father, turned him from a kind and gentle man into a mean and nasty drunk. “My mother divorced him when I was nine and raised us on her own during the Great Depression. Oh we were broke, so broke! My mother would make us cereal out of flour and water. We didn’t have eggs or meat–nobody could get any protein especially in the winter,” She picks up her slinged left arm with her right hand, “I fractured this arm and I asked the doctor how that could be the case, I never had a fall. He told me my bones were weak and frail, they never got the proper nutrients when I was a kid.”
She tells me about her husband Bill, a friend of her cousin, who waited at the bus stop so he could “bump” into her when she came to town to visit one day. “He was clever, he knew I would be there. Apparently my cousin talked me up enough that Bill drove over an hour just so he could meet me for himself. One look from him and I was done for–the rest is history as they say.” She winks at me before going on to share more about her life with Bill.
She tells me about how they bought a small acreage and built their house themselves. She tells me about the children they raised and she radiates with pride when she tells me how all three graduated from college. “Bill and I never made it past the tenth grade, but we did put our kids through school, and isn’t that an accomplishment?”
Her voice cracks as she begins to tell me about her last years with Bill, and she pulls a tissue from her sweater sleeve to dab her eyes. “Bill got sick and life changed. At first he just needed to use a wheelchair for longer distances and oxygen at night. But then he became confused and really weak, he needed help with most everything. I am happy I could care for him in our home until he passed, that he could still enjoy his daily coffee and chats with friends–Bill was a social butterfly and even if he couldn’t remember the people towards the end, he sure enjoyed the company.”
She pulls another tissue from her sweater sleeve and blows her nose. “It’s hell getting old, but it is one of life’s greatest gifts to grow old with someone you truly love.”
She tells me her and Bill were married just shy of 60 years and dabs her eyes one last time. She asks me if I’m married and leans in closer to hear my answer.
I tell her about Ben, how we met at a party nearly 10 years ago, how his humor and laughter immediately drew me in, and how his presence calms every qualm in my soul. I try to be short and succinct, to avoid the heavy subjects, but then she asks me what he does for work and so I have no choice but to tell her about Ben’s back–the initial injury & surgery that happened before I met him, the beginning of our relationship when he wasn’t in pain, how he fell snowboarding five years ago and nothing has been right since, and finally the moment last October when he woke up after a long week of work and his body suddenly seized with excruciating pain, when even laying in bed was nearly unbearable.
Her eyes fill with sorrow with every sentence I speak. “That’s terrible,” she says because what else can you say when presented with such unfortunate facts?
I’m living vicariously through an 87-year-old woman because I cannot imagine being married for nearly 60 years, not because my relationship is unhealthy or unhappy, but because my beloved greeted me at the door not long ago with panic in his eyes, palms clammy, a shell of himself. “I don’t know if I can do this much longer,” he said, and I knew he didn’t mean he couldn’t be married to me much longer. I knew he meant living another day trapped in a body causing him severe chronic pain. I reminded him of his future appointments, of all the avenues we have yet to pursue. We spent the night like we had since last October–watching too many hours of reality television, curled up next to each other, trying to distract ourselves from our reality. He reassured me he would never harm himself, could never do that to me or the dogs. “But growing old feels like a prison sentence sometimes,” he says and my insides turn to stone.
I’m living vicariously through an 87-year-old woman because the world is on fire and my husband is in pain and even though a part of me yearns when I see a baby, even though some nights I have vivid dreams of being a mother, I know that children are not in my cards. Not when sea levels are projected to rise at least another foot by 2100, not when wildfires are projected to increase by 50% in the next 80 years, not while the world is getting hotter & drier & more unpredictable. Mass shootings happen at a frightening frequency and each news cycle showcases another dreadful deed done out of hatred. I can’t imagine raising children in this climate, can’t imagine paying their way through college when I’ll be paying my student loans off for decades to come unless they get forgiven. Children in this economy? Couldn’t be me because I literally couldn’t afford them. *insert upside down smiley face*
“That’s terrible,” you’ll say because what else can you say when presented with such unfortunate facts.
*Edited to add: Identifying factors have been changed to protect the privacy of the individuals that this post was inspired by.
~Update~
I wrote (the majority) of this many months ago and since then, Ben had a surgery in June that we hoped would be the solution, but sadly was not. Ben’s more like himself, but his back pain & sciatica are still very much present. He had an MRI last month that revealed not the best of news. It’s been a whirlwind of emotions, heavy on the grief. We are trying to adjust. We are trying to soak up the good days and make memories when we can. And we are hopeful because we are going to Colombia in 2023 so Ben can get stem cells injected into his back which have had promising effects on people with chronic back pain and disc injuries. Shout out to my father-in-law for funding it. Shout out to Ben for being my beta reader, for letting me share a bit of his story & letting me write my way through the events of this past year. Shout out to Below Deck and 90 Day Fiance for being the best distractors during the worst of times. And shout out to you for reading this! Take care of your bodies because health truly is wealth!
Image Description: My sweet husband standing on the rocky shoreline of Lake Superior, his back to the camera. It’s golden hour so everything is washed in a soft glow.