At recent meeting of retirees, one member of the group dominated the conversation with tales of woe – all the people she knows (and some of whom we all knew) who are confronted with major, catastrophic illnesses: cancer, Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s. I left the meeting feeling depressed, anxious, and old.
When I shared my feelings with a friend, she asked, “Are we at an age now where disease is the topic of our conversation?” Reluctantly, I said that yes, we have reached that age; we are aging. But then, I began to wonder: “why ?” Why is age and the topic of illnesses so much in our minds? What need are we trying to fill – and, more importantly, what fears are we trying to fend off?
I believe we are seeking the comfort of others who are also experiencing this new phase of our lives, and to check: are others having the same thoughts, the same anxieties, the same fears? Does misery love company?
Would it be better to simply avoid these conversations? I don’t believe so –confronting the challenges and inviting others in can be guideposts on our journey. But I don’t believe we are seeking to share our misery; I think we are seeking reassurance. I regret that, at that meeting, I did not speak; I simply breathed in the bad news and allowed it to affect me. Now, I realize that I missed an opportunity to offer that reassurance, that anti-aging optimism.
Because I have learned that for every story of a fearful diagnosis, there is an equal story of courage.
I’m thinking of my mother, who developed Rheumatoid Arthritis when she was in her 70’s. When she shared her diagnosis, I confused RA with the kind of arthritis that, troubling as it is, is not the threat that this monstrous disease would prove to be. I shrugged it off as just another signal that she was aging.
Over a period of a few years, I realized how serious her condition was. I watched her hands become gnarled and her legs weak. I noticed her fatigue and the effect on her heart that would eventually cause her death. But she was an incredible role model for me: she never complained, she never stopped being active and interested in her life. With her gnarled hands, she created beautiful works of cross stitch; with her weak legs and her walker, she continued going to church and shopping for groceries; with her weak heart, she continued to care about and nurture her family. Although the disease did finally end her life, it never robbed her of her determination to live well each day she had left. She showed me what courage looks like.
And, I have learned that for every story of despair, there is an equal story of hope.
There is the example of my dear friend Carol, a member of my Sunday school class, whose diagnosis of stage four cancer gave her little odds to survive. I had always admired her grace and serenity, and those two characteristics were the primary traits with which she confronted her difficult prognosis. Perhaps she mourned in private, but the face she presented to all of us who considered ourselves her friends was optimistic and hopeful. In the beginning, she spared us the actual description of her illness – she wanted us to join in her hope and felt it would be a burden for us to know the full extent of the cancer. The last time I saw her, we talked about how much we both looked forward to her return to the class. One month later, death overtook her.
Was she — were we who loved her — foolish to believe she would be victorious in this battle? I don’t think so. It carried her through the months of her illness and, led her gently into death. Her example inspired all of us – I won’t forget her way of dealing with this final ordeal; I will remember her when it is my turn to be challenged.
And, I can see that for every story of anxiety, there is an equal story of peace.
I just learned that my friend April is in Hospice after her struggle with cancer. When I last saw April, she had been hospitalized for months and longed to go home. Yet, her conversation centered on her acceptance of the reality of her illness. She talked about the next phase in her cancer treatment: chemo and radiation – and her thoughtful decision to forego that treatment. During our conversation, I picked up on something in April that inspired me – it was peace.
I know that the Hospice experience will ease her pain, but she has already discovered the key element: she is at peace with the outcome. My prayer is to follow her example.
I have been fortunate in many ways, but the one for which I am most grateful is my own good health. However, I do know that, eventually, there will be an illness or simply declining old age. And so I look for stories of those who have gone first, those like my mother, Carol, and April.
When we next gather as a group and someone begins describing the illnesses that confront them, I will remember the models I hope to follow. And for fear, I will describe courage. For despair, I will describe hope. For insurmountable odds, I will describe peace. Courage, hope, and peace – anti-aging balms.
2/9/2020