Organ Recitals

 

“Then the podiatrist looked at my little toe and said, ‘Lady, what you have is a…’” But just as things are about to get interesting my friend claps her hand over her mouth and says, “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to bore you with an organ recital!” If you are a woman of a certain age, you know that the phrase “organ recital” does not necessarily refer to a performance of Bach in a cathedral. 

Why do so many women feel apologetic about mentioning a wonky knee or a sore neck? Though clearly in distress, they smile through their pain and heroically refuse to talk about “unpleasant things.” Even if their health concerns dominate their inner life, they think that bringing up these issues is a failure of stoicism and an imposition on their listeners.  

I disagree. Not only do I not mind organ recitals, but I often find them entertaining and instructive. There are myriad ways in which the aging body betrays us, and myriad ways in which each individual chooses to deal with these betrayals. I think them all fascinating, and not in a morbid way. 

However, as with the Bach recitals, much depends on the performer. A whiny or self-pitying tone makes me want to change the subject at the earliest opportunity, as does a solo that goes on and on. But if told briefly, with a rueful smile and a sense of irony, these tales have much to offer. They can be informative (who knew that aloe vera is good for arthritis?), and they can also be inspiring. When someone recovering from major surgery mentions that she’s just walked two miles, it puts my own complaints in proportion and gives me the push I need to trudge all the way to the top of the hill. 

Listening to organ recitals is one way in which we can support each other, too. It is no use pretending that our bodies are not often on our minds, and if listening to a friend’s concerns makes her feel less alone, I could do worse than lend her an ear. And when it’s my turn at the instrument, it comforts me to know that I have a sympathetic audience. 

We are embodied creatures, destined to experience pain. Animals instinctively isolate themselves when they are ill, to keep predators from noticing their weakness. But we are verbal, social beings, and the occasional organ recital, done moderately and in chosen company, can be as healing and consoling as listening to Bach.

My Kindle And Other Miracles

Thanks to all of you who sent good wishes both here and by e-mail.  It worked:   my survival now appears inevitable.

Two days ago I left the house on non-medical business (lunch with a friend) for the first time in a month, and was amazed to see that, while I was suffering my attack of shingles, fall had arrived in Vermont--the time of year when the drive to the post office is so beautiful it hurts.

Between the pain and the pain meds, my memories of the last few weeks are hazy, but I do know I could not have survived without my Kindle.  In the days before the diagnosis, when the pain at night would keep me pacing, trying to hold out for another hour before waking up my spouse to take me to the ER, I slogged through a big chunk of the Journals of Thomas Merton.   I was unable to follow a plot or a line of argument, but Merton's oscillations from self-doubt to elation fit the rhythms of my mind as it was brought to focus, over and over, on the physical pain.

After Merton, when my brain started to clear a bit, there was a Trollope novel.  I don't know what I'm going to do when I run out of Trollope novels--I'm almost through his entire oeuvre.  Perhaps I should start saving them for emergencies.  Finally I read a hugely entertaining biography of the six Mitford sisters (Love in a Cold Climate, by Nancy Mitford, is one of my favorite novels).  Compared to what their mother had to endure, having shingles seemed a piece of cake.

Thanks to my beloved Kindle I could, in the middle of the night, my breath sour and my hair unwashed, press a few keys and have a book come winging to me out of the ether, as precious and consoling as a percocet.

But the shingles wasn't all bad, and in fact it worked a small miracle:  I lost ten pounds in two weeks, literally without lifting a finger (I didn't have the strength to lift a finger).  As someone who can go whole decades without losing her appetite, when it went away and stayed away I was filled with curiosity.  Why wasn't I hungry?  Why was I, a lifetime member of the clean-plate club, now pushing away most of my dinner untouched?  Why did nothing--not a ripe tomato still warm from the sun, or an apple from my tree, or a slice of home-made bread--hold the slightest appeal?

Then a couple of days ago, as I was sprinkling blueberries on a small dish of yoghurt---drearily thinking protein, antioxidants, acidophilus--I suddenly noticed a wet sensation in my mouth.  I was salivating!

Since that moment I've been thinking about food a lot, and wondering how I might recapture that elegant standoffishness towards meals that I enjoyed so briefly.  How can I hang on to that viral windfall, those vanished pounds?  I have no idea, but I suspect it will require lifting a finger or two every once in a while.

The Womanly Art Of Nursing

If you went into the back bedrooms of a Victorian mansion, a century or so ago, you could always find a lurking invalid or two, a child with an earache, or worse. And clustering round with compresses and things* would be the woman of the house, hair tucked into a neat bun, a big white apron tied around her waist. For her, caring for the sick was as normal a domestic routine as polishing the silver, something she learned at her mother's knee and was expected to be good at because of her God-given nurturing, angelic nature.

This image of “the angel in the house,” as Dickens put it, has been in my mind for the last ten days. My normally healthy husband came down with a non-lethal but extremely painful condition, which pretty much turned him overnight into a groaning invalid.

Before this, my exposure to a loved one in prolonged, severe pain had been nil. As I rushed around trying to deal with stuff and make him more comfortable, I kept thinking that, if we both live to the ripe old age that statistics predict, this kind of situation is likely to arise again. So I took mental notes on my own state of mind to see what it might bode for the future. Here they are:

1. I found the sight and sound of my husband in pain utterly hard to bear. While I myself was not in physical pain, every groan of his sent a stab through my heart. Not only did his pain become my pain, but I felt that I had to be there watching and joining him in suffering, because if I was suffering too it would help somehow.

2. At the same time, my mind was frantically looking for ways to make things better. A bigger pillow, a better position, a glass of water, a call to the doctor, a foot massage, a hand massage, some acupressure.... And then, probably to alleviate my own symptoms, the constant questioning, “Is the pain better now? How does it compare to two hours ago? Rank it from one to ten, with one being no pain at all...”

3. I felt incredibly strong. If he had been under a car, I would have lifted it off him. If he'd had to be carried out of the house, I would have managed it somehow. These are pretty amazing feelings for a person with chronic fatigue syndrome, which I have (I know I haven't mentioned CFS here before), but they were real.

4. I found the look on his face really hard to take. It was grave, and wooden, and seemed somehow disapproving...of me? How could he disapprove of me, after all I was doing? (Glad to say I wasn't such a selfish brute as to ask him to smile.)

5. Speaking of moi, who's going to comfort me? Who's going to say “there, there, little F. Nightingale, you're doing great?”

6. When he finally had a procedure, and got serious pain meds, I felt as if I was on drugs as well. The relief was enormous.

7. And it was followed, on my part, by impatience. Enough already! When is this going to end? When is he going to be able to pull his weight around here? The visiting nurse says he needs to eat really well, to aid in healing. You mean I'm supposed to cook, too?

How in the world did that Victorian woman do it? Not only did she have to take care of the sick—she often had to watch them die. Her babies, her parents, her husband...how did our species tolerate all this anguish? How soft have we grown in less than a century? What am I going to do when the really bad stuff happens?

O.k., this is not the time to worry about evolutionary or metaphysical stuff. Just put dinner on the table.

* Sorry, I've been rereading P.G. Wodehouse.