“Your disease is progressive and incurable, Carole”.
The man in the mask spoke without any emotion. He rolled back his chair. “I want to see you again in about three weeks”. He stood up, opened the door and left.
My first thought…I wonder why?
I looked around the room. It was very small. Three hard backed chairs and his standard rolling one. An examination bed. A small desk up against the wall, the computer blinking, the screen blank. There was nothing on the walls which were painted a strange shade of beige.
I sat there for a few moments. The phrase “the silence was deafening” was my first thought. Slowly, I reached for my cane and stood up. It was as if I had entered another world.
The offices of the three man Neurology practice were housed in one of those now everywhere Medical Centers. Shopping — but nothing fun to buy. This one was a labyrinth. I followed the sign marked exit, walking past row after row of closed doors. How many patients could they possibly have, I wondered? Finally, a bit of daylight and a glass door that opened to the waiting room.
More of the same hard backed chairs. No magazines. No pictures on the walls. There were signs instructing everyone to wear a mask, a framed photo of the Medical Center and a receptionist area — a floor to ceiling glass enclosure with a small window that could be opened to allow human interaction. Two people sat, heads down as they looked at their phones, silent.
The receptionist was pleasant and helpful. She printed out what seemed to be far too many papers with information “to be read carefully,” and scheduled my next appointment. We chatted for a bit, talking about hairstyles (she had great hair, mine has mostly fallen out since the heart failure), the strange weather and our nominations for best bakery in the area. It felt as if I had exited hell and returned to earth without any noticeable means of transportation!
The car provided by the medical center (part of one of the largest hospitals in the state) arrived. We drove home, talking about our mutual love of the Jersey shore and fishing .
When we pulled up to the entrance to my apartment I froze for a minute. The walkway and stairs seemed insurmountable. I fumbled for my keys and opened the door. My sweet cat, Lovebug, was waiting for me, purring and rubbing against my leg.
I am a Solo Ager…no living family and, at almost 78, have outlived all of my wonderful circle of 6 friends. I love my apartment. It has a large, covered balcony that I call my Treehouse 🌲 because it overlooks a wooded area with a walking trail, field and stream and abundant wildlife. It is very private and with a dining table and chairs, a reading nook with chaise lounge and plenty of space to spread out, it is my sanctuary almost year round.
It is a room with a view. But now it was different.
I stood there, alone, the only sounds the birds at the feeders chirping madly as they jockeyed for space. And I allowed myself, for the first time, to wonder what it will be like to die.
I have no timetable. Just the certainty that I will get sicker and will soon need to leave this place I have happily called home for more than 20 years. Assisted Living or something more structured.
I have two requirements. It must be a place where Lovebug can be with me. And it must have a Room With A View.
Carole Leskin is a retired Director of Global Human Resources. Embarking on a second career as a writer and photographer concentrating on her personal accounts of aging, her essays and poetry, frequently accompanied by her photos, are published in Jewish Sacred Aging, Jewish Women of Words, Starts At 60, Navigating Aging ( a Kaiser Health publication), Women’s Older Wisdom, Time Goes By and Next Avenue. Her poems, “Father Time” and “Carole’s Debate” were selected for inclusion in the 2019 anthologies of poetry, New Jersey Bards. Her photos have been featured in Mart R Porter Nature Forum.
Carole, as always, your writing is beautiful and evocative. You are so brave to share your journey with so many of us – some also solo agers and many who are not solo but are aging. Our worlds are all changing, and your sharing provides powerful guidance to everyone trying to find their way. Thank you.
Gail
Sorry..I wrote the reply in the wrong box!. Check to see it below
Carole – What a beautiful article. My heart breaks for you. Please keep writing until you can’t anymore! Much love, Amy
Thank you so much Gail! I was hesitant to write this but decided that there must be others like me who are facing this and perhaps it helps to get it out in the open. My hope is that we can begin to talk about dying. We talk about caretaking others and mourn the deaths of those we love but rarely talk about our personal journeys.
Awesome writing — not so awesome news. I also have a kitty, Hobo is her name. And a room with a view I call “my treehouse.” Plenty of sun, privacy, nature, to watch the birds I feed. Squirrels, too, even though they are not really welcome.
I dread getting to a place where you are, and giving up either the best feature of my condo — or Hobo. Am just grateful for a friend who loves her and will take her.
Many virtual hugs to you.
Hello Jacki…sorry I missed your comment. It is amazing that we both have a sweet Treehouse and a beloved cat. Thank you for sharing that with me and your good wishes.
Thank you Amy. Your response has made me feel comfortable writing about this. I was hesitant. You have given me the confidence to continue.
Best Wishes,
Carole
Beautiful piece. Hug Lovebug for me, cats are such wonderful fur children.
Thank you Judy
Lovebug enjoyed the hug!!
Carole, I was so saddened to hear of this diagnosis. Your writing has always been very special to me, but since I have recovered from a health issue, it means even more. I wish you strength and wholeness in this difficult time, and please let me know if you would like to chat sometime.
Mark – It is so good to hear from you! I was concerned by your absence and was just getting ready to ask Rabbi Address about you. I would love to chat. Let’s make that happen soon.
Mark – it was so good to hear from you! I suspected something was wrong and was about to ask Rabbi about you. I am glad you are recovered. And I would love to chat! So please get in touch at your convenience.
Thank you once again for your gentle words and the virtual hug they bring to me. We have found each other and many others who share our place in life through the internet and I am deeply grateful for this connection. I am also a solo aged with my dog for companionship and often think about my death, when and how it will come, and long for conversations that include this reality. Thank you. I send you love and peace always.
Dear Helen,
Your comment really touched my heart. I was concerned that this post would offend but thought it was time to talk about death without it being some one else or a Medical/Health article. We all die. It is part of living. Why not include it in our conversations and remove some of the fear?
Dear Carole: I love your writings. I am a Jewish solo aging and your writings are very inspiring for me. I would like to have a conversation with you. I have contacted your Rabbi, but I would like to be in contact with you to share my story. I would like to invite you to travel virtually using YouTube. It is safer, less expensive, and healthier. A lot of virtual hugs. We are in the same boat.
Dear Ana
I would be happy to open a line of communication with you. I am pleased you read my posts and find them relevant.
I also travel via YouTube as well as Facebook Live and Zoom.