"We never asked how we slept in the morning, when we were young." My friend sat at the table with us. We were overlooking the Place de la Republic. Trees provided shade and about the only breeze in this French coastal village.
"I've had enough of old people talk," she said.
She was right. More and more our conversation was about who has cancer, hernia, heart palpitations, stroke, hip replacements and other loathsome conditions.
It reminded me of my trips to my parents' Florida retirement community where we'd learned about Sven's skin problems, June's heart surgery, Evelyn's insomnia not to mention Vi's funeral. No matter that Tuesday morning coffee hour in the clubhouse's stage featured ads from funeral homes on tripods on the stage where announcements were made.
Phone calls to my parents often featured stories that could make up a hospital newsletter.
I try and refrain from doing the same to my daughter, but if it is someone she's knows, I think she might want to know. Sharing J's broken arm in three places wasn't an elderly illness story. J's youngish. The fall was caused by ice not age. My daughter had lived with J, so not a casual, have-a-glass-of -wine-with-said-person-at-La-Noisette-three-years-ago-type of relationship.
I was up early this morning. My husband got up later and was heading up the stairs to the kitchen. "I think I slept well last night," he said. "and you?"
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment