I was secretary in the 1970s for a kind man who died last year. I was an accompanist in the 1970s on the piano to a singer who died in his 80s the year before. These people take my memories with them. It's true yet harsh to think my death will make way for the next generation.
Over the weekend friends visited. He already has an out-of-alignment posture, he has no idea why, and then he tripped two weeks ago, busted his hand, bashed his head in, unconscious. He is in his mid-70s and wonders what's ahead, his body caving in, doctors unable to come up with why, his mood flat. This is aging in the raw, the bare bones stuff where we come face to face with what we can and can't do. When we realise that all those trite little phrases of "you can do anything you dream" and "you can be anything you want to be" is for the young. Only.
I broke my shoulder a year ago. I'm still not out of the woods. Will it be all downhill from here?
This blog is my reality. I will not be sugar-coating. There are people who need to be heard without a pat on the back and "you'll be fine dear" or "you're so negative", "things will improve", "life will get better, you'll see".