“Let’s never have an organ recital,” said Cynthia.
“Deal,” I responded.
That was 25 years ago when she was living in the town she had grown up in, amid older relatives on both her side and her husband’s. When I visited, we would sometimes walk down to see Cynthia’s mom and hear about her swollen legs. A call would come from Aunt Esther two houses away, asking if Cynthia knew what could be causing the pain in her stomach—or could it be her gall bladder? And, in the next town, Harry’s Uncle Lumpi’s heart and liver had to be visited once a week and spoken about on the phone most other days.
“It’s terrible to say, but I’m tired of listening to the organ recitals,” she’d say. “Let’s never do that.” We’d clink our beer bottles.
This past summer, sitting on Cynthia’s deck, I realized we were breaking our promise. She talked about her aching hip and knee and how she didn’t know which was worse and maybe they’re connected. I talked about my chronic sinus infection. We were doing it; we were having our own organ recital. Fortunately, we could still have a beer to accompany it.
Often in my job as an interpreter at Fruitlands Museum, visitors will give me a brief recital. “Could you call the Gator? I can’t walk up that hill with my heart. My doctor told me last time I saw him that …” “May I sit in this chair? I had a hip replacement in July. That was after I had my other knee replaced because …” It’s easy for me to listen and be sympathetic, because I know they’re leaving soon.
Out walking with some fellow retired English teachers, I called attention to my windedness: “Slow down, I’ve got my asthmar.” “Sucks to your asthmar, Piggy,” retorted someone, and we all laughed—and stopped for a rest. (Another fictional character who could shut down a recital would be Rhett Butler: “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”)
Last week at tai chi class I told a friend I thought I had plantar fasciitis in my right foot. She told me she had a bulge on her right ankle that the doctor had diagnosed as…something she couldn’t remember. Or I can’t. We sat down after class for show and more tell and to shake our heads at the affronts to our feet. Then we each dashed off to a meeting—on those same feet.
This week, a string of emails from a group of friends sounded many notes on the same theme. F. started it by saying her Nov. 1 appointment for shoulder surgery had been postponed—but she was replacing it with surgery to remove a recently diagnosed melanoma. A. chimed in that the next day she had a dermatologist appointment to check out a weird red spot on her forehead. Someone consoled her by saying we all have many weird red spots on us these days. A. reported back that she would have to have Mohs surgery, but that—good news—the doctor had said any scar would fade right into her wrinkles. J. confirmed that a scar from her Mohs procedure had indeed fit right along a “crease.” D. said half her nose was gone from that same surgery and wondered what we had been thinking all those years ago, sitting in the sun, our faces slathered in baby oil, an aluminum reflector intensifying the rays on our faces.
My brother and sister-in-law just visited for the weekend, and she and I spent a lot of time talking about my brother’s increasing difficulty with memory. It was good to talk about it and to be sad together. And with each discussion of him, she ended by saying how many positive and joyous things he can still be a part of.
As Cynthia and I have discovered, the organ recital is an inevitable part of growing older. And it can be a cathartic and bonding experience. And it’s good to receive and to express compassion. The thing is, you can’t let the recital get too long or too loud or too somber. And it needs always to reach some high notes.
