During my married life, which was most of my adult life, I was not in charge of anything. I pretty much had all the responsibility but none of the authority. When the person who was in charge was out of town, which was a lot of the time, often I had to assume charge. Like calling a plumber. Then forever thereafter, he was referred to as “your” plumber and I was blamed if any of the work he had done didn’t measure up.

I also did not have the authority or the wherewithal to maintain the car I drove to get me and the children to school and to work. For a long time it was a big Oldsmobile diesel station wagon. (I loved that car!) And reliable maintenance did not occur. During that period, we pretty much drove our cars into the ground.

Yesterday, I had the Subaru into the dealership for its semi-annual oil change and check up. You know, tires rotated, fluids topped off. They printed out a list for me of pending services in order of need. I opted not to replace a tiny red plastic reflector on the rear bumper for $120, including labor. I came home and ordered one from Amazon for $15. If I can’t do it myself, I can return it to Amazon, no questions asked. The power steering fluid is “discolored.” I think I’l research that on Chat GPT. I can probably do that myself. Usually, this time of year, I have everything on the list done prior to my road trip to Montana. Not traveling this year, so I deferred a number of things. Nevertheless, I plan to maintain my old red Subaru with the kayak racks optimistically waiting on top. My plan is not to drive it into the ground but to drive it into the sunset.

Brand new.  No kayak racks on yet.

Dave’s and my boats loaded up.  We were  heading out .

Every year at this time, I remember back-to-school.  Usually, I buy myself a new box of eight crayons just for the back-to-school smell.

I vacillate between thinking modern medicine is miraculous —  and I have a heart full of gratitude for it. Other times, it seems my heart rebels a little and it’s all voodoo.

I am not one of those people who feels the need to eek out every possible day of life and subject my body to all kinds of indignities in order to live forever, but I do get caught up in pursuing just one more intervention from time to time. Most recently, it has been cardiac ablation which, if you read about it, certainly seems like voodoo.

One of the things I am grateful for is my heart. It’s been keeping me company since we first met up en utero. I actually sometimes place my palm on my sternum and say, “Thank you. I’m sorry to have objected you to such abuse recently. When you’ve had quite enough, let me know and we’ll get the hell out of Dodge together. We’ve had a good run.”

Of course, I come from a long line of forebears who lived well into their 90s, so you never know.

The ablations — which were referred to a a procedure and not as a surgery — nevertheless required general anesthesia which has its own perils for old folks. My particular “side effect”  was “decreased lung capacity.  So the ablations were successful but my lungs paid a price.  So many things in life are trade-offs. ( Independence for relationships comes right to mind.)  Gasping for breath for two weeks to scare my heart into rhythm was probably worth it.

Test results and “pictures” come up on MyChart instantly for me to peruse.

Screenshot

Ah, yes. Even  I can see why I can’t catch my breath!

People used to just grow old and die without a lot of intervention or diagnostics.” It was her time. She lived a good long life .” Not “Well, let’s try a few more torturous tricks to eke out a few more days.”

Faithful readers of this space know that I live in a retirement community and that it’s probably the best old folks home on the West Coast. I live in a charming cottage of my own, surrounded by all my favorite things with a fenced-in patio for my dog and all my plants. I also have my own garden plot in the community gardens where I grow raspberries and strawberries. And I get to help care for the roses in the huge rose garden.  It’s a nonprofit place, so if I outlive my resources, they won’t kick me to the curb. And, should the time come when I cannot take care of myself, I can move to the care building or to memory care. Really, all our needs can be met here.

However, today having breakfast in the main dining room, I begin to think maybe we need yet another category.  Not memory care. Just some special consideration for some really nice people who are completely ditzy in the sweetest way.

There’s a man here who was an ophthalmologist in real life and who now lives in one of the fanciest cottages on campus. He’s physically able and is always beautifully dressed and groomed. And most of the time he makes complete sense. He’s just a little eccentric.

For example, there are a group of women here who went to St. Paul’s church and who were in a service group called Saint Anne’s Guild.  One of our number arranges for us to have dinner together every Thursday evening. Actually, I only join the group about once a month. But Tom, the afore mentioned ophthalmologist, joins the table every Thursday night. He did raise his family at St. Paul’s, but he was certainly never a member of Saint Anne’s. Of course, no one mentions to him that it’s not appropriate for him to sit at our table. He is warmly welcomed, is very charming, and  never seems to notice that he’s the only guy.

Today at breakfast, he took it upon himself to go around the room with a carafe of coffee, keeping everyone’s cups full, even though the professional wait staff were doing a fine job. Every time he came by my table and filled my cup, he said,” I just love you so much,” to which I replied,” I love you too, Tom.”   Actually, I do.  He’s very sweet, and not completely bonkers.  Not yet.  And who knows.  Maybe someday we’ll both be in Memory Care and still telling each other “I love you.”  How bad is that?

You know how after someone says something rude to you and you just smile and walk away and later you think of the perfect comeback?  I have done the all my life.  Probably, that’s good thing. Pick your battles.  Make friends not enemies. If you can’t say something nice, say nothing at all.  Be nice. Be lady-like.

I call snappy come-backs “zingers.”  More and more these days, zingers come readily to my mind. Usually, I just bite my tongue.  Getting the best of someone usually just isn’t worth it.

In looking at today’s date just now, I suddenly realized I got married sixty years ago today.  Let me tell you, there were lots of times during that long marriage that I bit my tongue.  There were other times I hit back.  It was rarely worth it.

Still, there is this one example that I really wish I hadn’t walked away from.

A bride always remembers what size her wedding dress was and how much she weighed then.  I don’t know why.  Size  7.  117 pounds. And this personal tidbit will make you cringe: I was a virgin.  That is not something I would recommend, but it was very common sixty years ago.

Shortly after I got married, we were with a group of Jim’s air force friends.  For some reason, I really can’t remember how this conversation got started, he said, “Jean was such a prude, I didn’t know she was fat until after we got married.” As I recall, no one, including me, said anything.  Everyone kind of looked embarrassed and moved on.  I wasn’t a prude.  Or fat. 117 pounds.  Size 7.

And this morning, decades later, I remembered that unfortunate moment.  And now I know exactly what I should have said. “And I didn’t know how ugly you are until after we got married.”

Zingers are rarely worth it.  But today, decades too late, I’m glad to get that off my chest.

Let me close on a happier note.  Once Jim and I were in the Prado looking a a Peter-Paul Rubens painting of  beautiful, full-bodied women.  TheThree Muses. The word is Rubenesque. Jim was rarely witty, but he said” I can’t believe you took your clothes off for that man.” I was not a size seven any more, and I laughed my head off.