NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #8

TIME, SAM, AND ME

2011

I saw him walking with his wife, making their way to the registration tent for our 50^th college reunion.  I couldn’t make out the faces but knew in an instant that it was my old roommate.  Sam's gait and posture are distinct enough to be recognized even after 50 years.  He holds himself erect, with his head high, but not too high, and his gait is measured but sure, with arms held quietly by his side.  As soon as he recognized me a smile came to his face, radiating quiet authority and competence, totally disarming by a veil of shyness.

Sam and I shared a room with 2 other men in our sophomore year at college.  We were both pre-med students and although we went our different ways socially we shared a lot of the same classes. I was the extrovert and Sam was quiet and reserved.  Sam was also brilliant; I don’t know this for a fact but would venture to say that he never got anything less than an A in anything he did.

We had no contact after graduation even though we both went to medical schools in Philadelphia (as did another of our roommates from that school year.)  I knew he specialized in cardiology but did not know he has been practicing in the Boston area for all of these years, while engaged in teaching and research in one of the cities leading hospitals.

I must admit to being surprised at the genuine affection I felt for someone I had not seen for over 50 years, especially since we were not close friends during our college days. I’ve been trying to understand this phenomenon ever since, and have decided that it represents one way in which time manifests itself.

Time has a way of focusing our attention on the essentials rather than the non-essentials. Looking back into our lives the unimportant and frivolous seem to fall away, allowing us to see or remember what we may have failed to see or have forgotten. At 72, I have more respect and admiration for some of the very things I tended to avoid or dismiss when I was 19. My first experience with this phenomenon occurred with my father. As a young man he had habits and ideas that I could not tolerate, but later in our lifetimes, and even more so after his death, they simply disappeared from my mind. I think it was Mark Twain who said, when he was 17 he thought his father was really stupid, and at 21 he was amazed how much his father learned in 4 years.

In Sam’s case we share a common past. We both experienced the joys and difficulties of medical school and post-graduate training so I can appreciate the commitment he has made to the profession. Coming from my own-checkered career I am impressed with his achievements and the fact that he is still practicing medicine full time. I regret that I missed the opportunity to establish a friendship with Sam. I think of him as one of the “good guys”. I believe we could have added something to each other’s lives. That may be the cost of the foolishness of youth.

Tonight at dinner I will raise my glass of wine in a quiet toast to Sam.

Shubrooks & Renzulli LVC graduation 1961

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #7 Winding Down Years

WINDING DOWN YEARS

April, 2011

It started before I got out of bed this morning. I woke up thinking about what someone once wrote: “…never was a man so unafraid of his destiny”.  That quote played an instrumental role in my journey many years ago by allowing me to think about my own destiny. Until then, destiny was an idea I attributed only to larger than life historical figures. It was a revelation to realize I too could claim what I considered to be my destiny - a life that combined both medicine and art.

Lying in bed it occurred to me that although I have been living it, I no longer had that confident grasp on my destiny. The solid foundation underlying my life for the past 30 years was slowly beginning to weaken as doubts and insecurities began to find there way into my head. I thought of myself as being in those “winding down” years, where it is difficult to look very far ahead. I approached my morning journal intending to write something about this and was immediately struck with doubt and misgivings.

What am I thinking, that it is time to pack up and dust off the rocking chair?  That instead of exploring and pushing at the boundaries with new work I should be content with looking back and reminiscing? This is absurd. Is there some biological clock that tells us it is time to slow down and begin looking back instead of ahead? I don’t think so. Granted, there is a natural tendency to do this as we reach these later years, approaching work, and life, with a bit more deliberate and critical thinking. And if we’re lucky, there may be some wisdom somewhere that we can draw on (no pun intended). Yes, it is difficult to see a long-term destiny when we reach the 80th decade and beyond, but that only means our energies are focused on the work in front of us today. We not only can, but must continue to explore and create. Long-term plans now span 1-2 years and not 10-20, and what the work may lack in terms of grand, sweeping ambition it makes up for in its intensity and commitment. I once made a promise to myself and to every patient that I left behind that my goal was create the best art that I am capable of doing. I intend to honor that promise.

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #6 AM I OLD YET?

AM I OLD YET?    Some notes

July 2010

When do we become and “old man”, or an “old woman”? Does the transformation take place at a certain age? Are there criteria that we can use to make that call, and if so, what are they: physical appearance, functional status, mental acuity, attitude and personal outlook?

The old man I see so clearly in my mind wears a wrinkled face topped with thin unruly hair, including wisps in his ears and nose. His back is slightly bent and his gait slow but certain. His trousers are baggy and his flannel shirt is encased in a loose cardigan sweater. Although his hearing is impaired, his vision is adequate with glasses, and his appetite for companionship, conversation, and good food and wine is undiminished. As a young boy this description fit my grandfather in his mid 70s when he lost his eyesight due to complications from diabetes. One of my jobs was to take my grandfather on a daily walk when weather permitted. He held my hand in one hand and his white cane in the other, and together we walked the quarter mile to the highway and back. I remember my grandfather as an old man.

The years passed, and I watched my parents grow old. Sadly my mother died at the age of 76, never reaching the status of an “old lady” in my eyes. My father died at the age of 82, about a year after suffering a stroke that left him partially disabled. In spite of that he was never the old man I saw in his father. And as I’m writing this, it occurs to me that the difference between my perception of my grandfather and my parents is not due to anything on their part, but is a reflection of my own age.