Me and My Body

I get together with old friends to share a meal – I try to see each one at least once a month – or if they live too far away, to talk on the phone. What do we talk about? We check in on each other’s illnesses and on the other foibles of aging. We reminisce. We talk about our friends who have passed, although we don’t talk much or often about our own passing. How far in the future can it be? Illness, old age, and death are the realities of our lives. I get tired easily. Some weeks, more than two lunches is a lot. Other weeks, I wish I had more friends, that I was busier. These are the realities that I’m working with in my practice. Strangely, I am grateful to be doing this work.

I am struck by the contrast of this experience with the Buddha story. As the story goes, it was the future Buddha's discovery of illness, old age, and death. discovery of illness, old age, and death that sets him on his path of spiritual practice. The future Buddha apparently was shocked and horrified.

So far, that’s not my experience. These days, I’m enjoying a new relationship with my body. For most of my life, my body was more disappointment than appreciation. I couldn’t run fast enough or jump high enough to be the athlete I wanted to be. I tended to chubby. I had curly brown hair when all matinee idols were blonds. I had acne. How would I ever get a girl friend? It wasn’t the body that I wanted, but I coped. I compensated. I overcompensated.

I’ve been wearing glasses since I discovered sometime in middle school that I had to sit in the front row to see the board. I didn’t want glasses. Did I think they were a sign of weakness? I was playing basketball in the driveway with Jonny, my favorite, older cousin. “Hey, Four Eyes,” he called. I was totally shamed until I turned to face him. He was wearing glasses too.

I blew out a knee in high school before the days of arthroscopic surgery, gave up ice skating and water skiing. Home from school for months of recovery, I taught myself to play my dad's guitar, although I never had good enough pitch to tune it. Years later, tinnitus appeared, annoyed me for a while, and then untreated, resolved itself. Floaters went away on their own. In my mid-60’s, a disc in my lower back collapsed as I brushed my teeth, handicapping me for three months until it was surgically repaired. Apparently, the result of osteoporosis, I saw a specialist, took meds, and went for bone density scans until that problem too was resolved. As far as I was concerned, these were all peripheral problems. None of them would kill me. Nothing I couldn’t live with.

Then I started getting lucky. An ER accidental finding led to emergency carotid artery surgery. It turned out that my carotid was 95% blocked. It was incredible good fortune that the problem was discovered and corrected before I had a stroke. That was six years ago. Since then, other artery blockages were found on a routine angiogram. I now have four stents and I’m taking seven different medications daily, but I’m basically symptom free.

My relationship to my body has changed. There is awareness now that wasn’t there before. While I used to take my general good health for granted, now I am grateful for it every day. I’m checking my weight and blood pressure every day, even though I don’t want to. I’m on the lookout for signs of danger. I am appreciating all the things my body can still do. I’m grateful twice a week when I put the garbage out. I’m grateful that I can do the laundry. I’m grateful that I’m still driving, happy to be driving slower and paying more attention at certain stop-sign intersections. Things are going to change. If I live long enough, at some point I’m going to have to stop driving. Getting older is not a nightmare. It’s all new discovery. Every change is a new teaching.

Walking on the boardwalk, I am discovering new heroes. Strangely, it’s not the guy who stops every few steps to do a bunch of push-ups. I’m envious, I should be doing more strength work, but he’s not my hero. My hero is the guy who’s pushing the empty shopping cart. Everyday. I imagine he’s thinking that the shopping cart looks more “normal” than a walker. Will I have the courage to keep walking with a cane or a walker? I hope so. We’ll very likely find out.

Dee has been telling me to get my hearing checked. I think she should speak more clearly. If she wants me to hear what she’s saying in another room, she should just talk louder. “I can’t hear you while the water is running.” I notice that it’s sometimes too much work to get her to talk louder. Just nod. I don’t want hearing aids. Hearing aids are a sign of decrepitude, but Dee persists. I make an appointment with an ENT doc. “Arrive an hour early for the hearing exam.” The audiologist thinks I need hearing aids. I see the doctor. He says it’s my choice. I’m figuring I don’t want them. He asks about my parents. “Any dementia in the family?” My mother had Alzheimer’s. “Get the hearing aids.” Hearing loss increases the likelihood of dementia.

I’ve been wearing hearing aids for more than a month now. I’m enjoying my state-of- the-art hearing aids. They link up with my phone. I always hear the ring. I can listen to music on them while I’m walking. They don’t fall out. No one’s been teasing me. When I take them off at night, I’m shocked by how little I hear. I’m getting older, I’m slowing down, but I’m not decrepit. Yet.

I think about Shakyamuni with his young man’s horror of illness, old age, and death. I’m not feeling it. But what do I really know about illness? Is the horror still around the corner? Maybe. Right now, I’m not in pain. How will I handle pain? Don’t know, but likely I’ll find out. There is always more to learn. I am surprised at what a peaceful place this is. I am thanking Buddha for my peace. Maybe it’s the practice which he found and shared, the daily zazen and the fruits of the meditation, which are to be credited for my peacefulness.

Or maybe I just haven’t gotten to the horror yet.