I used to ignore the elderly relatives who sat in our living room after family events, reviewing their aches and enigmatic pains. They did so in small clusters of two or three, which allowed plenty of opportunity for comparison. It was as if they were taking votes on who had the most cardiology visits, who took the highest number of pills, who hurt more than anyone else. On my way to the playroom, it was impossible to understand how their conversations brought them any satisfaction. It’s still impossible to understand—and yet, it isn’t.
This is how a conversation can go at this stage: “hello hello, it’s been way too long, how’re you doing, but let’s not have an organ recital, okay?” Everyone nods, which is the covert signal that we are about to begin one. Anyone who doesn’t want to discuss grainy medical details, the time to leave is now. And some factions do: the tennis +players, the deniers, and those who simply have better things to do with their time.
I look forward to organ recitals. Talking about the problem lances the wound for a while. That arthritic shoulder is magically less arthritic when it’s under surveillance. Other shoulder sufferers ask interested questions, followed by homeopathic pieces of advice and firm suggestions: Vitamin Q, Vitamin R, Vitamin 276, unsalted peanut butter (no hydrogenation) and, always, the all-purpose Brussels sprout.
There is some comfort here, and a sense of community. When I pass children chasing one another on the nearby schoolyard, they’re creating a community. Our monthly play group is another. Quilters, knitters and runners instinctively recognize the pleasures of coming together. And the organ recital is in there, too. It deserves respect for the satisfaction it brings.
A recital can go on for too long, of course, just like some concerts you begin with enjoyment and end with a nap. The stiff shoulder that fascinates me grows less fascinating to you, and I have to admit that I’m not as attached to your tendonitis as I am to mine. A body has limits on its interest for the body next to it.
I believe in organ recitals. Yet the most profound recitals can happen elsewhere. A dear friend of mine was hobbled by illness for many decades. Life for her was carried on in waiting rooms—cardiologists, rheumatologists, neurologists, gastroenterologists, infectious disease specialists. There were unending medication trials, torturous pain, debilitating fatigue. My friend had more reason to complain than anyone I have ever met.
Yet she never did. As she saw it, there was no place for organ recitals. If you asked, she would offer a brief update on this or that medical problem, then move along to what she was reading. I wondered once how she endured all that had happened to her. Asking felt like an intrusion, but I really wanted to know.
“I go day by day,” she said, “sometimes hour by hour, and sometimes minute by minute.”
She was my hero.
Elissa Ely writes about seniors/baby boomers for The Belmont Voice. She is a community psychiatrist.
