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Ralph
Latham
A
Personal Journal Reflecting On Aging
June 11 | June 12
June
11: I Miss My Wife
Today has been an unusual one, triggering a mixture
of feelings. My wife left this morning for Minneapolis, and
will be back home sometime Wednesday. It's a trip we've both
known about for some time, and important for her to make—she's
gone to support her sister who has scheduled eye surgery early
Tuesday morning. These two sisters have an unusually intense
sibling bond—one will telephone the other, for example,
to be greeted by "Oh, Hi. I was just reaching for the
phone to call you." There's a sort of telepathy between
them, I guess one could call it. Anyway, it was no surprise
when Shirley's surgery was scheduled after consultations,
referrals, diagnoses ,and all, that she really wanted Geri
there for support through the ordeal.
So I'm dealing with a mixed bag of responses to Geri's absence.
Of course, I could have chosen to go with her (except that
I really wasn't specifically invited). I'd have been welcome,
and that's positive and comforting. But while she had compelling
reasons for going, I had some quite important reasons for
staying home—a scheduled meeting of the North Shore Health
Care Foundation board. I missed last month's regular meeting,
and didn't want to deal with the guilt of missing two in a
row, and besides I like my friends on that board.
Then tomorrow I've got an appointment to be a blood donor,
and a community band rehearsal in the evening. And I committed
myself to help with preparations Wednesday morning for an
upcoming Library Friends book auction. So I really do have
some valid excuses for not going along.
But I miss my wife, and don't really like being separated
from her, even amicably and for a couple of days only. But
then, I have been ( in a small way, and with a little bit
of my being) looking forward to a little time entirely alone
in the house. You know—honk the saxophone when I feel
like practicing, cook whatever I want at whim, or don't cook
at all, but just munch popcorn. There's a contentment in the
freedom to just hang out for a while with absolutely nobody
else present. But I miss my wife.
Also, if I'm to tell the whole truth, I rather miss having
the car here, too. We are, by choice, a one-vehicle household,
so when she's away with the car and I want to go seven miles
into the village of Grand Marais to an important meeting,
or to the coffee shop, or to just visit with people because
I got a little lonely wandering around this empty silent house,
well, it is a bit far to run unless one is training for a
marathon, which I emphatically am not.
But I have my backup vehicle—the Vision VR44 recumbent
bicycle I bought last year. So, despite the weather prognostications
indicating 30% or more chance of rain today, I rode to town
early this afternoon. First there were a couple of little
errands in downtown Grand Marais, and then the trouble began.
Grand Marais is beside the harbor, but the clinic and hospital
buildings are about six steep blocks uphill. So I panted and
gasped and wheezed my zig-zag way up to the meeting—up
a block, then over on a flat street gathering strength for
the next one-block climb. Maybe if I keep doing that I'll
build up strength and it won't hurt anymore. Or maybe I'll
just fall over "thunk" like that guy who rode the
kid's tricycle on the old Laugh-In TV show.
I know it was my own choice. I might have decided to ask someone
for a ride to the meeting. But I've always had a strange reluctance
to ask people for favors. Don't mind at all being asked by
others to do some little thing for them. But I hesitate to
ask. Foolish, I suppose. Certainly not a rational position
for a friendly guy to take, I know that. Well, anyway, I biked
to town, and that was good, though I wasn't quite certain
whether my friends were admiring my strength and vigor or
wondering what kind of fool I am.
But, sure enough, at meeting's end we all saw the raindrops
falling. To show that I'm not totally reckless, I'll note
that my handy bright yellow rain suit was tucked into the
seat bag on my bike. So, I put on the rain suit, coasted down
the hills of Grand Marais (no need to zig-zag), made a quick
stop at the municipal liquor store for a bottle of Beaujolais,
and pedaled home through the fog and drizzle well before darkness
approached.
Tomorrow I'll ride to town again for the bloodletting, after
I clean today's grit and grime off my bike. But come evening
and community band rehearsal, I think I'll just clench my
jaw and ask somebody for a ride. Oh, by the way, I really
really miss my wife.
June
12: Donating Blood
This has been one of those beautiful, sunny, warm June
days on the North Shore, ideal for loafing along on the ledgerock
and beach gravel, picking up a few of the most attractive
pebbles. That's just what I did for about an hour this afternoon,
giving myself a little reward after having been an eager blood
donor at the mobile unit's day in Grand Marais.
I like the whole idea of donating blood, and for several reasons.
I recall being proud of my father during World War II because
he donated enough blood to be a card-carrying member of "The
Gallon Club." That's a nostalgic reason, I know. During
the past year I've taken on another strong reason for being
a donor. Our two-year-old grandson has been undergoing heavy-duty
chemotherapy treatment for leukemia at University of Iowa
Hospital, near where he lives. By now he's well along in the
treatment program and has responded well, so his prognosis
is looking good.
Early on, we were all really frightened and upset, but we've
learned a good many specific things about leukemia and other
childhood cancers, and learned a profound appreciation for
expert doctors and nurses. And the feelings I now have about
donating blood are all wrapped up in knowing that in the first
few months of Douglas's struggle against this awful disease
he had to have several blood transfusions. That means somebody
out there in the world gave blood—well, several somebodies
did. So, as long as I'm healthy and acceptable, I'll be ready,
willing, and eager to be a donor as often as possible.
Besides those major family-oriented reasons, I figure it's
quite possibly good for me physically—give the old body
a chance to rebuild some fresh new young and vigorous blood.
And it pleases me to associate with the dedicated professionals
who operate that mobile unit. They are downright wonderful
people doing an important job well, and they are always friendly,
considerate, and also gently clinical about asking that long
list of required questions about sexual behaviors and medical
history.
Before I got started on the subject of donating blood, I was
thinking a bit about those pretty pebbles along the lakeshore,
and recalling a really beautiful poem entitled "The Judges"
about a day at the beach searching for a "treasure trove"—which
the poet says, "meaning the loveliest patterned pebble
of any color imaginable." My memory, sometimes accurate,
sometimes inaccurate, tells me that the poem was written by
Robert Graves. Its first lines are
"Crouched on wet shingle at the Cove
In day-long search for treasure trove
Meaning the loveliest patterned pebble
Of any color imaginable
How seldom, Julia, we agree."
. . . . and then my memory falters as the poet continues.
But the poem is all about trying to choose the perfect specimen
to fetch back home at the end of the day. And it ends with
these marvelous lines: "Throwing which back, we tell
the sea / Work on it one more century."
I'd like to find that poem in print again someday. Sometime
about 1990 or perhaps earlier, I lost track of the book I'd
found it in, and every now and again, I've made a few fumbling
attempts to find it. Maybe I need to learn how to use my "Internet
Explorer" or some of those "mega-powerful search
engines" that I'm still a little intimidated by. But
not tonight—it's very late and I need rest in preparation
for tomorrow morning's bike ride.
Journal
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