At 80-something, birthdays are a gift, if you are lucky enough to still have them. 

I had no expectations about my earlier-this-week birthday but it was lovely, including phone calls, texts, flowers, my class, a walk, and a total of 12,226 steps.

On birthdays, one tends to think of past birthdays—and some really are memorable, like my 13^th, when I had six girls AND six boys for a dinner of my mother’s great spaghetti and an evening of bowling.  I got a birthday greeting this time from one attendee of that party. 

Would the others attend a party for me now? 

No idea.

The other day I dropped my take-out-lunch salad, depositing the full container of salad and its white salad dressing all over my black shoes (and the floor), demonstrating a spectacular amount of clumsiness.

The next morning, I decided that polishing the shoes might be a good idea. I managed to figure out where my in-recent-memory-untouched box of shoe polish was and found a mostly dried-out jar of black polish. I managed to re-constitute the polish and…ta-dah! my shoes look like new.

It’s the little things…

Growing up, there were plenty of kids on my street for after dinner hide and seek or capture the flag games, daylight permitting. However, I was often the first to leave because I had “things to do” (whatever that meant).

Seven decades later, I find myself without “things to do” sometimes. Yesterday when my every moment was scheduled, I thought about how times have changed.

I got an early start for my class in Cambridge because the snow accumulation reduces parking spaces.  From class I walked 20 minutes to meet friends for lunch, trudged back to the car and got “home” for a talk about medical aid in dying followed by eating my dinner accompanied by a Zoom meeting update on my now-almost-demolished former condo building.

The next day, I recovered.

Another reminder that 80-somethings are not what they used to be.Things

On Thursday, I said my final good-bye to my former home. It’s now 14 months since we residents of Riverview were told that our 1960’s-built, but now unsafe building would have to come down.  And the process has been slow until very recently.  On Thursday, however from as close as I could get (the property is gated and traffic is not allowed close by), the building was about half-gone, but 100% terrible-looking.  (See photo.)

I would say that my imagination has produced many life-altering situations that haven’t (thankfully) come to pass.  But I never, ever imagined I would have to leave a home because the building was unsafe for occupancy.  I’ll let someone else’s words explain that…

“Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.”

About one-third of the residents in my independent living facility are male. That’s understandable since women tend to live longer.  But what I have noticed is that when I am around the male residents, they do most of the talking.  And most of them don’t ask anything about me. I think approximately zero male residents know what I’ve done with my life.

Those of us born in the years 1928-1945 are generally known as “the silent generation” because we are said to be “conformist, quiet and less rebellious”.

The men here don’t seem to have got that message.

You’ve probably noticed that when you are out to dinner with friends, the topic of other restaurant meals is a common one.  So it is with snowstorms.  As New England wrestles with the first major snow in four years, what are we talking about?

Well, there was the snowstorm of 1978, when then governor of Massachusetts, Michael Dukakis, declared an emergency. That time we got 32” on top of earlier snow.  Only emergency workers and physicians were allowed to drive as I recall, but I managed to get a ride to my job with a neighborhood doctor friend. 

As I write this, the next storm is supposed to miss Boston and environs.

We’ll see…

Like so many 80-somethings, my last week included two medical appointments—taking up the better part of two days.  My “wellness visit” was mostly a chat with my primary care physician and some tests that he ordered..

I’ve received my healthcare for more than 50 years from the same organization, but with four different primary care physicians.  My current M.D. has so many patients that my time with him is precious, but I have his full attention when we meet.

I remember physician number two telling me, “You’re healthy as a horse”.  I don’t hear that anymore, but we did make another appointment for a year for now. 

Pretty optimistic.  I hope he’s right.

As a classical music lover, I’ve been to Boston’s Symphony Hall countless times.  But I had never heard a huge chorus of children singing on stage there until last week.

The Boston Children’s Chorus was founded in 2003, and they have performed here and even abroad since then.  Their program reflected Martin Luther King’s legacy, and the audience loved it.  The children knew the music by heart.  They were accompanied by a small orchestra of dedicated musicians. 

The singers, between ages seven and eighteen sang their hearts out.  The audience roared their approval.

At my regular CLL (Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia) checkup at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, I had a good report, always a relief. 

My regular appointments there begin at the lab where they take blood samples.  As usual, there were dozens of people waiting.  When your turn comes, they call you by first name, last initial.  Imagine my surprise when a friend of 45 years walked right by me, a cancer from decades ago having re-appeared. 

Even more amazing, 30 minutes later, and five floors higher, we were waiting for our physicians in examining rooms right across the hall from one another…

Strange things can happen…

At age almost 88, one can’t help but think about how to be remembered.  What difference did I make in the world?  (Not much.)  In my family? (I hope I get some of the credit for the accomplishments and contributions of my children.) One thing is for sure. I get credit for my lasagna recipe. 

Seth lives 4,801 miles away, but that recipe travels well.

And I find comfort in knowing that he and those who share it are grateful to his mother.