In February, 2020 when I bought hearing aids, I was unable to get one into my oddly-shaped right ear canal. Therefore, I only have one for my left ear.

When Seth visited recently, he asked me if I was wearing my hearing aid because I was saying “what?” a lot.  I did have my hearing aid in.  I decided there was something wrong with it and took it back to be fixed. 

Unfortunately, the hearing aid was fine.  What was not fine, is that I had not one, not two, but three hearing aid domes (which must be changed frequently) deep inside my left ear canal.  The hearing aid specialist took out the first two, but I had to have the third removed by a physician.  That was painful.

The domes for my hearing aid are tiny, and one could easily come off when I put it into my ear. When I saw that one was gone, I just assumed I had dropped it.

It won’t happen again.

The other day I joined a neighbor who was waiting for the elevator.  She was elegantly dressed in black slacks and a flowing black top. Her beautifully coifed white hair and her “statement” silver necklace were just right. I told her she looked gorgeous.

She told me that she was on her way to a funeral. She added that if she was going to a party, she would be be wearing the same thing.

Standing there in my jeans and t-shirt, I thought about the last time I dressed up.  It was our birthday party for Peter’s 90^th.  People were beginning to pay attention to something called Covid-19.

It was March 8, 2020.

(Please be aware that 80-something is now distributed by Follow It.  It may look a bit different, but it’s still me.)

Years ago, when my father was suffering from terminal lung cancer, Peter and I flew to Florida with Seth to visit him.  I am embarrassed to report that the most vivid memory I have of that visit was how frightened our toddler was by his grandfather’s dry hacking cough.

As a young adult, I am sure that I was sympathetic to my parents’ challenges.  I’d be aware of the things that they were struggling with, but I usually could put them on the back burner. But I am also sure that they never outweighed my concern with myself.  I don’t think a younger generation can know what it’s like to be old.

I heard the great trumpeter Wynton Marsalis describe a disagreement he had with a very young man.  His memorable words:

“I’ve been your age; you’ve never been mine.”

Although Hurricane Ida delayed Seth’s Labor Day Weekend visit, we had four terrific days with him.  He helped put up art in our new condo.  He pushed Peter to Harvard Square (wheelchairs and brick sidewalks are a bad combination) where we had lunch outside. While we were waiting for the bill, he ran to Mike’s Pastry and came back with gluten-free sweets as a parting present for his parents.

I was impressed by our conversation about good news, bad news and gifts. He recalled from his freshman psychology class that while bad news should be given all at once, good news should be spread out.  For example, he is taking four boxes of her favorite Belgium cookies to a friend in Brazil.  He will give her two boxes upon arrival.  She will be sad when she finishes the last one, and that’s when he surprises her with the other two.

Not a bad idea.

We’ve been in our new condo for ten days.  I have emerged from a world where only two things mattered:  Moving and Peter.  I didn’t talk to friends.  I didn’t read a book.  I only sat down when I ate.  I lost four pounds, and I look like I haven’t slept in weeks.  But we did it.

Our decision to become owners is all about security.  We didn’t like our housing future being in the hands of a landlord.  That worry is over.

Our new place has had some surprises for us.  The towel rack fell off the wall in the shower while I was in it.  I couldn’t set our (very nice) oven to anything but 375 degrees.  Nor could I set its clock. And there was no “how to” stove guide.  There was an odd contraption on the wall of the “pantry” closet.  It looked like a fuse box.  Fortunately, a friend helping us explained that it held brooms and other long-sticked things on the wall in a very clever way.

The real world is a bit scary now.  But I’m glad to be back in it.

We are moved.  We are twenty-two steps down the hall from our “home” of three years.  I know because I walked back and forth a lot.  But it’s done. 

Our condo is similar, yet different, than our rental down the hall. There are things I like better in our new home (for example, double-glazed windows that lessen the traffic noise) and things I miss (like our larger bedroom with a huge walk-in closet). But the dishwasher here is bigger and the sunrise is amazing because we are at a corner of the building. I miss the built-in bookshelves we had most of all, and when I get all the boxes emptied, bookshelves will be our first purchase.

It’s beginning to feel like home.

Our children were the first subscribers to The 80-Something Blog back when it was called The 70-Something Blog, but the other night was the first time one of them dreamed about it.

Jeremy dreamed that I did a Zoom Meeting with a girl/woman in her zeros, teens, 20’s and each decade through their 90’s.  In the dream I asked them what they would like to ask and tell one another­­­­ and then wrote a blog post about it.

What a great idea.  But only in our dreams.

Any “most stressful events in life” list includes moving. I wouldn’t call my dozen moves fun, but yesterday’s scheduled move was the worst.

It just didn’t happen.  The mover confirmed the day before, then called at 7:15 a.m. on moving day to cancel because he didn’t have a team available.

Of course, this cancellation came at the time of year when everyone moves—back to school, new jobs, etc. In desperation, I turned to Google for “last minute movers.”  And I succeeded.

I hope.

I never liked board games very much, but I had to learn to play bridge at a young age because my parents and older brother needed a fourth.  I played Monopoly  and maybe even some Clue, but that was about it. 

It was the endless hours of Candy Land, a game for our very young children, that tried my patience and got me to go board-game-less for a long time.  We did play Trivial Pursuit when the kids got  older, but even that game didn’t move with us to D.C. a few years ago.

Earlier this month, when the Maryland kids were visiting, we pulled a dusty Scrabble game off the shelf.  Jeremy and Grady and I had a fun and serious game.  At one point, I was winning, but that didn’t last long. 

I attributed my loss to a lack of vowels.

Nothing changed our life like the birth of our first child.  We had read everything there was to read in preparation, but until one experiences parenthood…

I am reminded of that “disruption” by how our life has changed in the last six months and especially in the three weeks that Peter has been home from rehab.  Perhaps the most dramatic change is the size of our “family”.  Two kind and capable Ugandan women (who neither know nor see each other) help me several hours of each day.  They know significantly more about caretaking than I do, but I am learning. Still, it’s an adjustment.

Peter and I have carved out “our” time.  Between noon and 4:00 p.m., it’s just the two of us.  We have lunch together, and perhaps both have an afternoon nap.  I am still able to climb onto his lap and hold him.  And for those moments, it’s like it always has been.