Feeling fragile

 

Not to worry. I’m fine and not feeling fragile, but I’ve had some thoughts this week about fragility and aging. My brother, who is a physician and six years older than I am, has been telling me for several years that we are both fragile. As a lifelong proponent of positive thinking (seriously, I do believe in it), I have refused to accept that thought, let alone live by it. In fact, I’ve been known to err on the far other side.

In recent years, through bouts with kidney disease, a disintegrated hip joint, and atrial fibrillation, both family and doctor have suggested, not so gently, that I should be quicker to admit that I am not feeling well. My defense goes back to my mom, who taught us over and over about the little boy who cried, “Wolf!” A doctor’s wife, Mom well knew about doctors’ attitudes toward women who whined and cried about pain. And she warned us. She was definitely of the stiff upper lip school. I was never tested by the pain of childbirth, but with the pain of my disintegrated hip joint I apparently proved that I was my mom’s daughter, because I didn’t complain a lot, earning me a reputation for a high tolerance of pain (not sure that’s true). All of this is a long way of saying, I don’t think you make a fuss about being sick.

This week, as many of you know, I’ve had a chest cold. I cannot tell you how many chest colds I’ve had in my long life, but as a child I was “subject” to them. I have memories of spending long days in bed with a huge bottle of ginger ale, my mom rubbing my throat with Ben Gay or Vick’s and tying an old sock around it, my dad, an osteopathic physician, coming home to treat me and saying, “Hush. People pay me good money to do this.” (John confesses he used to lie very still under the covers and pray that Dad would think he was asleep—it never worked). A cold was just one of those things that happened—you got over it and went your merry way.

Out of deference to my family, this past week, I emailed my doctor to ask if I needed to be tested for Covid, rsv, or some other devastating disease I haven’t yet heard of (life—and sickness—was a lot simpler when I was young). He said no, not in view of my symptoms or lack thereof. The treatment for rsv is the same as for the cold, unless it gets suddenly worse. And that was where he got me.

I realized that at my age, the common cold, that annoyance I was dealing with, could suddenly turn worse and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. Ginger ale, Vicks, and Ben Gay weren’t going to help. And suddenly, there for a bit, I did indeed feel fragile.

Tonight, I am much better—almost “back at myself” as a friend used to say, but with a new realization. If I am not fragile, at my age I am more vulnerable. Which leads to two things: I need to be ever so much more grateful for every day of good health, and I need to be cautious. Many of my friends, who lead much more active social lives than I do, chide me for being reclusive, for being content in the cottage. I don’t seclude myself out of fear, and yet caution is a good reason for my lifestyle. A friend whose wife I see often has just come down with Covid—it would never have occurred to me to avoid her because her husband is not feeling well. And yet that’s the truth. I should be tonight at a festive dinner with three friends, so the four of us could exchange holiday gifts and catch up on visiting. I’m home, not because I don’t feel well enough to go, but because I still have occasional coughing spells that should send you running to the next county, and I didn’t think it right to inflict that cough on my friends, let alone unknown patrons I a restaurant.

Maybe life was simpler when I was a kid or maybe there were all those diseases out there, and we just didn’t know it. But this week I realized that I am vulnerable, and I vowed to continue being cautious.

Jordan sent me this chart to compare Covid, flu, rsv, and the cold. It is a public service announcement but was published by Cook Children’s Hospital. Perhaps some of you will find it useful—and reassuring.