All It Takes Is A Little Love

I suppose that I grew up being as naive as they come. I had no idea that my mother had no health insurance for our family. I just assumed that everyone went to the free clinic for vaccinations. I thought that we never went to see our doctor because we were never sick enough to warrant a visit. Looking back I realize that my mother was quite fortunate in having children who mostly sailed through life with few if any health problems. We did not have regular checkups with our family physician nor did we rush immediately to his office unless we had a serious injury. As a result I can’t recall ever actually receiving care from our doctor. I only knew him from the few times that my brothers had emergency illnesses or injuries. Later I would work for him and marvel that he even knew who I was.

Since my father-in-law moved in with us I have been stunned with his stories of regular six month visits to the doctor when he was a boy. Of course his own father was a physician so it makes sense that he would have had more contact with the medical community than others in his age group. I doubt that my mother ever saw a doctor before she became pregnant with me. Her own mother birthed her children at home with a midwife. Only once or twice in all of her eighty eight years did my grandmother ever require the services of a doctor. Once was when her appendix burst and the other was near the time of her death when her cancer became overwhelming. 

Somehow I quickly modernized myself once I was married. I made yearly appointments for checkups and tests that I had never before had. My children had pediatricians and specialists who kept them hale and hearty. Now that I am older I have a veritable fleet of doctors who care for my every physical need. I sometimes joke that my social life consists of the visits with one specialist after another and the discussions of my ailments with family and friends. 

I’m relatively healthy for my age but I have problems that might have been eradicated in my childhood had they ever been noticed. Scoliosis twists my spine giving me the appearance of someone who is hunched over. It also sends pain done my lower back and into my hip, leg and knee. Several doctors have wondered why that malformation was not repaired when I was young. The truth is that nobody realized that it was even there because I never went to see a doctor. 

I remember my mother and my aunts telling me to stand up straight. My mother showed me how to loop a broomstick behind my back to serve as a kind of brace. None of it worked and everyone was sadly unaware that there were better methods for straightening my spine while it was still forming. 

I can’t fault my mother. She was a young widow with three children and a ridiculously low income. Women were not working at parity with men in the late nineteen fifties so she had to make economic magic with what she had. That meant sacrificing a bit here and there. If my brothers and I were relatively healthy there was no need for the extra expense of a doctor. She supplemented our health with well planned meals and exercise. For the most part we came out well with her very creative ways of providing us with safe and secure and loving lives. She would often joke that we were not to worry about anything because she had a money tree in case of an emergency. 

The cost of healthcare has skyrocketed in the United States and in spite of efforts to insure that every citizen has access to doctors, there are still far too many citizens who only receive medical care in emergency situations. We like to believe that we have the best system in the world but ignore the very real fact that there are still people who simply do not have enough income for regular checkups. All too often people wait until they are so ill that they are almost beyond help. 

For some reason the citizens of the United States grouse over the idea of having a national program that insures healthcare for everyone even as we watch our system become more and broken and out of reach for far too many people. The wealthy are able to pay concierge fees to doctors who are at their beck and call while most Americans must rely on emergency rooms for their medical needs. We seem to fret over the idea of having to wait for months for care in a nationalized system and then wait for months to see specialists in our own system. We don’t want to pay the taxes that would give universal care to everyone and then grouse when we are faced with rising bills for health insurance that still leaves us with huge detectable and skyrocketing costs when we do need medical care. 

Years ago a friend from Germany who was acquainted with my family story compared and contrasted the life of his mother and mine. The picture that he painted told of his mother living a life filled with the security and assurances that her medical needs would be met. On the other hand my mother was anxious about potential need for medical care for all of her life. The result was that she continued to skimp on visits and medications that might have sent her strict budget into the red. She did not have the luxury of being worry free like my friend’s mother. It made me realize just how broken our system actually is. 

I don’t know if we will ever have the resolve to give up some of our luxury perks to create a healthcare system that works for everyone. I think we are still a long way off from the kind of care that other nations provide. It is my hope that one day we will realize what a gift it would be to know that everyone has access to the medical care that they need and deserve. I hope I get to see that time before I am gone but I’m not willing to hold my breath.  

I recently spent almost two weeks being sick. It was a novelty for me because I don’t usually fall victim to any of the bugs and viruses that are passed around from person to person. I never even came down with Covid in all of the months when it seemed to be attacking almost everyone. My latest bout started one evening with pain whenever I tried to swallow. Many days later I was hacking and coughing and blowing my nose constantly. My voice was weak and squeaky even though I tried to save it by not speaking for most of the day. My energy was sapped and I finally gave in and took to my bed in the hopes that full rest would do the trick of getting me back to normal. 

I don’t like being sidelined by illness. I don’t think anybody does. I knew that I would eventually recover but I was nonetheless impatient and eager to hurry along my recovery. I have many responsibilities not the least of which is taking care of my family. I teach math to a number of children who are homeschooled and I kept having to cancel my time with them. The world itself seemed to be on fire making me feel even more helpless. I tried willing myself to be tough even as my body was telling me that it was time to let go if only for enough time to heal and regain my energy. 

I suppose that because there has been so much in my life that I was not able to control I had developed iron fisted routines that made me believe that I at least had some command over my destiny. Losing that for even a short time felt uncomfortable, disorienting. I realized that I had indeed built a kind of armor around myself that made me believe that only I had the answers that I needed. 

My mother often urged me to relax, to quit trying to be in charge. My daughters had often echoed her admonitions. I did not want to admit that they were right but there was so much evidence that I was unwilling to accept. I have always been uncomfortable whenever I am not in charge. 

I recall a time in my twenties when I came down with hepatitis. I was about as sick as anyone might be but I kept pushing myself until my next door neighbor saw me at a grocery store and insisted that I contact my doctor immediately. She noticed the yellow tinge in what should have been the whites of my eyes. She saw my orange skin. She was wise enough to understand that for my own safety and that of others I should not be shopping in a crowded store. She told me that if I did not contact my doctor that she would do so. 

I got my neighbor’s message and soon had a diagnosis and marching orders to stay in bed or end up in the hospital. Since my children were still quite young I did not want to leave them alone so I agreed to let go of my compulsion to be the master of my household. I had to turn over my duties to my husband and my sweet mother-in-law who temporarily moved in with us so that she might look after my girls and cook for the family. 

I admittedly did not like being the weak link. Nobody was doing anything the way I would have wanted it done. It felt as though my home was in a state of upheaval. If it were not for the fact that I actually got worse before I got better I would have demanded that everyone stay out of my way so that I might put things back in order. Instead I found myself becoming so frail that I wondered if I was even going to make it. I had to surrender. 

I am fully aware of the psychology of my obsessive need for order in my life. I have little doubt that it came with the death of my father. I did not want to ever again feel as helpless as I did in that moment. I drew on my inner strength to become the captain of my destiny. In the process I built a kind of fence around myself that allowed me to believe the fantasy that I was a superwoman who would be able to swoop in to help anyone in need. What I did not allow was taking help whenever I needed it. 

During my latest illness I had time for a great deal of personal introspection. I thought about the pridefulness that I had so often relied upon. I realized that I needed to take my own advice. I had always insisted that it is important to consider differing ways of believing and doing things but somehow I had not heard the message myself. I saw the hardheadedness of my thinking and suddenly knew that I needed to heal not just my body but my soul as well. 

It is difficult to admit to our flaws. We all have them but we are more likely to see those of others than the ones that we possess. I’m working on trust. I am trying to practice my own preaching by relaxing my iron fist and letting go. I am listening more to my children and grandchildren and actually hearing what they have to say. I’m admitting that my insistence on my personal view of order and design is not the only way. I am looking toward the future with an eye to believing in others and not just myself. Perhaps if we all tried to do this we would find ourselves in a much more beautiful and inclusive world. The natural world is diverse and so should we be.

When I was in the sixth grade a new girl came to my school and ended up sitting across from me in class. I was a quiet student so I never got chatty with her during the school day. Nonetheless I soon got to know her because she and I walked home on the same route. I learned that she and her family had moved into a rental house one street over from where I lived. 

She was nice enough even though she seemed very different from the other kids in my neighborhood. I learned that she was from somewhere up north. I did not pry into her personal life so I have no idea from whence she actually came nor why she had moved from there in the middle of a school year. I only noticed that she talked with an accent and sometimes used words and phrases that were not familiar to me. I should have understood how difficult it was for her to adjust to a whole new place because I had endured the same situation when my family moved to California. Somehow I was too focused on my own adolescent problems to realize that the two of us were much more alike than different. 

I enjoyed having a walking companion on my journey home. I lived many blocks away from the school and most of the kids that I knew resided much closer. I would find myself trudging along with my heavy book bag wishing that I did not have so far to go. Once the new girl arrived the journey seemed much easier as she peppered our conversation with talk of things I had never before known.

For some reason some of the boys in my class began to bully this girl. They made fun of her hair and her very pale skin. She seemed to be timid and even a bit awkward. Everything about her seemed so different from the rest of us but I did not understand why the boys found such humor in taunting her over it. 

She wore heavy wool socks with brown clunky shoes that seemed more compatible with the military than attire for a classroom. Her heavy coat seemed out of place even on a cold February day. I suppose that none of us stopped to think that her heavy clothing had protected her quite well from the snow and ice of the place where she had lived before arriving in our more moderate climate. I suppose that she became a target simply because she was different.

It bothered me that my traveling companion had become the butt of many jokes and much laughter but I was far too shy to speak my views. I tried to demonstrate my loyalty to her by refusing to laugh at the insults that made everyone chuckle. I knew that the boy who was leading the harassment had a mean streak and I did not want his ugly barbs to be aimed at me. As time went by the trauma only grew for the girl. Then one day it blew up in the middle of a lesson. 

I don’t know what was said or how the incident started but suddenly the girl stood up and screamed to seemingly nobody in particular that she was not going to take it anymore. Without a moment’s hesitation the lead bully made a stab at her that left the classroom in a state of crude and merciless laughter. I hung my head in shame wishing that I might become invisible. Then the girl sank back down into her seat with tears running down her face. I just sat frozen between the horrific choice of defending her or staying silent. 

It was left to our teacher to save the day and she did so with so much skill and thoughtfulness that I will never forget how much I loved her at the moment and forevermore. She turned the tide of horror with a few well chosen words. Soon everyone was feeling a sense of guilt that we had not stood up for the newcomer in our midst. She helped us to realize the power of prejudice and fear in targeting and hurting individuals and groups. She turned the situation into a history lesson and an assessment of our personal morality. 

The girl and I continued walking home together for the rest of that school year. She never spoke of what had happened and I did not ask her how she was feeling. I saw the sadness in her eyes. I felt the pain and disappointment that she tried to hide. We simply talked about mundane topics to fill the silence. 

I never walked the extra block to visit with the girl and she never came to my house. Ours was simply an expedient relationship created by the crossing of our paths. I grew to like her but I dared not ask her too many questions that might make her think that I was somehow judging her. We kept our conversations lighthearted and without much depth. When the summer came I did not see her or even think to go find her to see how she was doing. I was busy and I assumed that she was as well. There would be time enough to catch up with her when the school year began anew. We might even find ourselves in the same classroom again. I looked forward to our walks together.

I never saw the girl again. I suppose that her parents had moved once more. I missed being with her on my long walks home. I realized how much I had really enjoyed her company and wished that I had taken the time to tell her how much I liked her. I would think of her anytime I witnessed bullying. I became an advocate for those without a voice but somehow I knew that I too had betrayed her by not speaking out as soon as I had witnessed what was happening. I vowed not to ever again be silent even if it made things difficult for me. 

The new girl and my sixth grade teacher had taught me a powerful lesson. There have been and will always be bullies in this world. We each of the power to defang their ugliness as long as we call out their coldhearted prejudices as soon as we witness them. They are weak people who have to use threats and violence to appear strong. If enough of us counter them, they will shut down. 

Be watchful for anyone who is knowingly hurting others with words or actions. Do not blindly follow them no matter what they offer you in return for your loyalty. Do not brush off their actions or explain away their cruelty. Stand up. Speak out. Be not afraid!  

My mother-in-law had beautiful hands which she often used to make a point when talking. Somehow her beautiful fingers gave support to whatever she was saying. They were so elegant and mesmerizing that they seemed to be a physical extension of her enchanting intellect and kind soul. They were not the hands of labor but rather those of nobility and royalty, someone whose time was spent in higher pursuits of the mind. 

She was born with a heart defect and told as an adolescent that she might not live past her twenties, if she even got that far. She was treasured and protected by the people who loved her and she reciprocated in kind all of the days of her life which turned out to be much longer than anyone had ever believed was possible. Her hands spoke of the support that her family and friends gave her and they were indeed a beautiful tribute to the power of the concentrated efforts to keep her heart beating. 

I look at my own hands and see the DNA of laboring people. My grandmother’s hands and my mother’s hands were like mine. Each of us did our own cleaning, cooking, gardening, laboring. We came from stock that toiled the soil, cleaned for the wealthy. It is as though nature prepared us for hard work and our hands always reflected the abuse to which we subjected them. 

I have been prone to hide my hands rather than flash them in front of people. They looked like an old woman’s hands even when I was still young. I was not particularly self conscious of them, but neither did I consider them to be one of my best features. When a friend suddenly grabbed them one day and declared that thought they were beautiful, I was stunned. She went on to explain that my hands had character. They told her a story of determination, independence and authenticity. 

I have to admit that I laughed at first, even though I knew that she would never say such a think unless she genuinely believed that it was true. I realized that she looked at the years of abuse on my hands as something wonderful, a sign of all the efforts I had put into living each day. She gently held my hands, lingering for a moment to study the lines and crooked fingers, the nails in need of a manicure. Then she squeezed them and said that they were far more interesting than the bland perfections of a model who never dipped her fingers in dirt. 

I have always remembered that moment because it gave me a new perspective on the world in general. We each have our ideals about what is beautiful and what is ugly, but if we really speak honestly with one another we find that our preferences can vary tremendously. Our biases in deciding attractiveness has much to do with the totality of our life experiences and little to do with the superficialities of popular opinion. We see through our own eyes in such a way that what is beautiful to me may seem unremarkable to someone else. Defining beauty in a way that is universal is almost impossible because our feelings about others are layered with our emotional experiences with them. We tend to apply beauty to the inner spirits of people rather than only their physical traits. 

My maternal grandmother was as round as she was tall. Her skin was wrinkled and her hair was grey. She walked on bare feet grown hard hard and cracked from decades of tending to her family. She was an old lady when I became old enough to really remember her appearance. To some she may have seemed to be less than extraordinary, but I viewed her as a beauty. I wondered at her ability to care for four boys and four girls in a tiny house. I marveled that she had somehow kept order and made them understand how much she loved them. I saw her blue eyes that were tired and had lost their twinkle as the badge of all that she had given in her devoted lifetime. She was exactly what a grandmother was supposed to look like in my mind.

They say that beauty is only skin deep. Our best physical years are often fleeing. The beauty queen of today only seems to stay that way as long as she is also gorgeous inside. All the creams and potions on the earth are only as good as the heart of the person wearing them. That glow that lights up a room comes from character, not manufactured efforts. 

I have a friend who is doing remarkable things for people who live in medical deserts. She has little time to primp and preen. She wears no makeup and pulls her hair back away from her face to keep it out of the way. She has important work to do and little time for trivialities. Nonetheless when she smiles with the satisfaction of the good she is doing in the world she instantly becomes one of the most stunningly beautiful people on earth. Nobody can fake what is not in the heart and hers is the essence of beauty. 

He was twenty years older than I am but I nonetheless had a huge crush on Gene Hackman for decades. I think it was his smile and the way he was able to use his eyes to seem as though he was able to peer into a person’s very soul. Every single role that he played felt so real, so very him. He was a brilliant in his artistic expression which eventually led him to painting and writing novels. 

It does not surprise me that Gene Hackman would be attracted to a concert pianist or that she would fall in love with him despite their thirty year age difference. He somehow never seemed to grow older on the screen. In fact it was always difficult to guess what his age actually was, at least until his later years when photos depicted a frail and bent over man who was almost unrecognizable. 

Whether Gene Hackman portrayed a hero or a villain I adored him. He was an everyman with charisma. Somehow his image took over every scene in which he was featured. He never seemed like a fictional character, but rather a real human being with deep feelings. At least that is how he was able to portray his many characters. There was something both intense and whimsical about him. 

It seems in keeping that Gene would settle down in Santa Fe, New Mexico when he decided to leave acting and concentrate on having a more private life. The quirky town suited him with its rugged whimsey and incredible beauty. It is a place where being yourself is always possible. 

I had continued watching Gene Hackman’s films long after he left acting. I suppose that I never really thought about what he might be doing. He stayed alive for me in his many roles. It was shocking when I learned that he had died at the age of ninety six. Somehow I could not imagine him as an old man until I saw the last photos of him and his wife. It was difficult to see that the life in his eyes was gone and that his devoted spouse looked tired and perhaps even a bit worried. 

Taking care of an older person requires boundless energy and patience. i should know because my father-in-law moved in with us about three years ago. Sometimes it feels as though the work that I now have to do has grown exponentially. I suppose that it only feels that way because I am no spring chicken myself at the age of seventy six and before his arrival my husband and I had very casual and loosely scheduled kind of life. my father-in-laws needs require a strict schedule more akin to the days when I was still working. Meals and medicines and laundry and cleaning follow the clock each day. It can be both tiring and demanding even as my husband and I do this out of love. 

I suspect that the routines and responsibilities for Gene became every more challenging for his wife as his Alzheimer’s worsened and his health declined. We will never know how she contracted the hantavirus or if she even realized how sick she actually was. She ran errands and responded to emails throughout her last day on this earth. It must have been shocking and confusing for Gene to be alone in his home after she died in the bathroom with pills strew around her. I doubt he knew what to do. His state of mind must have been that of a small child left alone with no idea how to call for help or even to fully understand what was happening. It breaks my heart to think of him wandering around his home in his slippers for a week before he too died. 

We have an aging population. The baby boomers like myself are growing older. More and more often I learn of contemporaries who have died. I have already lost many of my dearest friends. It can be difficult watching those we love suffering from strokes and heart attacks or losing battles with cancer. The losses come so quickly and so often that it might seem that we would become somewhat immune to death but that is not so. In fact, every loss takes a piece of who we are. 

My grandfather lived to the age of one hundred eight. people congratulated him for his longevity and the fact that until the very end his mind was clear and strong. Sadly he grew weary of wondering how much longer he would be on this earth. He had lost his wife, his children and many of his grandchildren. it had taken a toll on him even as he remained stoic and optimistic. He soldiered on but admitted now and again that he would not mind if his life finally came to an end. 

I suppose I mull over such things more these days than I once did. I have always felt immortal and yet my creaky knees and the spasms in my back slow me down and remind me that I am not the dynamo that I once was. Hearing about Gene Hackman and the horror of his final days tells me that I need to listen to my daughters more and begin to consider changing my lifestyle from total independence to relying more on their wisdom and suggestions for how to enter that last years or decades of my life. I will be looking for a balance that allows both them and me to feel free but also considerate of the limitations that I must inevitably accept. 

For now I’ll keep writing and teaching and tutoring. I love to garden but can only engage in heavy lifting in small bites. Life is ever changing and I must be ready to play the roles that lie ahead. The tragedy of Gene Hackman’s end has given me a bit more pause. Nonetheless, I choose to remember Gene for the glorious gift of acting that he gave us all. I’ll be watching his movies over and over again. Rest in peace, sweet Gene with your beautiful and loving wife. You were and will always be my movie idol.