Tag Archives: #Aging

Climb every mountain as long as you can…Reflections on Rosh Hashanah

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Are the trails getting steeper? Or am I getting older?

These were my thoughts as Larry and I climbed Shrine Ridge Trail in Summit County in early July. We had been in Colorado for ten days before we attempted the hike, so I believed I had acclimated my body to the altitude. But we started at 11,000 feet and would peak closer to 12,000. As I huffed and puffed up the trail, I never doubted I would finish. The bulldog in me would never give up. But could I do this next year? In five years? Who knows?

Larry and I DID finish our climb on that beautiful summer day. We got up to the top and took in the colorful wildflowers and the amazing vistas, grateful we could still climb mountains at our age. 

In the weeks that followed, we often chose an easier three-mile hike that we accessed with a short walk from our rental. In early August, however, Larry and I met our friends Sandie and Howie for a more challenging hike up the Herman Gulch Trail in the Ranger District of the Arapaho National Forest. During our four-mile hike, we encountered a couple of around our age descending. I posed my “Steeper or older” question aloud. 

“Neither,” the man told me. “We are experiencing geographical uplift, a phenomenon in which the earth shifts to steeper inclines as we age.” 

Okay, maybe Earth is NOT in fact shifting. But our lives have. Before we left for our summer in cooler temperatures, a close friend, a non-smoker, had just been diagnosed with lung cancer. Another friend’s cancer had returned. And a third friend, who had biked 86 miles for his eighty-sixth birthday, died a week later of a heart attack while on a shorter ride. “He was doing what he loved,” people said. But I doubt that it was sufficient comfort to the family he left behind.

Our time in the mountains changed as well. Friends we looked forward to seeing every summer developed health issues and/or “aged out” as they could no longer handle the high altitude. One of Larry’s pickleball buddies had told us last summer that he and his wife were opting out of summers in Summit County and renting a place in a mountainous region of Arizona, reducing their elevation by 4000 feet. Dear friends who had been part of our summer plans for over ten years, whether eating out, hiking, or playing cutthroat games of Mexican Train, also had to give up their beautiful home in Dillion, Colorado, and remain in Charlotte, North Carolina, at a more comfortable 671 feet above sea level. 

And then the “life can change on a dime” phenomenon hit our own family very hard soon after Larry and I returned to Florida. Two days after coming home from an incredible cruise through the British Isles with my brother, sister-in-law, and a friend, my sister Laura was hospitalized in Upstate New York with breathing problems. Doctors were trying to determine the exact cause of her symptoms when she took a turn for the worse. Diagnosis: a rare form of pneumonia. Grim news followed: Laura was on a ventilator in the intensive care unit. We had two days of optimism when she was taken off the ventilator. She was looking forward to her life after hospitalization and rehab: a highly anticipated move to San Diego, California, to be closer to her children and grandchildren. But her 83-year-old body failed. She passed away on Friday, August 29. 

The four Cohen children had been fortunate indeed. Whereas some of our friends have strained or non-existent relationships with their siblings and/or their spouses, we all had remained close—maybe even closer as we had all realized how life can change on a dime. And now one of us is gone, leaving the three of us to grieve with other family members and friends who will miss her so much.

“On Rosh Hashanah, all who enter the world pass before Him,” reads a passage in the Mishnah. One Jewish interpretation is that we march single file like sheep before God to determine whether we will be written in the Book of Life. Another interpretation is that we march like soldiers. But my favorite interpretation, reflecting on my summer in the mountains, comes from Resh Lakish, a third century BCE scholar. The rabbi envisioned this march taking place before God on a mountain, each person walking cautiously, single file, along a narrow, treacherous path. 

As I observe the High Holy Days this year, warm memories of my beloved “big sister” will be forefront in my thoughts. Prayers for those we lost and those who are ill will take on even greater significance. Will I be climbing mountains in 5786? Hopefully, I will tackle Shrine Ridge and Herman Gulch with the same vigor and determination I did this past summer. But thanks to Resh Lakish, when I am in one of those narrow and knowing me, not-TOO treacherous paths, I will hope that God is looking down and giving me the strength to move forward in my life, no matter where the path takes me. 

Sources:

Liben, Rabbi Daniel. “Sheep, Mountain Hikers, and Soldiers.” Temple Israel of Natick, Massachusetts. Rosh Hashannah 5756. https://www.tiofnatick.org/wp-content/uploads/2019/12/rh_sermon_2015.pdf

McCullough Gulch. Not sure if we will hike this one again!

Can you hear me now?

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It’s genetic. It’s a life-time achievement award. It’s inevitable. 

Choose all or some or one of the above. Along with cataracts, high cholesterol, worn-out knees, and numerous aches and pains that come with age, we can add hearing loss.

According to a 2021 study by the National Institute for Deafness and Other Communication Disorder, approximately 28.8 million American adults need hearing aids. Unfortunately, only one in six does something about it. My husband decided to be one of them. 

Larry’s problems began a few years back. His inability to hear had become a source of irritation to me, for our family, for our friends. He had to crank up the television, and his listening skills had diminished. After almost fifty years of marriage, maybe his “selective hearing” had become more attuned. But he was missing words and phrases. A recent test at an audiologist had come back showing he was on the verge of needing them. 

Finally, when we came back from Colorado in August, 2023. he decided it was time. Choosing a hearing center that many in our community recommended, Larry underwent a thorough one-hour examination and got the expected news: he had “moderate” hearing loss.

Two weeks, Larry was fitted with a pair of hearing aids. He adjusted fairly quickly, and his “selective listening” didn’t seem to be as much as a problem.

While his hearing improved, mine tanked. The volume of Larry’s voice, which was always on the quiet side, went down a couple of decibels, meaning I was constantly asking him to speak up. Also, with his new bionic ears, he could turn down the television volume so I could’t hear it. He began to complain that the music on Alexa was blaring. He suggested that maybe I needed hearing aids.

I fought it. First of all, I had been tested eighteen months earlier by the same audiologist at the same time that Larry had, and I was told that my hearing was “borderline. “

Besides, I already could not keep track of my iPhone, my Apple Watch, my Kindle, my keys, my Solivita pass, and my purse. I could not imagine adding another thing to my life that I had to find.

What concerned me most was that I remembered all too well my father’s experiences with hearing aids. When those blobs of plastic were in his ears, they buzzed. At least once, he ruined them when he jumped into a swimming pool. When he took the out, goodness knows where we would find them. On his dresser? Next to his favorite chair? Under the clothes line? 

I especially recalled the day that Aunt Pearl, who lived in Long Island, came up to visit Mom and Dad in Clifton Park. Both of them wore hearing aids, and my mother was on her way to getting them. Brian, my cousin who drove Aunt Pearl up to Saratoga County, escaped to another room while the three of them yelled to each other to communicate. Despite the distance, Brian and I heard the distinct buzzing of a hearing aide coming from my father.

“Dad, do you need to turn down your hearing aids?” I asked. 

“No,” he replied. “The damn things don’t work. I put them in my pocket.”

Oy! This is what I had to look forward to? 

But Larry was due for his six month check-up, and he strongly urged me to make my own appointment. 

“I am sure I don’t need hearing aids,” I said. “You just talk too low.” But for Shalom Bayit, for peace in our house, I signed up for a consultation. 

I thought I would breezed through the test, but I was shocked to find out that my hearing loss was “moderate to severe.” For the next two weeks, my prescription was being filled, I felt sad and—well—old!

Amazingly, I adjusted very quickly. I immediately noticed the difference: I could hear! Okay, maybe a little too loudly. But the world became hearable. My constant refrain, “Could you repeat that?” was gone. I could go to a movie or show and actually hear what was being said.

My fear of losing them also proved groundless. Between the over-the-ear microphone and the tiny receivers that go fairly deep into my ear canal, I haven’t lost them. They also are a little more waterproof than I anticipated as accidentally wearing them into the shower or even into the pool would not be a disaster

Finally, being a woman has its perks. Larry doesn’t have the hair to cover them, so they are pretty obvious. It takes a much sharper eye to detect the tiny wires in my ears when it is covered with hair.

Rather than being embarrassed or ashamed, I am grateful that my hearing is correctable, that we have the resources to make the purchase,  and that hearing aids are so much better than those huge things my parents wore.

I would do it all over again: Dealing with Aging Parents

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My parents would have celebrated their 82nd anniversary on August 20. In honor of their memory, I am publishing this article which was first published in The Jewish World on January 15, 2015.

When my parents moved up from Florida to Coburg Village in 2005, we knew they were settling into a place that offered them independence and the kind of life they wanted to lead. As it was only four miles from our home, Larry and I, as well as my siblings, had peace of mind knowing we were close enough to be there when they needed us and to watch over their physical and emotional health. At times, however, providing that oversight was not easy.

Every Sunday, Larry and I had a standing date with my parents to go out to eat at a local restaurant. Mom’s favorite choice was a Chinese buffet as she loved spareribs and anything fried. Dad said he preferred Italian, although his choices in those restaurants were sometimes more McDonalds than mangiare bene. He once insisted on our driving to an Italian restaurant in Schenectady in the dead of winter and proceeded to order minestrone soup and chicken nuggets.

One week, on the advice of friends, we decided to take them to Verdile’s, a landmark Italian restaurant in Troy. As was the custom, Larry and I picked them up in the front of their building. I helped my father get into the front passenger seat, helped my mother get into the back seat behind Dad, and took my place behind Larry. Larry put the car in gear and headed to our destination. Around two miles down the road, my father said, “Oh, damn! I forgot my teeth!”

“We’ll turn around and get them,” offered Larry.
“That’s okay,” said Dad. “I can just gum my food.”
Larry ignored him and turned the car around.
When we got back to Coburg, I took my parents’ keys, went through he foyer, ran up the stairs to their second-floor apartment, unlocked the door, grabbed a set of dentures out of a bowl in the bathroom, wrapped them in a paper towel, relocked the door, and headed back to the car.

“Thanks, Marilyn,” said Dad, as he started putting them into his mouth. A second later, he yelled, “Hey! These aren’t my teeth!”

“Oh, they must be mine!” Mom chimed in from the back seat. “I forgot them, too! Hand them back, Bill!”

As Mom was getting her bridge into her mouth, I went back to the apartment, found the second bowl with Dad’s teeth on the bathroom vanity, and ran back to the car. Now that all the dentures were in place, we were ready to complete our trip to Verdile’s.

All was fairly quiet for a couple of miles. “I read an interesting article in Consumer Reports this week about one of my prescription medicines,” Dad piped up. “You know how I am always having to run to the bathroom? Well, that’s one of the side effects of one of the damn pills I have to take.”

“You have congestive heart failure, Dad,” I said. “Your doctor put you on diuretics to prevent fluid from building up in your lungs. You’ve landed in the Ellis Hospital emergency room three times since you moved here when you failed to take them.”

“Well, the heck with all these doctors!” said Dad. “I am tired of constantly having to pee. I’ve decided to stop taking them. Haven’t swallowed any of those suckers for four days!”

I immediately conjured up in my mind another ambulance ride for Dad and another lost day of work for me. Meanwhile, I thought Larry was going to drive off the road.

Mom patted my hand and whispered to me, “I’ll take care of this, sweetheart. Don’t worry.” By the time we got to the restaurant, all four of us were on edge, hungry, and ready for a good dinner. Fortunately, Verdile’s lived up to its reputation. Our pasta-based meals were delicious, and the staff was friendly, kind and accommodating. Judging from the demographics of the people sitting around the room, the staff in the restaurant was obviously used to serving senior citizens.

As our waiter cleared the table before he brought coffee, my mother popped out her bridge and wrapped it in a napkin. Although I was used to this in our own homes, I was a little grossed out that she was doing it in public. I also worried she’d lose the bridge—an expensive proposition.

I started to stammer an explanation and warning to the waiter. “Err…please don’t take the napkin. My mother’s teeth are in it.”

He broke out in a big smile. “Don’t worry! We’re used to that here. Can’t tell you how many times we’ve had to do a dumpster dive for a set of false teeth or a hearing aid!”

We drank our coffee, paid the bill, and drove my parents back to Coburg Village. The next day, I called my mother, and she assured me that Dad was back on his water pills.

“Thanks for dinner, Marilyn,” Mom said. “Dad and I really enjoyed our afternoon with the two of you. We’ll have to come up with another fun place to eat next Sunday.”

“Sure, Mom,” I said aloud. “Let’s do that!” In my mind, however, I was thinking, ‘Let’s just make it less exciting.’

The four of us enjoyed many more Sunday outings until my father’s passing in November 2008. Larry and I kept up the tradition with my mother until her death in March 2011. To this day, despite the misplaced teeth, the medical revelations, and the not-so-healthy Chinese buffets, we fondly remember those Sunday dinners we shared with Mom and Dad.