For the past few years, my husband has suffered from a few illnesses affecting his ability to drive a car for various periods of time. This is a gut-wrenching fate for any man to accept. But the impact isn’t just one-sided.
I have never wanted to join a book club. Oh, I know there are many excellent groups out there, whose members cherish their time together, but there are just as many dysfunctional book clubs that could turn any warm book-lover’s heart stone cold.
Sometimes it’s very hard to think nice thoughts when your hip is in constant pain. Your hair is getting thinner and your waist is getting thicker. To top it all off, you woke up this morning with a spikey black whisker on your chin!
Okay, let’s not sugar coat this – getting old is a bitch!
There’s no instruction manual to read or special training we can take along the way. The Scary World of Aging is filled with shocks and surprises around every wrinkled corner.
In October 2014, I was diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of sixty-nine. In a matter of hours, I was thrust headlong into a whirlwind of doctor appointments, consultations, biopsies, scans and x-rays. Through waves of gut-wrenching vulnerability, I felt my world closing in and choking the life right out of me.
I realized early in the process that downsizing from my big-ass house and moving to a condo wasn’t going to be easy. Although it was the right decision at the time, I was overwhelmed by the jaw-clenching enormity of the job.
It’s my belief that teaching the art of oral storytelling is an investment in the futures of our children and grandchildren. It gives them a basic training in sequencing events, and organizing thoughts and experiences into chunks; an invaluable skill to have at any age. And it teaches them how to listen and be heard; a basic ability so many adults have never mastered…