Comfort Zone

We all reach that point; the time in life where we find ourselves alone. Friends have drifted away leaving only solitary days and endless nights. It was different when there were two of us—before Tad left this world. He was only fifty-two…much too young.

For a while, the old gang still included me in the weekly outings, in retrospect, more out of pity than friendship. Soon I found that I couldn’t bear being the odd one out, so I started to decline their invitations with the lighthearted “We’ll get together soon.” Of course, we never did. “Soon” became “later” and “later” became “never”.

Even when younger, I was never one to socialize much on my own. I found that I enjoyed doing the things that made me happy. I immersed myself in projects. There were projects for church and projects for charity. I was so good at being “behind the scenes” that I became invisible. Invisibility led to forget-ability.

There are many of us out there--forgotten souls who have dropped off the social radar of our once well-known acquaintances. We live tediously between the dimension of the living and of the dead. Who is there to mourn our passing? Who is there to grieve? Someone may say simply (with regret, no doubt), “I saw where Martha Smith passed into eternity. May she rest in peace.” Or, “Do you remember Jane Jones? I read in the paper where she died. She and I used to be the best of friends. I have not thought of her in a long time.” What a sad testament to society!

But, I digress with my ramblings! Well, suffice it to say that as I approached my seventy-fifth birthday, I was truly alone.

Some ten years ago, I decided to sell what had once been “our” home in South Georgia and move to a warmer climate; not that Georgia isn’t warm! It can be as hot during late summer as I imagine Hades to be. But the winter’s damp cold and inconsistent temperatures (eighty one day and twenty the next) was wreaking havoc on my bones. Arthritis had become my constant companion from October until April, and it was not welcomed!

I had always fancied living near the ocean. With no family nor close friends to consult, I was able to wrangle a suitable price for my property. Then, I was off to seek my dream. I found the perfect cottage in a quiet section of a seaside community in South Florida. There were many amenities there for the taking. An aquatic center offered water aerobics and a lap pool for those so inclined. A fitness center was within walking and had classes available throughout the week. But to attend these, one would have to be motivated to be out among other people. There was a community grocery store, plus a friendly neighborhood department store for all the rest of my needs. And, of course there was a geriatric health clinic. I settled into my new life with no fanfare.

I found that in these communities there is a constant stream of moving trucks, ambulances and hearses. It is the age and health condition of our generation! We move in for a short while, then, drift off into eternity.

The view of the sunsets from my deck was sensational! Each evening, a wondrous fireball doused itself into the gray-blue horizon. Pink, lavender, and orange shimmered in its wake. I had tried many times to capture its splendor on canvas, but to no avail. It always turned out to be stilted and lifeless. My painting had always been limited, no matter what medium I used or what subject matter I attempted. Nonetheless, I often felt compelled to try again. Today was no exception.

So, I gathered my easel and paints together. I placed a blank canvas onto the stand and sat in anticipation. It had been a day filled with the mundane. I had awakened at my usual hour, prepared my breakfast of decaf coffee with whole wheat toast topped with honey. I read for a while. Then, I gathered my grocery bags into my pink golf cart (a necessity, I had found) and drove the short distance to the shopping center for the few items that I needed. On returning, I settled down to work on the items I was preparing for the NICU unit at the local hospital. Lunch was a bagel slathered with low-fat pimiento cheese and sliced tomatoes, washed down with a cold bottle of what my sister-in-law had once referred to as “Adam’s ale”. She was long gone, now, but I still thought of her each time I twisted the cap from a bottle of water.

Funny, isn’t it? The little things we remember. Little snippets of our previous life played in slow motion, usually when you least expect. I remember thinking how ridiculous to spend good money on bottled water! After all, you could just run it from the tap and it was free! Boy, times have certainly changed. My grandmother and great-grandmother would be appalled to know that my generation was buying water.

About two-ish, I had laid down for my “power” nap. Thirty minutes later, I awakened feeling refreshed. I began straightening and preparing for my art session. I managed to get all set up before I felt a sweeping wave of nausea. It must have been something I ate (perhaps the tomato). The nausea passed, but the room began to sway (just a bit), and even though the temperature on the thermostat read 72⁰F, I was suddenly drenched with perspiration. I sat for a while, feeling as though the throbbing in my head would never stop. Infinity elapsed, and the pounding stopped.

Glad to have that feeling behind me, I tried to resume the light cleaning, but that proved to be useless. I had no energy left. I must be getting old! I sat again, and began to ponder the cause of the “episode” I had just experienced. “Probably just some bug that I picked up at the supermarket,” reasoned with myself. “Oh, well, this too shall pass!”

Some minutes had now gone by, and I found that it was time to begin my latest in a long series of Floridian sunsets. But as I lifted the brush to start my first strokes of the day, I noticed an aching in my left arm. “Mental note to self,” I thought, “don’t strain when lifting the easel onto the deck.”
The aching radiated now from arm to chest. “If I didn’t know better, I would think I was having a heart attack,” I thought aloud.

The nausea returned with a vengeance! I felt sweat drops rolling down my face, my shoulder blades and even on my knees. The pain was now full blown and centered in my chest. The cordless in my painter’s smock felt too far to reach, but reach it I did. I dialed 9-1-1, and summonsed the ambulance. I have no memory of what happened next. I am told that I had an acute myocardial infarction. I was “coded” eight times before they were able to revive me and restore me to enough stability to take me into surgery. There, the cardiovascular surgeon “du jour” performed the necessary miracle of bypass surgery to repair my broken heart. They called this surgery a CABG or “cabbage”, short for coronary artery bypass graph. I sometimes now giggle out loud when I think about a cabbage in my chest!

I regained consciousness to find tubes and wires coming from parts of my body that had never been invaded previously. The hums and beeps of various machines punctuated the otherwise quietude of the tiny intensive care cubicle. With the passing hours, I was upgraded from critical to guarded to a condition deemed “well” enough to leave the SICU cocoon and move to a regular hospital room. Finally, after only a week in the hospital, I was declared able to return home.

A visiting nurse would be assigned to check on my progress at regular intervals throughout the day and night. She was very thorough. She made sure that I ate, bathed, dressed and exercised although many times I would rather have been left alone to die! I plead with God to take me. What was left in my life to live for? There was no one who cared. No one had in a very long time. Feeling sorry for myself, I found, was a normal reaction. Quite unlike me!

The nurse recommended that I attend cardiac rehabilitation therapy. The shuttle picked me up each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, drove me to the rehab clinic, and returned me home. I learned the names of some of the other patients who were there at the same time as me.

We all had our routine, tele-cardio hook-ups, treadmill and bicycle times. Thirty minutes, then finished. The conversations with the others in my time regimented group began slowly at first. I found that most of my fellow “rehab’ers” lived in the same complex as I. While I had lived there for so many years, I had never met anyone. I was an “old-timer” in the neighborhood! My scheduled comings and goings just didn’t coincide with theirs!

Sadie and her husband, Saul, lived just a block from me. She had her surgery a month before mine. Saul had recovered from colon surgery resulting from cancerous polyps about six months earlier. Nettie was also recovering from heart surgery. She had also had a hip replacement just prior to her heart attack, but she was slowly regaining her independence. Bob and Bernie both had quadruple bypasses. They were native to this area, not transplants like the rest of us.

We came to know a little of each other as we did our time on the equipment. Then, we drifted back into the comfort of our lives, content with no more interaction.

Alone. I have learned that "alone" doesn’t necessarily mean lonely. Yes, there are no other people filling my calendar nor do I have friends nor family traipsing through my home regularly. I guess that some would count this as “lonely”. But, to me lonely means feeling sad because of not having friends. Lonely means being isolated, deserted or desolate. These things do not apply to me. I am far from lonely. I am content. Content--able to continue to pursue my “projects”, as I have done for the past twenty-five years. Hmmm! A quarter of a century has passed—hard to believe!

Perhaps, if the pangs of loneliness raise their ugly heads, I will venture from my “safe haven”. Perhaps, I will even volunteer my talents for projects to a shelter or center for the elderly…someday when I am “old”.

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