I am sick of worrying about health! After living many years in other countries, I'm always struck by how obsessed Americans are about health issues. Often it's foolish and faddish; sometimes dangerous; usually stressful.
Living in a retirement community exacerbates the ever-present specter of health -- mine, yours, the country's. It doesn't matter which tv channel I watch. The commercials are geared for our aging community, so I'm bombarded with ads for caretakers, nursing homes, devices to help you sit down, get up, or an emergency service to call someone to pull you up. There are ads for problems I never knew existed. Drug commercials are sick jokes. People look happy and active, while the voice over explains the possible side effects of dizziness, sleeplessness, numbness, memory loss, and thoughts of suicide. Ask your doctor if it's right for you.
The media coverage of health care reform is definitely scary. The careers of the President, senators, congressmen and women are poised on the brink. This plan won't work; that plan is disastrous.
I had minimal or no medical insurance for most of my life since I never had a job inside the U.S. that provided health insurance. Sometimes it was frightening to know I could be financially wiped out in record time with any illness or accident. However, in retrospect, I owe my general good health to NOT having medical insurance. I didn't run to doctors for most complaints, or annual screenings of this or that body part. From years of traveling in the "less developed" world, I was used to self-diagnosis and treatment, and continued that behavior when back in the U.S.
I've been on Medicare for a couple of years now, but I still don't rush to the doctor. Undoubtedly, I've been lucky, but I've also been careful and have tried to get to know my own body and what it's trying to tell me. Medical care, and the misuse of drugs has always seemed like a dangerous swamp I definitely wanted to avoid getting mired in.
Conflicting advice on how to stay healthy or the options for treating all sorts of medical problems confounds the mind and unbalances the psyche. When I stress out over aches and pains and the "what ifs?" I catch myself and convince myself there's plenty of reason not to panic in advance. Some days that approach works better than other days. But one thing I am sure of is that the stress of worrying over getting sick is most likely the biggest killer of all.
Egyptian rulers spent most of their time, energy, and resources preparing for the afterlife. In our modern world, many people spend more time worrying about their health than enjoying it. My preference is to put my energy into living rather than worrying about dying.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
I Should Have Been a Dancer
The very first time I knew I wanted to be a dancer, I was in grade school and had accompanied a friend of mine to her ballet lesson. While I watched, I wished so hard to be in that class. My parents cut short any thought of a dancing career by simply saying that they didn't have the money for lessons. Instead, I faithfully went with my girlfriend and longingly watched from the sidelines.
In my teen years, I did some Israeli folk dancing and enjoyed teenage dances. In my mid-20s, I took belly dancing at our local YWCA. People said I was pretty good at it, and my mother-in-law and I had great fun making a costume for me. I dabbled briefly with classes in African and Caribbean dancing. But I only stayed on the fringes of dancing. Unfortunately, I didn't have any innate talent for it.
In a time of restlessness in the late 1980s when I was getting ready for another change in my life, I listened just about every night to The Four Seasons and invariably saw and felt myself lighter than air dancing to that inspiring music. Occasionally, I actually got up and tried to dance, but the vision in my head of dancing was far different from the reality, and much less satisfying.
Several years passed, along with my youth and agility. I was 56 and living in a retirement community that offered many classes. I signed up for a Joy of Dance class. The teacher was a former professional dancer who could still dazzle at 88. When she danced, the years melted away. I did feel a joy in dance, but much muted not only by a lack of talent, but also a lack of energy and mobility. Unlike my enduring aged teacher who still dances in her 90s, I was, alas, past my prime.
The older I become, the more interested I am in the mind-body connection. How even more wonderful than I imagined when I was young would it be to feel in tune with my body like a dancer does! That's the truest mind-body connection to me. So, I content myself with feeling my mind-body connection best when I'm doing yoga, or swimming rhythmically and even somewhat gracefully up and down the pool. There's the now long-ago, vaguely-remembered elation of that one time in the school playground Dodgeball game when I easily managed to elude all attempts to catch me. And, yes, there was that one successful attempt at camp to get up on water skiis and fly over the water.
Mostly, I can only content myself watching wonderful dancers do what they do best on stage. This afternoon I saw a taped performance of The Hard Nut, a modernized version of the famous Nutcracker ballet. In this version by a baby boomer choreographer, Mark Morris, there were males in drag, a ballerina dancing sometimes in bunny slippers, and sometimes barefoot, along with unusual twists in costumes and plot. These were top notch dancers who looked as though they enjoyed dancing as much as I enjoyed imagining I was leaping and cavorting among them. Since this wasn't a live performance, there were comings and goings of members of the audience, a lady who just had to answer her cell phone, and a tortilla chip cruncher behind me to remind me I must be, alas, an appreciator rather than a participant.
I usually give no thought at all to the subject of reincarnation. But I have decided that I would agree to be reincarnated only if I could return as a dancer.
In my teen years, I did some Israeli folk dancing and enjoyed teenage dances. In my mid-20s, I took belly dancing at our local YWCA. People said I was pretty good at it, and my mother-in-law and I had great fun making a costume for me. I dabbled briefly with classes in African and Caribbean dancing. But I only stayed on the fringes of dancing. Unfortunately, I didn't have any innate talent for it.
In a time of restlessness in the late 1980s when I was getting ready for another change in my life, I listened just about every night to The Four Seasons and invariably saw and felt myself lighter than air dancing to that inspiring music. Occasionally, I actually got up and tried to dance, but the vision in my head of dancing was far different from the reality, and much less satisfying.
Several years passed, along with my youth and agility. I was 56 and living in a retirement community that offered many classes. I signed up for a Joy of Dance class. The teacher was a former professional dancer who could still dazzle at 88. When she danced, the years melted away. I did feel a joy in dance, but much muted not only by a lack of talent, but also a lack of energy and mobility. Unlike my enduring aged teacher who still dances in her 90s, I was, alas, past my prime.
The older I become, the more interested I am in the mind-body connection. How even more wonderful than I imagined when I was young would it be to feel in tune with my body like a dancer does! That's the truest mind-body connection to me. So, I content myself with feeling my mind-body connection best when I'm doing yoga, or swimming rhythmically and even somewhat gracefully up and down the pool. There's the now long-ago, vaguely-remembered elation of that one time in the school playground Dodgeball game when I easily managed to elude all attempts to catch me. And, yes, there was that one successful attempt at camp to get up on water skiis and fly over the water.
Mostly, I can only content myself watching wonderful dancers do what they do best on stage. This afternoon I saw a taped performance of The Hard Nut, a modernized version of the famous Nutcracker ballet. In this version by a baby boomer choreographer, Mark Morris, there were males in drag, a ballerina dancing sometimes in bunny slippers, and sometimes barefoot, along with unusual twists in costumes and plot. These were top notch dancers who looked as though they enjoyed dancing as much as I enjoyed imagining I was leaping and cavorting among them. Since this wasn't a live performance, there were comings and goings of members of the audience, a lady who just had to answer her cell phone, and a tortilla chip cruncher behind me to remind me I must be, alas, an appreciator rather than a participant.
I usually give no thought at all to the subject of reincarnation. But I have decided that I would agree to be reincarnated only if I could return as a dancer.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Howard's End
A memorial service is not an appealing way to spend a sunny afternoon. However, one of my yoga classmates passed away very suddenly last week. He was 73, and was seemingly in enviable good health. I knew him casually only through yoga classes, but I was drawn to pay my respects because he had been a good guy, bringing a welcome and humor to every class.
This was an informal gathering of friends and relatives with no set service. I'd never been to his home before, or met his children or grandchildren. And I'd never seen family photos of him as a young dad. Going to share the afternoon with some other yoga buddies and Howard's family and friends made me aware of Howard in a much broader dimension. In classes, we only get to know a certain side of someone's life. And, if we meet them when they're old, there is so much about their earlier years we never learn.
In all the classes I've taken, and all the classmates I've had since my college years, only a very few of them became long term friends whose lives I entered in more than a one-dimensional way. Most have been friendly faces to say "hi" and possibly a little more to. But not really friends.
As I looked over Howard's home, wife, children, grandchildren, friends, and photos, I thought of what I knew about Howard and pondered how much I didn't know about his life, his thoughts, what had been important to him. I casually wondered what such a gathering would be like for me -- what people would share about their relationships with me, what they would think of my home, and old family photos. They might wonder why I had more friends than relatives, what had been important to me, and who I had been under the wrinkles of the years.
I've had so many deaths to deal with in the last dozen years of my life, I've become more resigned to accepting its inevitability, my own mortality, and am more curious about what I didn't know about the people who have passed through my life.
This was an informal gathering of friends and relatives with no set service. I'd never been to his home before, or met his children or grandchildren. And I'd never seen family photos of him as a young dad. Going to share the afternoon with some other yoga buddies and Howard's family and friends made me aware of Howard in a much broader dimension. In classes, we only get to know a certain side of someone's life. And, if we meet them when they're old, there is so much about their earlier years we never learn.
In all the classes I've taken, and all the classmates I've had since my college years, only a very few of them became long term friends whose lives I entered in more than a one-dimensional way. Most have been friendly faces to say "hi" and possibly a little more to. But not really friends.
As I looked over Howard's home, wife, children, grandchildren, friends, and photos, I thought of what I knew about Howard and pondered how much I didn't know about his life, his thoughts, what had been important to him. I casually wondered what such a gathering would be like for me -- what people would share about their relationships with me, what they would think of my home, and old family photos. They might wonder why I had more friends than relatives, what had been important to me, and who I had been under the wrinkles of the years.
I've had so many deaths to deal with in the last dozen years of my life, I've become more resigned to accepting its inevitability, my own mortality, and am more curious about what I didn't know about the people who have passed through my life.
Friday, December 4, 2009
A Name for Myself
I went to see a movie tonight at our Film Club called "Brideshead Revisited." I went to see it mainly because my son had changed his first name to Sebastian because of the book of the same name by Evelyn Waugh. He said many of his friends had told him that Sebastian in the book reminded them of him. I had read the book years ago because I wanted to understand him better. He hadn't confided much about his adult life to me. He also changed his middle and last names, but he never explained why.
Probably I had been his model for changing names. After I had separated from my husband and expected to divorce, I decided I wanted a new last name. To my surprise, I found out that changing one's name to any name is legal, as long as you don't use it for fraud. I felt giddy with the possibility of taking ANY name I wanted. I decided I wanted a name that sounded good with my first name, was easy to spell, had a meaning (at least to me), and was unusual. After spending my married years with a common last name that ran for pages in any U.S. phone book, I wanted a name that would stand out in any list. But what name out of an infinite number of names that fit those criteria did I want?
The last trip my husband, son, and I took together was to Kenya. I had dabbled with learning some Swahili for that trip, and returned with a Swahili dictionary. Where to start with all those words in the dictionary? I thought it would take me ages to land on a name I wanted from the swarm of black ink on those pages. But no! It was easy - perhaps fate led me to it. When someone asks you in Swahili "How are you?", the reply is usually "mzima." The "m" at the front shows that you are asking about a person. I knew that "mzima" would not work in western society, but I was drawn to the definition of "zima" which meant "whole or well."
Ah! In 1979, I was neither "whole" nor "well" because of my impending divorce. In truth, I felt less than half a person without my husband. And I certainly didn't feel "well" because I knew I was the one responsible for the divorce. I wanted to feel "whole" and "well," but I knew there would always be a "hole" in me without the man who had loved me since I was a teenager. The technical part of changing it wouldn't be difficult, but would I be able to grow into the name I chose for myself?
In most cultures, changing one's last name voluntarily is incomprehensible. It represents one's family roots. However, I felt I had not lost my roots, but rather gained an identity of my own. Zima, a word rather than a name in Swahili, is unusual and doesn't appear in any great number anywhere I've seen. People with a Czech background think I'm Czech because "zima" means winter in their language. There is a Zima Station in Siberia. And, of course, Zima beer (now no longer made)was popular years after I took that name. But Zima beer's popularity allowed me to buy a t-shirt and a cap with ZIMA printed on it.
In 1983, when I was making plans to become an immigrant in Israel, Zima was a name that made the person processing my application blush. Zima, with the pronunciation on the last syllable rather than the first, turned my simple name into such a dirty word that he wouldn't even tell me what it meant. He suggested I use a different spelling in Hebrew from that dirty word and strongly accent the first syllable. Interestingly, my last name never caused me any problem in Israel because my first name, Suellen, caught every Israeli's attention. Just about everyone in Israel was watching re-runs of the tv program, "Dallas." Sharing a name with a main character in "Dallas" was my claim to fame there.
The years, miles, and experiences since 1979 allowed me to grow into the wholeness and wellness of my name, Zima.
Probably I had been his model for changing names. After I had separated from my husband and expected to divorce, I decided I wanted a new last name. To my surprise, I found out that changing one's name to any name is legal, as long as you don't use it for fraud. I felt giddy with the possibility of taking ANY name I wanted. I decided I wanted a name that sounded good with my first name, was easy to spell, had a meaning (at least to me), and was unusual. After spending my married years with a common last name that ran for pages in any U.S. phone book, I wanted a name that would stand out in any list. But what name out of an infinite number of names that fit those criteria did I want?
The last trip my husband, son, and I took together was to Kenya. I had dabbled with learning some Swahili for that trip, and returned with a Swahili dictionary. Where to start with all those words in the dictionary? I thought it would take me ages to land on a name I wanted from the swarm of black ink on those pages. But no! It was easy - perhaps fate led me to it. When someone asks you in Swahili "How are you?", the reply is usually "mzima." The "m" at the front shows that you are asking about a person. I knew that "mzima" would not work in western society, but I was drawn to the definition of "zima" which meant "whole or well."
Ah! In 1979, I was neither "whole" nor "well" because of my impending divorce. In truth, I felt less than half a person without my husband. And I certainly didn't feel "well" because I knew I was the one responsible for the divorce. I wanted to feel "whole" and "well," but I knew there would always be a "hole" in me without the man who had loved me since I was a teenager. The technical part of changing it wouldn't be difficult, but would I be able to grow into the name I chose for myself?
In most cultures, changing one's last name voluntarily is incomprehensible. It represents one's family roots. However, I felt I had not lost my roots, but rather gained an identity of my own. Zima, a word rather than a name in Swahili, is unusual and doesn't appear in any great number anywhere I've seen. People with a Czech background think I'm Czech because "zima" means winter in their language. There is a Zima Station in Siberia. And, of course, Zima beer (now no longer made)was popular years after I took that name. But Zima beer's popularity allowed me to buy a t-shirt and a cap with ZIMA printed on it.
In 1983, when I was making plans to become an immigrant in Israel, Zima was a name that made the person processing my application blush. Zima, with the pronunciation on the last syllable rather than the first, turned my simple name into such a dirty word that he wouldn't even tell me what it meant. He suggested I use a different spelling in Hebrew from that dirty word and strongly accent the first syllable. Interestingly, my last name never caused me any problem in Israel because my first name, Suellen, caught every Israeli's attention. Just about everyone in Israel was watching re-runs of the tv program, "Dallas." Sharing a name with a main character in "Dallas" was my claim to fame there.
The years, miles, and experiences since 1979 allowed me to grow into the wholeness and wellness of my name, Zima.
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