Noted neurologist, Oliver Sacks, says that music “utilizes more parts of the brain,” than any other activity we engage in. In the documentary, “Alive Inside,” he also notes that music is “one of the last things” to leave a memory destroyed by Alzheimer’s. https://www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=alive+inside&ie=UTF-8&oe=UTF-8#kpevlbx=1
After watching the film myself, I decided to put together my own playlist on my iPod. I wanted songs that I liked to sing along with, like Don Henly’s, “The Boys of Summer.” I also wanted songs I listened to on my transistor radio when I was a kid, like Del Shannon’s, “Runaround Sue.” Then I added songs that make me nostalgic, like Karla Bonoff’s, “Wild Heart of the Young.” Couldn’t forget my husband’s and my dating song, Roger Voudoris’s, “Get Used To It.” I threw in some Barbra Streisand and lots of Chopin for good measure. No play list is complete without “In a Gada da Vida,” by Led Zeplin, which I added simply so I could impress the other nursing home residents with my mastery of the drum solo. Lastly, I added lots of Michael Jackson songs, because he just makes me want to dance!
Guess you could say I’m prepared. Now, I might be lucky and never lose my memory, but if I do? I hope someone puts those headphones on me and pushes, “PLAY.” Then look out, because in all modesty, I still do a pretty darn good, “moonwalk.” Just ask the passengers on that Southwest flight from San Francisco to Nashville last week. Oh yeah…. And if you have any song ideas of your own that I should add, post them here. I’m still a work in progress.
Ah…the good old days of telephone booths. We had one on every corner when I lived in New York City in the 60’s. You hopped in, closed the folding glass door behind you and put in your quarter. They were particularly great in winter when you were waiting for the crosstown bus because they shut out the cold. Sure, the floor was sticky from urine and gum and they smelled gross but the few minutes of warmth were worth it.
But they’re all gone now. We walk with our own phones in hand. But I miss that sense of privacy. I really don’t want to hear everyone else’s conversations when I’m in line at the movies or sitting in a restaurant. Frankly, I’m not interested in how bad Sherry’s new haircut looks, or what Judy is going to say if David calls. Don’t care what time Joe’s dental appointment is or how much food to leave for the cat. Nor am I interested to hear you tell whoever’s on the other end what you are “going to do” to her when you, “get home.” Geez. Get a phone booth, will ya?
I miss them. Yeah, sometimes you had to wait forever while some guy argued with his girl. Sure, you had to bang on the door when you had a real emergency and that dope wouldn’t hang up the phone. Okay, so a lot of the doors were broken and had their lights busted out, but still they were a little safe haven. Best of all, when you deposited your quarter, a real, live operator would answer.
Maybe what we really need is a folding, glass door that shuts around our mouths when we’re talking into the phone; an invisible device that closes when we start to say something that we shouldn’t. Or a brain censor that monitors our thoughts and seals them off just before they come slap dashing out into words. Now there’s an invention!
Texting is handy for trivial stuff but there’s nothing like hearing a real, live voice. It just says so much more—even in the pauses. And for Heaven’s sake don’t EVER call and put me on speakerphone! Talk about a violation of privacy. The only time that’s appropriate is if you’d like me to belt out the national anthem to anyone within earshot. If so, you’ll have to provide the popcorn first. Play ball!!
This film is a MUST see……..and I just saw it……so trust me, I’m not just whistling “Dixie.”
If you have not yet read, “Why I hope to die at 75,” by Dr. Ezekiel Emanuel in this month’s Atlantic, don’t bother. He may be a distinguished scientist, head the Department of Medical Ethics at U Penn and be a primary architect of Obamacare, but frankly he’s not too swift.
At first I thought he was humorously flipping the numbers of his own age, 57, around. Nope. He is dead serious. Not only does he list the various reasons why 75, “is a good place to stop” including physical, mental and creative decline. He also spends a good many pages telling us exactly what he WILL have accomplished by that age: “will have loved and been loved,” will have “contributed his best work” to his field and will have “seen his children grown.” Is he a fortune-teller, too? He may or may not live long enough to see any of those things happen!
The single worst part is his wanting to be remembered, “as vibrant and engaged, not feeble, ineffectual, even pathetic.” Wow. Does narcissism come to mind? Look, getting wrinkled, frail and whatever else is part of the journey. If you can do it with an eye open for what magic lies beyond the bend, hooray! And if some young idiot thinks you’re ‘pathetic,’ shame on them.
It’s good for the young to be around the old. It’s even better they learn to take care of them, so they can truly understand their own aging one day. Emanuel says, “Our living too long places emotional weights on our progeny.” Yes, partially, but it also builds strength, character and teaches valuable lessons otherwise lost. He thinks the young need more time, “out of our shadows.” To do what? Indulge in their own self interests so they, too, can leave behind a ‘youthful’ legacy?
Garbage like this makes my blood boil. And to think the Atlantic actually prides itself on over 150 years of exhibiting a, “moderate world view.” Moderate? The bottom line is that despite his Harvard Ph.D., Emanuel is a sad victim of the “fixed mind set.” If you don’t know what that is, get a copy of “Mindset” by Carol Dweck right now and start reading.
Geez, the ancient Greeks were wiser than our present day intellectuals. They said: “Society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they shall never sit in.” To that, I say “AMEN.”
Last week, a mobile unit with the sign, “Virtual Alzheimer’s,” was parked in front of my gym. They said that I would learn, “just what it’s like to have Alzheimer’s”. Heck, I had a few minutes. I removed my shoes so that they could slip inserts under my feet to simulate, “neuropathy.” Gloves were put on my hands to help me ‘lose touch’ with my environment. Blacked-out glasses, intended to approximate sight loss were next. Finally, headphones with constant, static and irritating background noise were placed over my ears.
I was helped up the steps of the trailer. I needed it. Negotiating both depth and distance was difficult. Once inside, I was read a list of 7 tasks that I was to accomplish in the next 10 minutes. Then I was left alone in the dark. I remembered that I was to set a breakfast table for two. Found the table but took forever to locate dishes. I also was to “find the money and count 19 cents in change.” Never found it. At some point I stumbled onto a basket of laundry and though I did not remember it was on the list, actually folded it!
By the end, I had only managed 2 of the 7 tasks. Now here’s the thing. I did not find it anything like REAL Alzheimer’s. For one thing, being of sound and very focused mind, I was able to completely block out the background noise. Also, who in their right mind would ever give an Alzheimer’s patient SEVEN tasks to complete in 10 minutes?
Alzheimer’s is much like simple Aging; it creeps up on you one day, and one failing neuron at a time. Quite honestly, that is part of its’ beauty. Kafka’s Metamorphosis aside, try imagine going to bed as a vibrant 20 something and waking up at 80? Yikes! That’s the stuff of horror shows. I’m used to my 60-something face. Why? Because I first had the chance to get used to all my 50-something ones. Suddenly plunging a clear thinking, younger person into this kind of scenario is more likely to create anxiety than anything else. I can attest to that as my teenager took the test, too. For the record, she scored no better than I did. She says it was because she “couldn’t block out the background noise.”
Here’s what I think about ‘virtual’ anything. It’s like kissing–without your lips. But if this baby rolls into your town give it a shot. Never know what you might run into. :)
That should do it.
I had a BLAST being young. At 18, flying north on the Black Canyon Freeway headed out of Phoenix I remember the rush when I floored the car to 100 mph. It was thrilling and scary but once I hit 100 I eased off the gas. I wanted to live to tell about it. Still do.
Frankly I don’t ‘get’ this bucket list thing. Why wait until you’re old to do all the things you wanted to do? By the time you’re my age, they’re all gonna be harder to do. I went skydiving in my 20’s but you couldn’t get me in a plane with no door and push me out with a parachute now. My knees couldn’t take it, let alone my failing heart.
That’s why TODAY is so important. You will never be this young again. If you want to climb Kilimanjaro or go “Dancing With the Stars,” go now. If you want to change careers, change NOW. There is absolutely, unequivocally nothing to lose; nothing, of course, but time. And we all know who IT waits for: NO ONE!
I love that I took chances when I was young. Sometimes they were teeny ones like asking a boy to dance. Others were done out of mere curiosity, like that weekend at the nudist colony. But each little risk grows you and gives you more confidence. They add up day-by-day, year-by-year until you have this crazy, wonderful sense of ‘been there, done that’ in your bones. It is unshakeable and freeing!
Being older is a blast, too! It means that I can walk into Starbucks and tell the barista he’s cute. Or flat hang up on that caller who tells me, “I’m not selling you anything.” It means I can show up at a gala event sans makeup and wear white when summer is long over. At my age, there is simply no one I care to impress—except me.
Right now, I have a friend who wants to buy a van and drive across country, hitting all the sweet spots at just the right season. I told him, “Do it. No time like the present.” Better to die with your flag unfurled than live at half-mast. Live so you have something to TELL about later. Oh, and if he takes my advice? I’ll post some pictures because that ‘friend’ happens to be my own husband!
At midnight, as I was heading to bed, I heard the sound of rifles popping from the backyard. A mans’ voice shouted outside. As I moved towards the window to look out, everything went dark, suddenly—and fast. The dog barked and bolted. I groped my way towards a flashlight in the kitchen. On the way, I banged my head on the bookshelf, cracked my knee into a wall and hit the edge of a table with my hip. Amazing how the lack of light, even in familiar surroundings can throw you off. All this, despite the fact I have a flashlight in EVERY room!!
So what gives? Aging. In my 20’s I only needed ONE flashlight and I never panicked when the lights went out as my eyes adjusted to darkness pretty well. By my 40’s, I bought a few more flashlights—just in case. However, now that I am in my 60’s it may well be that I need to attach something LED around my neck.
This aging stuff creeps up on you pretty slowly. Good thing. Can you imagine being 20 something and suddenly waking up one morning to a wrinkled face and gray hair?? That’s Kafka-esque enough to induce a stroke. Fortunately, our faculties disintegrate with a subtle slowness. So slow that we are lulled into a complacency of illusion; the illusion that things are as they once were.
But alas, they are not and all the wisdom in the world cannot make up for one, wrong stumble in the dark. So what do we do? Plant a flashlight every few feet. Unless you have hypermnesia, you might also want to light the way to them with night-lights. (Of course, those don’t help one bit when the power goes out!) This is an easy fix. Illuminating the mind is much trickier because it just plays tricks on you.
Those ‘shots’ in the dark that I heard? Turns out they were the snap, crackle pop of our transformer blowing out across the street. The mans’ voice? My neighbor yelling that his tree was on fire. A large limb from it had fallen hard onto the power lines. As my neighbors stumbled out into the blackness, amidst the blue, flashing lights of police cars and screaming sirens, one, older lady, wearing a bathrobe emerged holding a single, flickering candle. No, not me. . .yet.
I love these feet—all ten toes of them. In fact, if I could reach them I would give each a big KISS! They used to run 6 miles a day barefooted on the beach. Not anymore but I still love them for all the places they’ve taken me. What’s more, it occurs to me how I have ignored them for years, yet they keep marching forward, still taking me on new adventures. Why just yesterday, they took me to my first Zumba class!
See, here’s the thing. Yesterday I woke up with an aching back. Actually, it’s been aching for about a week now. So, I did what any self-respecting person would do at my age. . .I reached for my tennis shoes. Then I drove to the YMCA and headed for that class I’ve been hearing about for years.
The rap music was pumping as I arrived and suddenly a roomful of about 50 girls started shaking their booty—and I mean shaking it. I maneuvered to the back and tried to keep up. The girl in front of me was shaking her butt so fast I don’t know how it stayed attached. Not only did she shake it about 6 times per second, but she did so while bending her knees and going side to side.
Well, I can’t bend my knees anymore so first I got my butt going. Then I tried to keep it going while moving side to side. Next thing I know my head’s going too. However, once my head started going, my butt stopped. So I stopped my head, got my butt going again and started over. Problem was, everytime I got to the point where I was actually following the instructor, she did something different.
But bless my feet. They never stopped. Crazy thing is when it was all over my back pain was gone! When I woke up this morning, the ONLY thing that hurt were my feet. So, I walked them out onto the grass and took their picture. Since I’ve never even given them a pedicure, it was the least I could do. They have kickstarted my motorcycles, pranced in high heels, shuffled off to buffalo and plied too many times to count. . .and I am grateful they still stand on this side of the grass.