By "that" I mean the last decade. And the one before that. And the one before that. Like the tennis ball that kept whizzing by me in a match recently, passing before my eyes in a blur. My legs could still get me there, but I could barely see it.
When I was forty-five, my eyesight began to decline. Overnight, I found I could not see the words on a page held close to my face, and began to do all the things I once mocked. I held my arm out ramrod straight to help bring text into focus. I sought out better light to distinguish between blue and black socks. I cursed drug manufacturers for printing dosage instructions in such ridiculously minute font. I cursed drug manufacturers for inventing child resistant caps that could only be opened by children or mechanical engineers.
When I was thirty-five, I became pregnant with my third and final child. Twenty weeks into it, I showed up at my doctor's office for what had become, if not mandatory, routine prenatal testing for older mothers. "What's the reason for the testing?" the lady at the front desk asked me. Wasn't it obvious? I glanced down at my protruding belly. She glanced at my chart. "Ah, advanced maternal age," she said. Your eggs are rotten, is what I heard. Your child could have two heads, is what I knew she was thinking. Even if she's healthy, everyone will think you're her grandmother. As it turned out, nobody ever claimed to think I was her grandmother, at least not to my face; occasionally, though, when I held her close, her soft, pale cheek next to my darkened summer skin, I was mistaken for her babysitter. A babysitter of advanced age, of course.
When I was twenty-five, I packed my bags and left New York for Chicago, engaged (on and off) to the man without whom I could not breathe. My eggs were not yet rotten, my eyes worked (although I may not have been seeing things all that clearly). I knew nobody in Chicago other than the man without whom I could not breathe and a handful of his relatively new friends. He became my husband, they became my friends. We stumbled around in the light, trying to find our way as we started our new life. We were young, we could handle child resistant caps, we knew the color of our socks. Everything seemed clear, black and white. We hadn't anticipated all the shades of gray.
By the time I turn fifty-five in a few months, my three children will have all packed their bags and left Chicago for places in all different directions. I have been without the man without whom I could not breathe for quite a while now, and I am still breathing. I know lots of people in Chicago, have lots of friends, but nothing seems black and white. I had anticipated all the shades of gray, but I will still be stumbling around in the light. Nothing will seem clear.
By the time I turn fifty-five in a few months, any eggs I still have will most certainly be rotten, and the next time I hold a pale infant cheek next to mine nobody will think I am her mother. Unless, of course, the child has two heads. When I sit in the doctor's waiting room, I will glance at the thirty-five and forty year olds with protruding bellies and wonder whether they are there because they are of "advanced maternal age." To me, they don't look old enough to have babies or to know much of anything. They probably know how to open child resistant caps though.
By the time I turn fifty-five in a few months, my arms will not be anywhere near long enough to help me read the fine print. Just as well, I suppose, because at this point I already know that paralysis and death are always potential side effects. I won't care if my socks match, and I will just leave the caps off the pill bottles because there won't be any children or mechanical engineers around to help me. Tennis balls will continue to whiz by me, not only because I can barely see them but because my legs won't get me there in time. My world will still be filled with shades of gray, and even though nothing is ever black and white and the font on pill bottles will seem even smaller and nothing will seem clear, I will continue to see things more clearly than I did when I was twenty-five.
Except the tennis balls.
No comments:
Post a Comment