Every second Tuesday of the month, my husband, Jack, and I join a group that gathers at Coral Gables Restaurant in East Lansing, Michigan. Our common bond is Okemos High School, class of 1949. Twenty-one graduated that year, and at our table this month there are twelve. The twelve, however, includes about five originals, plus spouses. Sometimes sons, daughters or friends will join us.
Over lunch, the main topic is health, and, inevitably, death. One or two classmates are in “care,” suffering vague, inaccurate memories. Another is hospitalized, pretty much unresponsive. There was an obit of another’s son in the paper the other day.
Stories are shared, “Hip replacement? How recent? Oh, really? I didn’t have that much trouble, but Virginia . . . .”
“I have these rods in my spine . . . .”
“I’m seeing a surgeon this afternoon, the routine appointment before the procedure.”
After some time, I’ve had enough. “We’ve got to change the subject!” I say. “This is getting more and more depressing!” So we return to reminiscences, jokes and reports on what our kids are doing. But all too soon I hear, “. . . rolled that car right over. They dug me out, and at the hospital they . . . .”
In the car on the way home, I complain, “All this health stuff, it’s so repetitive, and sad. Why can’t we talk more about other things? No one wants to hear all about aches and pains, surgeries and all that. We get overloaded. Can’t we find anything else to say?” But, inside I realize that I am probably as interested as anyone at the table in these tales of medical successes and failures.
I begin to think about that for a while: How much other news do we really have to share? Where else can we exchange these stories? Who is willing to listen?
Maybe it’s therapy. This is one of the few places where we understands, meets our basic need to know Oh, others are polite enough, but the truth is, we care. Maybe this monthly luncheon is a valuable outlet for our little group − talking and analyzing, remembering things that few other people remember, sharing in a setting where it is safe to open up without fear that we are boring everyone to death.
So we tell the group about the rheumatologists, the ophthalmologists, the surgeons. We are interested. We know this stuff. Whether we realize it or not, by sharing we go home strengthened, validated.
We enjoy each other, absolutely. But we also meet a basic need – the need to know that someone understands.
