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| The long, long hallways of Bay Village |
My parents live in Florida, in a pink, high-rise retirement
community called Bay Village. It is very fancy, not at all what I expected the
first day I walked into the place. I looked around at the crystal chandeliers
and the thick carpeting and sparkling clean marble-colored tiles--and this is
just in the lobby--and asked my mother, “Are we rich?” No, we weren’t, they had
just lucked into this wonderful, friendly place after they made their last move.
Until the next one . . . which won’t be an apartment. Aging and death are not sugar-coated
here; the staff honor the residents who have passed away with 8x10 glossies and
a single rose in a vase on a shelf next to the lobby coffee pot. The indications
of age are all around. One indication in particular are the noises.
It’s a blessing of nature that as one ages and bodily noises
increase, hearing diminishes. The
first time it happened to me, I thought I was just clearing my throat during a
conversation, but a sound emerged from my mouth that reminded me of the old Mr.
Ed television shows. And not Wilbur--Mr. Ed himself. Extra air bubbled up, my
lips blew out and a blubbery poof erupted that reverberated in my ears, but
apparently not to anyone else in my vicinity. What the hell?” I thought to myself and didn’t think anything
of it...until the next time. And there was a next time, wasn’t there.
Nearly every part of our body begins to make sounds.
Creaking joints, whining hearing aids, grinding teeth and the dreaded expulsion
of errant air and gas manifested in burps and, er, toots. It’s the theme song to aging. I don’t
even know what produces half the sounds I make, but I’m looking forward to the
day when I don’t hear so well. Right now, I’m slightly self-conscious about the
whole business.
But back to that classy retirement community, where jackets
are required for dinner and there are parking areas for walkers. Even
the quick trip to the pool can be a cacophonous journey. Meals in the dining room are
manageable; the sounds of dinner being served and tables being bussed disguise
more of the obvious noises. But just put all those models of good manners and
proper etiquette together in the elevator to go back upstairs and it’s all
snort, snort here, and a burp, burp there; here a belch, there a belch,
everywhere a toot, toot. And nobody hears a thing. And if they do, they’re not
saying anything.
One morning when I was visiting my parents, I headed down to
the computer room to print out a coupon to a restaurant we were going to try
for dinner that evening...at 5 pm. The computer room, beauty salon, craft room, mail room, and
resident services are all brightly lit spaces clustered along a hallway that
culminates at the auditorium. It’s the Grand Central Station of Bay Village. I followed a petite, gray-haired woman with a
crisply ironed white blouse tucked into trim Capri pants dotted with tiny embroidered palm trees. The whole way down the hall, I was treated to the putt-putt-putt of
her procession.
As she turned into the mailroom she saw me behind her and she
gave me a crooked little smile that reached up to her eyes. I smiled back. She might have smiled because she was
simply being pleasant, or maybe in case I was someone she was supposed to know.
But I think her smile said, “I know what I did just there, but I don’t care.”
Now that’s an indication of age I can get behind.
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