I faced the unfaceable and stuffed my Temple of Carbs into a
bathing suit for the first time this year. I was off to the small pool in our
complex to read and maybe catch some conversation.
Unlike everyone else, I dodged the sun
and planted myself safely under the shade of an umbrella and opened my book,
but after a while, the chatter in the pool drew me in.
While we stood in the water, swishing
with our hands, one woman there mentioned that when she returned North, she’d
be going back to her job in an assisted living facility. I knew one of my
friends there at the pool had sold their house in Georgia and moved with her
husband to such a place. Both facilities were the ‘staged’ sort, where you might
begin in the independent living portion but when the need arose, you would then
move on to the next level of care.
My friend spoke about the changes she’d
likely see there when they returned to Georgia from Florida – people needing
more help in the common dining room than before, others who they might not see
again at all.
One thing I like about being here is
that most of the people I see are in my age range and out and about, which means
that paradoxically, with few opportunities for comparison, I tend to forget how
old I am.
I don’t think I’d like living in a
place where the ongoing frailties of others would serve as a graphic reminder
to me of what’s ahead.
