Getting Personal

You never know when the norm has run its course.

There’s a ritual. A little before seven o’clock ThaiThai-dog runs upstairs to my office to get me. It’s dinner time. You’re late. C’mon on. He’s right.

And then I hear the first notes of the tenor saxophone. My husband has started practicing in the living room, not far from the kitchen. The tenor sax is a good size and though I’ve never even tried to make a sound, it’s clear that it requires a lot of breath. Every night, while I begin the preparations for dinner, my husband would toot. I’ve marveled at his steadfastness, thirty minutes, maybe more, every night. ThaiThai would protest and then grow silent. The tenor sax, compared to the other saxophones, has a sound that’s been compared to the human voice. My husband’s playing has been likened to The Prez. That’s a high compliment. As sweet as the sound, the horn makes a pretty big noise. Some nights the practice flows, others there’s a lot of grumbling about the reeds. Reeds, I’ve learned are a big deal.

You never know when the norm has run its course.

I’m no kid - well into my 70s and my husband’s seventeen years older than me, he’s been lucky, and by default, so have I. A stent here. Bladder cancer there. But he’s lived by his motto of “Defy, don’t deny.” And that’s worked. Until.

You’d never guess my husband’s age from looking at him or talking with him. He’s not out of it. Until a few weeks ago, most days he walked three miles gathering his steps in stages. When it was more difficult I/we could blame it on the weather: it was too hot, or too humid or too… . As a psychologist, he’s continued to have a part-time therapy practice. Unless he’s doing battle with his iPhone or laptop, he rejects any help. He still has grit which gives me hope for my next seventeen years if I’m lucky to have them. The impact of time on my own body is hard enough for me to accept. The changes I see in my husband are more pronounced. Of course they are.

While I’ll always be younger, sometimes I worry that his aging might be contagious.

And I worry about how much his aging, as it accelerates, will change my life as I know it. Jill Ciment married her art teacher when she was 17 years old and he was 47. In her memoir, Consent, she writes about how the age difference didn’t matter and then it did.

I’ve just completed the Red Cross online course for CPR. I’m certified. I sure hope I don’t have to use it. After reading about Travis and Taylor–I confess–in the New Yorker, an article popped up from August 2023, “The Hidden Harms of CPR.” Aside from once again highlighting how there really is no privacy-I mean why that article, and why now–the article also confirmed my own concerns about whether I could really pull it off–CPR is brutal. And less effective than one would hope.

I don’t remember when my husband’s practice sessions began to get shorter. He said he needed a new horn. Both his horns were old and beyond repair. I told him I’d go with him to the city, carry a horn, because he’d have to compare what he’d been playing with what he’d buy. He’s lost heft and I could put my strength-training to good use. Buying a new horn is a big investment.

Not too long ago he commented that he didn’t know what he’d do if he couldn’t play anymore. His older brother had given him his first horn when he was fourteen years old. How did his brother know how much this would mean in his life?

I remember when I first heard him play. The pull of his notes and how they filled my heart. And how he looked–oh so sexy.

I remember when I took it for granted - the sounds of his practicing–while I readied dinner. I never knew how the silence would feel. We don’t talk about it.