“My body once had served me well with little care or thought for maintenance on my part. Now it was beginning to let me down.”

These words come from my friend and colleague Andrew Achenbaum, an historian who has written several valuable books on aging. In a brief personal statement in the latest issue of a professional journal in the field, he shares with readers how illness has changed his life.

Andy got off to a head start. At age 40 he took on two chronic illnesses that afflicted him for the next 15 years. However, with good medical care he managed to keep these maladies under control.

Even so, the experience brought about changes in his outlook on the world. What he terms “a taste of mortality” gave my friend greater compassion toward other people. He became more conscious of how, for some sufferers, long-lasting diseases can be as difficult as acute ones.

Lately, Andy has come into a new area of health problems. For two years he had to cope with a prostate infection, a disease that has changed him in both body and mind. It required two operations, neither of which cured the root cause of his illness.

He also found himself forgetting things and feeling lethargic much of the time.  Through a biopsy his urologist discovered cancer, a finding that required removal of the prostate.

That latter surgery happened a year ago. Now Andy has to deal with his changed body along with other problems such as a dislocated knee cap caused by a fall.

The upshot of his new situation has been a further change in his outlook. It has changed his concept of what it means to grow older.

In explaining it he writes: “Successful aging to me means having family and friends who prove to be wonderful caregivers, chauffeurs, and cheerleaders. And in my vulnerability, I see more than I imagined in the aging faces of others.”

On reading his statement, I felt sorry that my friend had to suffer so much. Until I saw his article, I had no idea that his health had become so precarious since I last saw him. Since he lives in Houston, I do not have the opportunity to visit him or offer any help.

Of course, I welcome the broadening and deepening of Andy’s view of life. Clearly, he has gained from the experience of illness an appreciation of what it means to be human. I only regret that the price for this breakthrough has proven so high.

Most of my age peers have tasted at least some of the same bitter fruit that my friend has. Hardly anyone of us escapes this fate, much as we wish otherwise.

And, while undergoing this kind of trial, we ask the same question that people have presumably been posing for millennia. “Why me?” asks Andy as he looks for some rationale for his suffering.

No more than anyone else can I pretend to offer an explanation. Yes, the experience may offer a chance for greater compassion for others. And it can deepen our understanding of what it means to be human─our vulnerability along with our capacity for hope.

But these profits extend only so far. They do not relieve the pain, nor are they certain to increase our chances for curative processes to take hold.

More promise, perhaps, lies in what my friend says about family and friends. In reaching out with care for him, they have given him a convincing sign that he is loved. Their actions show him his own importance as a human being, a person deserving of deep respect and, yes, love.

That has been my experience when suffering crises in health. Last winter I underwent two such crises. In response to my need, professional caretakers provided me with needed help and encouragement. They reached out to me with skill, sensitivity, and compassion.

Even more, my wife responded to my needs for physical assistance and moral support. To my amazement, she never flinched at the often nasty business of helping me take care of the new mechanics of bodily processes that were forced on me. I envisioned being in her position and wondered how she could cheerfully take on these tasks without being put off by them.

This kind of response to illness can change the whole experience. That is some of the meaning I find in a poem by Rumi, a 13th century Persian poet. Astonishingly enough, he happens now to be one of the most popular poets in America. Here, in a translation by Coleman Barks, is what Rumi says:

I saw grief drinking a cup of sorrow
and called out,
“It tastes sweet,
does it not?”
“You’ve caught me,”
grief answered,
“and you’ve ruined my business.
How can I sell sorrow,
when you know it’s a blessing?”

Richard Griffin