A man in his later years, riding his bicycle, gets slammed by a car. He is rushed to the hospital where doctors decide he must have his right leg amputated. We learn how he enters upon the long process of dealing with this loss as, after a while, he prepares to return to his apartment.
Thus begins “The Blow,” a short story by J. M. Coetzee in the June 27th issue of the New Yorker. The author, winner of the Nobel Prize for literature, is a South African who writes with uncommon sensitivity about what it is like for an aging man, Paul Rayment, to cope with sudden radical disability.
The man’s first home care attendant proves unsuitable. The second woman, a recent immigrant from the Balkans, turns out to be supportive beyond what he could have imagined. Ultimately, this compatibility brings about surprising changes in him.
For fear of giving too much away, I stop the story here. But, if you want to know what’s it’s like to be in new and unexpected need in later life, I recommend reading it. One of the (many) best things about it is the subtle way that the man’s inner feelings shift as time wears on.
This superb fiction has a basis in real life, of course. That’s what makes it so compelling to read. It puts into imaginative form some of the same approach one of my favorite gurus takes when writing about the meaning of frailty in the lives of old people. This writer, Wendy Lustbader, bases her reflections on the work she has done with a wide variety of such men and women..
Envisioning becoming frail, she poses the question: “How will I let my caregivers know who I am?” That is the issue because, if the provider of my care does not go beyond surfaces, I will be for her only another little old lady or old man. I will simply be one more mouth to be fed or body to be pushed back to the bedroom.
But, if my helper does get to know me and allow herself to be known, perhaps I can preserve my real self. Then I will emerge as a real person capable of being known and even loved.
“Are there ways of becoming more as the body becomes less?” asks Lustbader. Answering her own question, she goes on: “There is a further worth awaiting us in remembering and contemplating, in thinking things over, in letting all that has been said and done assemble itself into something we can grasp.”
Although this looking inward may seem daunting, let me suggest that doing it can change your world. Lustbader would encourage anyone who is attracted by this prospect to “embrace our ultimate fragility” now, before it becomes necessary. Doing so will reveal the beauty of human life and its meaning.
This is where Coetzee’s short story ultimately leads. The man makes discoveries about himself that turn him into a different kind of person. The life that seemed at a dead end as a result of the sudden catastrophe now takes on new meaning.
Thus literary art succeeds in revealing something not commonly perceived or appreciated. It shows what can happen when people are thrown into unfamiliar circumstances that appear only dire. With an effort on both sides, the direness can become transformed into one of the most valuable experiences of one’s whole life.
But the situation is not without challenges. When, as happens most of the time, family members are the ones who care for those who are frail, they may need to improve relationships that have been marred by remoteness or tension. Lustbader tells of a son who was pressed into service lifting his father from bed to wheelchair. They had not been on speaking terms for years, but when he had to embrace his father to make the transfer, the son broke into tears and so did his father, too.
When care comes from professionals outside the family, then the challenge may be different. Hired caregivers often differ in ethic origin or social class in ways that make it necessary for the frail person to adapt to unfamiliar styles of doing things. However, it is vitally important to break through toward respect for personal identity.
Some people, like the man in the story, have frailty thrust upon them suddenly, without warning. They have to adapt sooner than they ever expected.
By contrast, those of us in at least relatively good health have time to prepare ourselves for changes in our status. The best preparation, experience suggests, is to cultivate in ourselves an inner life that enables us to find meaning for what we may be called upon to go through.
Making time, in advance, for assembling within ourselves the various elements of our life can prepare us for diminishment to come. It is the old adventure of finding ourselves in new ways, much to our surprise and, perhaps, relief.
Richard