Things fall apart....

Even eyeballs

Odilon Redon, The Eye like a Strange Balloon Mounts toward Infinity, lithograph, 1882

A week or so ago, in conversation with a friend about all the slings and arrows age sends our way (you know the drill—hip and knee replacements, macular degeneration, hearing loss, dementia, and so on ad nauseum), I quoted what I remembered as a line from a Nora Ephron essay, “After a certain age,” I said, “it’s all maintenance.” Turns out I had the quote reasonably right, but the context all wrong: she was talking about what we need to do to look presentable day in and day out—all the upkeep required to keep your hair, nails, skin, and body in optimal shape. (“Maintenance is what they mean when they say, ‘After a certain point, it's just patch, patch, patch.,’” wrote Ephron. “Maintenance is what you have to do just so you can walk out the door knowing that if you go to the market and bump into a guy who once rejected you, you won't have to hide behind a stack of canned food.”)

I’m talking about the more elemental and often life-extending kind of maintenance (see above: hip and knee replacements, pacemakers, stents for angioplasty, etc.). It’s nothing to do with vanity that I am awaiting repairs on a hearing aid and a crown for a back molar: I need these things just to keep chewing and listening. To hell with the old beau in Albertson’s.

But the latest bit of maintenance is the most terrifying and will explain why I may be out of commission for a couple of weeks. The long Covid virus, or so my ophthalmologist speculates, has triggered serious inflammation in my right eye and caused my retina to become detached, so that at the moment I am almost completely blind in that orb. It’s a situation that calls for a surgery known as a vitrectomy, which removes the vitreous gel from and/or repairs the retina (I’ll know more tomorrow during my pre-op with the surgeon).

But that’s not the crappiest part: The truly bad news is that I will have to remain FACE DOWN for at least seven days and, yes, that includes eating, writing, reading, watching videos, and SLEEPING! I’ve rented a bunch of equipment, including a chair that resembles a medieval torture device (if such things were made with padding), and now I HAVE TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO PUT IT ALL TOGETHER. I’ve already made a few stabs at this, following instructional videos, and I am as hopelessly close to tears as the unsuspecting Ikea customer who orders furniture with those lethal instructions: some assembly required….

So I’m not writing much today and I’m definitely not in a memoir kind of mood, and forget about the recipes. I thought I’d have time to make a batch of lentil soup before we head down to Albuquerque tomorrow, but I don’t think that’s going to happen. I’ve stocked up on Lean Cuisine, though this kind of heavily processed food is verboten on the long Covid diet. Too bad. I just hope there’s a way to shovel it into my mouth while I’m straddling the apparatus above.

And as for Covid, do I still have it? I’m not sure. I still feel pretty buzzy all the time and I easily become tired but maybe I’m simply getting old and need more naps. And I am definitely anxious.

There is nothing that makes you more selfish and self-absorbed than imminent surgery, but I am nonetheless deeply grateful to friends who are helping me through this ordeal: the patient ex-husband, Mr. Landi, will accompany me for the next three days; my wonderful curator, Michelle Cooke, is working with my talented assistant, Sophie Lenoir, to install the next show at the Wright; my friend and neighbor Ani Garrick, an extraordinary artist, is taking care of my beloved Sylvia. And my thanks to all the friends and well-wishers who send healing vibes my way.

Since I’m not offering much to read this week, allow me to point you in the direction of Tim Kreider’s luminous essay about aging from a recent issue of The New York Times.

I hope to be back on Substack with more substance soon.