Over the past week, there were three consecutive days when I felt the fragility of life, the impact of growing older.

On Tuesday night, I went to the Blues Jam at the Blue Note Grill in Durham. I’ve been going there to dance since last November. Over that time, I’ve found the people to be friendly and welcoming–not always the case at dance venues. Some places can be ‘cliquish’ in a way that you wouldn’t expect—since we’re not in high school. The Blues crowd is more casual and while there’s some couples doing fancy steps, many of the folks are just enjoying freestyle —or “fast dancing” like we did back in the day. Most of the ones I sit with are around my age.

About halfway through the night, one of the men whom I’ve gotten to know, and have danced with a couple of times, came out on the floor with two women following close behind. For the first time, I saw him using a cane that he then placed on a table near the dance area. The women stayed close to him and others, including me, joined them. The man looked more thin, and his eyes weren’t as bright as I remembered– like he’d been sick. In spite of this, we all just danced and sang along with the group on stage.

It occurred to me that the women, and then the rest of us, were forming a protective circle around the man. While I didn’t know them that well, it felt like we were all one as we supported our friend and fellow dancer. If he became weak, or fell, we would be able to help him. He’d never needed that kind of support before. What hit me was how any of us in that circle could need the same help at a moment’s notice. Life can change quickly, and does more often, as you grow older.

On Wednesday night, I went to the After Work Mingle at Loafer’s Beach Club in Raleigh. That was the first time since getting sick in April, that I’ve danced two nights in a row. Previously, dancing two and even three nights in a row–or at least in the same week, wasn’t unusual for me. Now that my energy has mostly returned, I wanted to increase my activity.

I have friends there that I’ve known since I started dancing in 2012, and others, whom I’ve just gotten to know in the past two years. A couple of the men are in their mid-seventies and are like big brothers—nothing romantic. We have regular conversations and they’ve been supportive of me as I’ve navigated life since divorce. They have different perspectives on couple relationships–since one was widowed and has remarried, and the other has twice divorced and never wants to remarry. He sometimes brings his “lady friend” on Wednesday nights and he dances a lot with plenty of vigor. Both men have helpful insights on dating at this time in life.

Last week, I complained to the divorced man, that my energy level had not returned to what it used to be. He had noticed my long absence during the time I was sick and recovering.

“You know, Connie. I don’t think any of us feel our age—ever,” he said. “Our bodies know and they just won’t let us do as much as we did before.”

This wasn’t the first time he’d told me that.

I looked about the room and saw the singles and couples–some younger, but many older than me–a few of them in their eighties. The Wednesday night crowd is a more established group, with friendships that go way back to time together at the Beach Music/SOS events at Myrtle Beach. I’m more on the “fringe” there with a few of my friends who are more into West Coast Swing dancing. We are outliers with the beach music, shag-dancing crowd.

Both the Blues and the Beach groups are communities of support; their love of music and dancing helps balance their shared ups and downs of life and the challenges of growing older.

On Thursday, I got a call from my friend-since-college, Kay. She and Debbie lived across the hall our freshman year. I shared a room with my friends from my hometown, Donna and Pam. The five of us have kept our ties over the years and have been intentional about getting together to maintain our friendship. Kay was calling at an unusual time—when she would usually be cooking supper. After we got through our initial, warm greeting, her voice turned serious.

“I got some bad news today,” she began. “Debbie has been sick with COVID and is now in the ICU at UNC Hospital on life support.”

She shared the few details she knew–that Debbie was on an ECMO machine. I’d never worked as a nurse in an ICU and knew little about what that entailed. While on the phone with Kay, I looked up ECMO. That machine was doing the work for both Debbie’s heart and lungs. Kay and I shared our shock that Debbie was so ill. We ended with a prayer and I promised to call Donna and Pam. After that, we would keep up in group texts or phone calls; we weren’t alone in our worry for our friend.

After the phone call, I walked around in disbelief. Debbie had always been healthy, a lively and bright spirit. How could things have gone bad so quickly? I’d stopped hearing a lot about COVID and had wanted to believe we were passed it. But now, my friend who was my age, was gravely ill and we were praying for her life.

When I thought about what I would post, I couldn’t get beyond how fragile life had felt this week. I looked back at a post I did May 30, 2021 ” ‘Till We Meet Again.” That entry came after we college friends, who’d attended Atlantic Christian College (later renamed Barton College), had called ourselves “AC Sisters”, met at the college in Wilson, N.C. We walked the campus where we’d first met as 18-year-olds. How fun our day together, remembering the old times and discussing our current lives. How hard it had been to find a time to get away with all our responsibilities of caring for grandkids and our parents.

L to R– Debbie, Me, Kay, Pam, and Donna

At the end of that 2021 post, I’d remembered a benediction that was sung by the choir at my church, “God Be With You Till We Meet Again” (written by Jeremiah Rankin in 1880). Now, I look at the verses and this one jumps off the page:

“God be with you till we meet again,
When life’s perils thick confound you,
Put His arms unfailing round you,
God be with you till we meet again.”

Since last Thursday when Kay called me, I have often thought of Debbie in her hospital bed. I can quickly call this up—especially since I was in a hospital bed with pneumonia in May. When I feel sad, thinking of her all alone and unaware, I have to visualize this verse with God putting “His arms unfailing round you.” I pray for her in her deep sleep of illness to feel God’s healing light hovering over her; it is what I can do.

I have felt the fragility of life in an acute way over the past week. I have also seen the strength of connections with others, how that community of care becomes even more important over the years. My hope for us all is that we’ll nurture those strong bonds and reach out to others who have a less secure network. It is in this compassion that we become one in our shared human experience of life.

Blessings to You and Over You,

Connie