Portrait Bust of a Woman; Mid-2nd century, Roman.
My photo, taken at the Art Institute of Chicago.

Women beyond a certain age are largely unseen, I know, but beneath that cloak of invisibility, I have been self-conscious about my appearance for several months. My husband and daughters have assured and reassured me that all is well, but I didn’t begin to believe it until yesterday, when the surgeon smilingly beheld her work and declared that I am healing much more quickly (and much less traumatically) than most can expect; more, I will look as if much of this had never happened — and soon.

Since late August, it has sometimes felt as if my calendar comprised only medical appointments followed by return visits coupled with lab work accompanied by consultations, as if my days demanded many, too many, health-related accommodations. This is a drama-filled and -fueled interpretation of what were largely commonplace issues associated with aging, and when I couldn’t talk (or shame) myself out of feeling sorry for me, I walked. It helped (even when it hurt — hence, the orthopedist, the orthotics) — as did reading, finding the Jerry Orbach seasons of Law & Order on Hulu, looking at art, and listening to music, including pop treasures like this.

Today through rain-streaked windows, I can see wet-feathered birds visiting our feeders while I, dry and warm in my favorite chair, read from a stack that includes Shakespeare’s Henry V and The Tempest and Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian. And according to the forecast, I should be able to walk for a bit before class tonight. I’ll wear my cloak of invisibility with confidence.