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Around the first of April of this year, I began using a wheelchair when I leave the apartment. This was an inevitability that I resisted, fought off for as long as I could. Admitting that I need a wheelchair struck me as “the last straw,” akin to simply giving up, accepting the fact that the virus is winning. Worse, I have become more of a burden to my fiancé Rick than a companion. However, between the debilitating pain in my back—from severe osteoporosis, three herniated discs, four compression fractures, and a mysterious inflammation that w...
Editor's note: This column is part of an ongoing series provided by the Diverse Elders Coalition, www.diverseelders.org. It's 1959 and I'm six years old. My family has gathered at my grandparents' house this Sunday to watch The Ed Sullivan Show. I'm sitting on the cold linoleum floor, watching, as this very tall, thin, very regal-looking woman walks onto the stage. Her gray hair is pulled back in a severely tight bun, and she's wearing a high-necked long-sleeved black dress. The music starts, an...
