Hubris

I laughed, behind her back, at my grandmother one day years ago.
I was visiting her in a new home, a semi-luxurious retirement
complex, simpler to manage than her recently sold house. My
humor was sparked by the morning ritual of her medications.
Nana brought out a little wicker basket with a bow on the handle,
a gay little touch of color, considering that the basket stored her
multiple meds.

Once the little bottles of pills and nostrums were lined up for this
odd ritual, my grandmother doled out pills from each into a pillbox
with compartments for each hour of the day. So many at
mid-morning, so many at noon, so many before supper. I loved
my grandmother, and enjoyed telling my sisters later of this new,
funny story about our beloved Nana. How amusing.

Now, though I am not even within twenty years of her age on
that long-ago day, at my computer, a pill box marked by days
is shoved up under the stand, so that I will remember to take
my meds. It takes an effort for me not to introduce my state
of health, my aches and pains, into conversations nowadays.

Many of the people I know are much younger than I, listening
to me with what seems polite attention at the mock-humorous
self-absorbed commentary on arthritis, blood pressure and
other such fascinating subjects. In my mind's eye, Nana's
knowing smile appears; she is nodding, she is beginning that
rich chuckle which endeared her to more than just her
grandchildren. These young people listening so politely, I
know exactly what they are thinking. They can hardly wait
until the story of this old man's stereotypical hypochondria will
amuse their families, their young friends.

The great wheel of years has come around, the smugness of
youth belongs to others now. Pride has many faces, including the
polite, not quite concealed amusement I showed, those years ago,
when my grandmother took out her pills.