Sol Packer

A few weeks ago I underwent a simple prostatectomy, an outpatient procedure that’s not a big deal.  It was the third reduction, over the past twenty-one years, of my prostate, that almond-shaped organ that continues to grow even as my need for it has diminished.  According to the instructions received at the hospital, I was not to exercise or to carry anything heavier than ten pounds for two weeks.  The two weeks passed a few days ago, so the other day I ventured forth for a walk in Prospect Park.  It would be a greatly truncated version of my usual walk, I decided.  I’d walk only to the first traffic light on the West Drive and then return by a parallel path. 

The park, at the height of its spring brilliance, with flowering dogwood, azalea, magnolia, and cherry, seemed an ideal place in which resume my career as intrepid walker, but the mild inclines upward from the Grand Army Plaza that I had ignored but a month ago now appeared as formidable obstacles to my progress.  My thigh muscles began to ache and I had to stop to catch my breath.  A walk that would have taken me no more than 20 minutes a month ago, now required at least twice as much time.  I received a vivid lesson in the adage, “use it or lose it.”

Feeling slightly sorry for myself, I sat down on a bench facing the Long Meadow.  On one of the bench’s back slats was a small plaque:

In memory of Sol Packer

who played volleyball with his friends

on the Long Meadow

1982 – 2006

No more than 24 years old when he died, the young man was probably still unmarried, probably still childless, probably at only the beginning of his career.  Even today, he’d be no more than 30, still a kid.  He’d hardly lived before he was taken from those who loved him.  My self-pity vanished as I felt pity for him and his family and realized how lucky I’ve been to have lived so long, able to feel my muscles ache and my breath come short, able to admire the flowering trees on the other side of the Long Meadow.  If my walk in Prospect Park reminded me of the importance of continued exercise, it also reminded me of the unfairness of life.  I can’t do anything about the young dying prematurely, but I can keep myself vertical for a little bit longer by returning to regular exercise.  And from now on, I'll look for Sol Packer's bench as a reminder of the fragility of life and of its preciousness even at 80.


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