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I arrived at my community yoga class 30 minutes early. An older gentleman was waiting outside of the door. Seeing he walked with a cane, I wondered if he might be in the wrong place.
“Are you here for yoga?” I asked brightly.
“What else would I be here for? Are you the instructor? I’m Bob.” He didn’t wait for an answer. He just walked into the room. He reminded me of Mr. Fredricksen in the movie Up and I was about to be his Russell.
I went down the hall to the ladies room to change and began to panic. You may think yoga teachers are not allowed to panic because we are just supposed to let the teaching flow through us from the mystical universe. Think again. I’ve had an extraordinarily stressful couple of weeks, and my head had been throbbing since lunch. And now I had to figure out how to manage a class with a man who has a cane, and who I think may be triple my age?
“I can’t do this,” I sighed to myself in the mirror.
And then my usually tiny intuition strongly rose up out of my gut, “Stop whining and teach.”
My intuition has grown tired of my self-doubt. I listened. I picked up my bag and went down the hall to our classroom, chucking my entire plan for class right out the window.
My endlessly supportive friend, Tre, had arrived and another regular student would join us a few moments later. As Bob set up his mat I asked him if he had any health issues I should know about.
“None,” he said smiling. “I’m really healthy.”
“Are you sure, Bob?” I asked. “High blood pressure, high cholesterol?”
“Nope. I just want to do what everyone else in the class does.”
“I see you walk with a cane,” I said, letting my voice go up as if it were a question.
“Well, yeah, I had a hip replacement about 15 years ago. I’m probably due for another one soon. But at my age, 92, I can’t complain.”
92. 92? 92! Bob is certainly the oldest ambulatory student I’ve ever taught, particularly in a mixed level community class. For a time I taught on the Geriatric Psych floor at New York Methodist Hospital, but it was a chair yoga class, I had nurses and therapists to assist the patients, and most patients were quite far along their journey with dementia. Teaching with Bob, alongside healthy young women, was a new experience entirely.
I was nervous so I started asking questions to find a way in, to relate. We learned Bob was born in Brooklyn and has lived in New York City all his life except for his years in the Navy during World War II. He now lives just a few blocks away in a rent-controlled walk-up. His 94-year-old brother doesn’t do yoga – not hard enough for him – and goes to the YMCA 3 days a week to swim and bike.“He’s in even better physical shape than me,” he said with a bit of surprise in his voice.
I wish I could tell you I went on to give a brilliant class. I didn’t. I was nervous for Bob the whole time. I rarely give hands on adjustments in these community classes but Bob needed me and I had to be there for him. I struggled to figure out how to honor each of the students and their time in class, giving them the practice they each needed while taking care that Bob didn’t have something terrible happen to him while in my care.Additionally, I wanted to honor and respect Bob’s desire to be independent.
I take the health and protection of my students very seriously, and with this curve ball I found myself improvising all over the place. This place didn’t feel good. I was failing badly.
Towards the end of the class, and I mean the bitter end, I began to find my groove. Better late than never I guess. As we wrapped up and everyone got their belongings together, Bob gave us a tip of his hat as he walked out of the room, cane in hand.
“See you next time,” he called over his shoulder.
No one was more surprised than me. And maybe that’s the lesson I needed to learn from Bob – if you hang in there, especially when you feel yourself failing, and if you rise up and continually try to offer your very best, no matter how good or not good you think it may be, you’ll get through just fine. And you can bring others right along with you.
Christa Avampato 