An excellent piece in the New Yorker about how most modern medicine is getting old age utterly wrong. There’s a fascinating mini-account of a life, and some surprising medical treatment:
She was eighty-five years old, with short, frizzy white hair, oval glasses, a lavender knit shirt, and a sweet, ready smile….She had a high-school education, and during the war she’d worked as a riveter at the Charlestown Navy Yard. She also worked for a time at the Jordan Marsh department store in downtown Boston. But that was a long time ago. She stuck to home now, with her yard and her terrier and her family when they visited.
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