AGING

2019 March 26

Last month I turned 69. Spare me the eye rolling, comments about age being "just a number", and the "don’t say you’re old" remark. The fact is that for me, 69 seems old, I emphasize, for me. 

Allow me to explain. My Mum died at age 49. I was 26 at the time of her death. Both my grandmothers passed away in their very early 60s. These events set forth the idea that I would probably die by age 49, or 50. Perhaps not a rational conclusion to draw, but one I drew in any case. I spent the next 23 years following Mummy’s passing, certain that my own end would come in or around the year 1999. 

I remember my 31st birthday clearly. I was cutting my birthday cake at Dad’s house, when I began to weep. Daddy in his matter of fact way asked simply, "What the hell are you crying about?" When I told him it was because I was getting older, he pooh poohed me and said something to the effect, that everybody was getting older, that’s the way it worked. Maybe so, but did everyone live with this dread? This assurance that they would follow in their Mother’s footsteps? Probably not.

But, I didn’t die at 49, or even 50. Glory be! I am now 19 years passed what I thought would be my expiration date! I should be happy, right?

Well, for some of those ensuing 19 years, I have been happy, and relieved. I remember when I turned 50, my dear Dad tried to get my goat by asking me how it felt to be a half century old. (This was his way of turning the tables, since I had asked him that very question when he turned 50.) But, I wasn’t upset by the question, rather my response was something along the lines of, I’m amazed and thankful to still be here.

So, what changed that amazement and gratitude into fear and dread in the last couple of decades?

Ah, now we get down to it! 

LOSS. Loss of people, animals, places, things. Loss of abilities, jobs. Loss of memory. Loss after loss, piling on.

Yet, the losses that seem to make me feel old are the loss of memory, loss of job, and loss of abilities. My dear husband tells me that at our age we are "supposed to be retired". He doesn’t think that not having a job is something about which to be sad or mournful. For me, a job is a reason to organize my life, to feel successful, and an indication that I can still contribute. Part of the reason for not having a job is tied to loss of abilities, both mental and physical. And the mental aspect is definitely tied to memory loss.

Some days, I have to ask, "What day is it?"  I forget where I have put things. I get in the car, drive to the end of my street, and have to consciously THINK about where I am going, so that I turn in the appropriate direction. And it is something I must do with the approach of each intersection. Driving has been difficult since the seven car pile up in Virginia in October 2016, but that problem was an anxiety issue. This difficulty with driving stems more from memory issues. I often will Google map where I am going so that I can visualize the route as I drive. One month recently, I forgot to pay the electric bill. I joke that I have a "Teflon memory", but it really isn’t funny to me, it’s scary. I am scared that these little memory glitches are the beginning of a larger problem.

The physical matters that have recently reemerged, such as joint discomfort, difficulty walking distances, increased blood pressure, and sleep disturbances, I am hoping are related to the stress weight I gained back after taking a Nanny position for which I was not prepared. Before that job, which I took because I was bored "being retired", and because I was worried about the severe cuts we anticipate to our Teamster pension, I had worked steadily over the last five years to become healthier. Yet, now with additional weight returned to my body, I cannot stand for any length of time, so even that old joke about being a Walmart Greeter, isn’t funny - I certainly couldn’t stand on concrete floors for longer than an hour!

And the books we’ve been reading in book club are sad. "Our Souls at Night", "Leisure Seekers", "Saints For All Occasions", nobody old in these books is happy and living a productive life. I don’t want my life to imitate this kind of art. Where I lack contentment, and autonomy, unless it is planning suicide. That’s just too sad and depressing.

I don’t know how to navigate these waters. I am sacred that there will come a day when the losses will be one too many, and what is left of my Teflon memory will peel away. Then what? How does anyone find peace and contentment as they age? How does one adjust one’s expectations of self to fit with decreased abilities, physically and mentally? How do you keep fear at bay? And how do you prevent those decreased abilities from triggering a depressive episode? I want to age gracefully, but I fear that may be a huge failure!

I am grateful that I have Raymond by my side. Sometimes I give him a hard time about being a "Pollyanna", but he is so grounded, AND he always knows what day it is! He is a rock, and when one of us has some problem he points out that between the two of us, we’ll be OK. I hope he’s right.

2019 Jan 16

Funny the things you remember. 

Just now, sitting here on the couch with my dog, trying to ease myself out of a bad mood by talking to Deacon, while petting him, I suddenly, for no discernible reason, remembered my Grandma’s raincoat. I remembered that I claimed it as my own when she died. It probably didn’t fit me very well. I know it was too long, because I hemmed it myself. Seeing my amateurish stitches in my mind’s eye, now, these 50+ years later, I realize how odd I must’ve looked to my fellow 7th graders, but I felt beautiful in that coat! It was more of a fall coat, but rain resistant. It may have been a London Fog, because I have a blurry memory of the tag, though it meant nothing to me at the time. It was lightweight against the chill of autumn breezes. Colorful, but in a muted fall palette and laid out in small, uneven, rectangles, with dark borders, a kind of stained glass effect. When I think of that coat, Dolly Parton’s song "Coat of Many Colors" is the background music playing in my head. 

And remembering all of that, just now, brought tears to my eyes.

I wish I could say whether the tears were for Grandma, for the memories, for myself, or some combination, but I am uncertain of their true origin.

I wonder if she bought that coat because she felt beautiful when she wore it. I wonder, did she love the colors, and the feel of the fabric, the soft velvet collar? It was unlike most of her other coats, which were camel colored, or brown, or black. It was quite a departure from her mink stools, which I found creepy even as a child, with the poor creatures faces still attached, albeit with glass eyes replacing the real thing. I wish I could even say with clarity, that I claimed the coat because it was a connection to the Grandma I lost at age 12. I cannot. But, I am grateful for whatever quirk of memory lead me to reminisce about Grandma "Up Morningside", as we called her, on this dreary afternoon.    

This was my mother’s mother. My very proper Grandma, who wore gloves and a hat when she went to church, or shopping downtown. My Grandma who smoked Herbert Tarreton’s, but never in public, because, "A lady never smokes cigarettes in a public place, and never on the street!"  My Grandma who prayed the rosary, quietly, each evening after dinner, sitting in her Queen Anne chair, in the living room of her and Pap-Pap’s apartment. My Grandma who watched Lawrence Welk and Bishop Sheen on TV. My Grandma who went to mass every Sunday, on Holy Days of Obligation, and on anniversary dates of the deaths of loved ones. Grandma, whose paternal grandparents came form Ireland, and whose maternal grandparents were from Ohio and New York, and whose Mom & Dad were born in Minnesota and Ohio, respectively. my Grandma who was herself from a large family, being child number 5, of 7. My Grandma who married a man called "C.V.".  My Grandma who gave birth to one child, either stillborn, or who died as an infant. She never spoke of the child. This is the Grandma who adopted a 6 month old girl from Rosalia Foundling Home, and named her Jean. This was my Grandma who never hugged the grandchildren. She was kind, but not warm, or open. This is the Grandma, at whom I lashed out verbally, at age 10, hysterically screaming and crying that she liked our cousin David better than she liked us, "your own grandchildren". Poor Helen! Grandma, I am sorry for being needy, and dramatic!  

Most of what I know is after the fact. But the few true memories I have, that bubble to the surface occasionally, keep me warm, like that coat.