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.
