Thoughts on aging, independence, and who knows what

 

My generation has grown old

A friend complained to me the other night about ageism, and I thought to myself I rarely feel that. When feminism had us ladies all up at arms, I rarely felt that I was discriminated against. Maybe I’m just insensitive, but I remember Karen Perkins, founder of the Women’s Center and a real dynamo for women’s rights. I once heard her say she didn’t mind bringing the potato salad as long as she had a seat at the table. And that was me—I almost always felt I had a seat at the table. Oh, sure, at the university, some tried to pat me on the head (thank goodness not elsewhere) and tell me I was a good girl, but I knew how to use that.

But as if to spite me ageism came up the very next night after my friend brought it up. I was frustrated with a computer access problem. To this minute, I remain convinced that it was a problem of the slight tremor in my hands (Facebook wanted to photograph my i.d. card and each try resulted in the command to retake) and not of my computer understanding, but somehow my whole family got involved, it became a big issue (via telephone), and I was advised to read a book and go to sleep. My computer guru son-in-law would fix it in the morning. Let me say it outright: I was offended, probably out of proportion because my frustration level was so high. Contrary to everyone’s loving advice, I did not go to sleep. I tossed and turned and fretted well into the wee hours of the morning.

Brandon did fix it, though bless him, it took about an hour out of his workday and a long phone call. But all is well, and I am back in Facebook’s good graces—don’t judge, it’s an important part of my day. But the incident got me to thinking about independence. As Jean, who dines with me often, will testify, I’m pretty firm about not wanting help in the kitchen. I remind myself of my kids when they were little: “I do it by self!” But to me, it’s part of showing that I’m still capable—in the kitchen, at the computer.

If I need help, I ask for it. And I often do. I can’t get that bowl that is stored high in my closet, nor can my walker and I get around the coffee table to straighten the pillows Sophie has dislodged on the couch. Little stuff, but the things I can’t do. Someone asked recently if I was getting the care I need, and my response was, “Care? I don’t need much care. I just need someone to check that I’ve not fallen (I almost always have my phone with me, especially in the night on a bathroom trip) and to make sure I didn’t die in my sleep. A longtime friend recently was home alone for several days. When his wife returned from a trip, she found him on the floor, unable to get up. Best guess is that he had a stroke, fell and hit his head, and lay there for 24 hours. When you get to be my age, such is always a possibility, so I am grateful that Jordan looks out every morning to be sure I have raised the blind in my kitchen door.

But if insisting on doing what I can is part of the picture, so is accepting what I cannot do. Someone recently said unhappily that she could no longer walk a half mile—since from here to the main house stretches my abilities, I wasn’t as sympathetic as I perhaps could have been. But my philosophy these days is that in my 80+ years I have lived a full life, had a lot of wonderful experiences, and now the time is for me to treasure those memories, perhaps live on them. Oh, sure, in my dreams I am sometimes once again fleet of foot, but that’s a dream, not a reality. I probably cannot take that cross-country railroad trip I’d love to take, though Jamie insists he and I can do it, and I may or may not ever get to Santa Fe again (jury’s out on that one). I probably won’t fly again, mostly because I’m not an easy flyer and there’s no place I want to go badly enough to get on a plane. Chicago is a possible exception, especially since I’m now writing books set there. But my whole point is that I’m not going to kvetch (a great Yiddish word for complain) about what I can’t do but stress what I can do. And enjoy.

Last night, Jordan had a group of friends at the house to pick up their travel documents. They are all going to Cabo together to celebrate Christian’s 50^th (other kids will babysit me and at first, I was a bit unsure about needing babysitters, but our friend’s fall has me grateful they will be here). As the party was dwindling inside, some five or six of them came out to say hello. We laughed and joked and for ten minutes or so, the cottage was the happiest place you can imagine. Jordan (and I) have known these folks since their high school days. All I could think was how lucky I am that all these years later, they still want to come see Juju, share their excitement, show a little love (no hugging—covid lurks). I am blessed, and that’s what I will continue to focus on.