Is there a better name for aging?

Some time ago the senior minister at our church announced a series of sermons titled, “Life Comes at You Fast.” He intended to explore four ages: childhood, adolescence, adulthood, and, according to the announcement, old adulthood. I howled in protest that I did not want to be called an “old adult,” and Russ Peterman, our minister, confessed that was a typo: it should have read “older adulthood.” Not much of an improvement in my mind. Later, he wrote that at one church he’d served, the seniors called themselves Third Agers. I thought that sounded a lot better, but then, a few days later, I saw a reference to the “chronologically-enhanced population.” Whoever wrote that admitted the phrase does not trip lightly off the tongue. But it’s pretty expressive, and Russ used it in his sermon this morning.

He talked about some closely-held ideas in America, one of them being a fear of aging. We all know that the media bombards us with glorification of youth and rarely has much good to say about age. Similarly, one person talked of the so-called golden years as a time of being, not doing. You’ve worked hard all your life, doing, so now you can let others do, and you can just be. Not an attitude that Russ endorsed. Instead, if I got his meaning, he spoke of our older years as a time of freedom—kids are grown, family is probably more stable financially, career is over or slowing down—but he emphasized that we cannot sit back. We in our seventies, eighties, and beyond have accumulated wisdom to share with the world. It behooves us to share our wisdom, to use our new leisure time to better the world somehow. A wealth of volunteer opportunities are open to older adults. What I got out of today’s words—and I hope I’m not distorting—is that we should use the hard-earned lessons of the past to move forward. We are never too old to participate in life.

That struck home to me because the other night I was talking to a friend, a minister, and said I feared becoming irrelevant. This was partly prompted by the fact that more and more when I go out, I want to be pushed in the transport chair rather than walk with my walker. I’m not sure if it’s a return of my fear of open spaces (I sort of suspect that) or a sign of growing weaker. My friend said it was not a sign of weakness. “You are engaged,” she said, and that made me feel a lot better. And maybe that’s what Russ was saying: as we grow older, we must continue to be engaged, bringing with us the wisdom of the past as we move into the future. He quoted former U.N. Secretary General Dag Hammarskjöld: “For all that has been, Thanks. To all that shall be, Yes.”

Last night I had a lovely dinner in the Blue Spire, the formal dining room at the Trinity Terrace retirement community. Friends Carol and Lon have been there about two months, and they invited me and Jean (who already lives there) to join them. The dining room is on the twelfth floor, and I tried to take a picture of the view, but it didn’t come out. Me, who goes weak in the knees at height, loves to be inside looking out from that height. Jean lives on the seventeenth floor, and I’m not sure I’d be comfortable with that. Carol and Lon are on the fifth floor in a different tower, and I was at ease with that. When Subie and Phil get there next month, they will be on the third floor, easy for Phil and his seeing-eye dog to navigate.

Much of the conversation was about Trinity Terrace, what goes on there from food service to programs, and who lives there. It struck me that someone said, “Has memory problems” about every second person whose name came up. Is it in the atmosphere? Something that’s catching? Then it dawned on me: these people are in their seventies and eighties (and a few nineties)—of course they have memory problems. It’s part of aging and doesn’t necessarily lead to Alzheimer’s or dementia. I have memory problems all the time, mostly people’s names that I can’t grasp. After a few minutes, the name comes to me, and I go on my way. I think I’ve been doing that since I was, maybe, forty? Where I wonder, does one draw the line, and what is the line anyway? I am reminded of me friend and once teacher Fred who moved, with his wife, to an apartment complex filled with friends of Jordan. When I pointed out he is old and the other occupants were all young, he said, “Precisely.” Maybe he too was afraid it was catching.

One final thought from the sermon: we take with us into old age the attitudes we’ve had all our lives. I hope your attitude is on health and happiness.

Thoughts on turning eighty

I remember when my mom turned eighty. Dad had passed on by then, and Mom had moved to Fort Worth. She was active—I think that was the year she went to China with a group of women from her bank—and she was classy, a lady’s lady. We were so proud of her that we gave a small party. I remember dancing in a circle in the large entryway of our house.

Two or three years later Mom began to have those TIAs or small strokes that eventually robbed her of all her grace and dignity and ladylike charm. By eighty-five she was in a nursing home—the old-fashioned kind, not today’s assisted living with its many activities and opportunities. And at eighty-seven, she died.

I have always been afraid of eighty. But now I’m three days into it, and nothing bad has happened. I take heart from my eighty-six-year-old brother. When I talked to him yesterday morning shortly after nine, he’d already been out to move the cows to another pasture. He’d just come in for a bite of breakfast before going to clear brush (okay he has a fancy tractor kind of thing that does most of the work, but still….) He’s got good genes, that guy does, and I hope I inherited them. The women on my father’s side of the family all lived into their nineties, a precedent I intend to follow.

If nothing dramatic has happened, I do notice recent changes, mostly in attitude. At eighty, I’m not going to do things I don’t want to, just to be polite. I’ve always been quite social, rarely turning down an invitation to go out for lunch or dinner. But lately I find myself a bit less interested—my days fall into a routine that I am sometimes reluctant to break. And some evenings, like tonight, a quiet hamburger at home and a book sounds just perfect. I think tonight I’m still in recovery from my wild weekend of celebration, but I’ve stayed home and worked, in my pajamas, for two days.

I am less ambitious than I have been. All my life I’ve looked to the next accomplishment. Sort of, if this is good, what’s better? What’s next? Publish one book and be satisfied? Never. Now I’ve written over a hundred is you count the wild variety, including some work-for-hire assignments. When I turned to writing mysteries, I told myself if I just got one published, I’d be happy. When Contract for Chaos comes out in September, I will have published fourteen mysteries.

But I’m drawing back a little, not so driven to publish two books a year, a little more reluctant to jump into another book that puzzles me halfway through. I want to write something I’m passionately interested in, and so I’m taking time to explore. I still want to be active in all my online writing groups, keep up my contacts. And I won’t quit expressing both joys and concerns on Facebook. In sum, I think I’m less driven. I don’t have the feeling that every minute has to be productive. Maybe I’m finally learning to sit back and smell the roses.

I read somewhere that people over fifty should spend more time in bed. Shoot! I’ve been doing that since I retired eight years ago. A nap is a must, and I don’t let much interrupt it. I’m fortunate that I’ve come roaring back after some health crises in 2017—okay, I can’t dance like my mom did on her eightieth birthday, but the walker doesn’t slow me down much. Maybe I should practice some dance steps with it.

It’s a good feeling. I think I like eighty just fine.

Moths, Food, and Aging

I had a row with my neighbor last night—yes, the good-looking one. He and Jordan were in the kitchen, where she was cleaning out the fridge, something I’d asked her to do. She opened the pantry and three moths flew out. Jay immediately got the trash and began pitching half the staples I kept in there—opened packages of pasta, rice, cereal, bread crumbs, and I don’t know what all. I told him to stop, and he explained—claimed?—either that they’re laying their eggs there or that those products had the moths poop on them. When I said I’d stored things that way as a housekeeper for fifty years, he said, “I do it at my own house.” Non sequitur. I stalked off to my computer (my place of refuge.) As he left, Jay said, “I’m going to Central Market tomorrow to replenish your pantry. Want to go?” The politest I could manage was, “I’ll call you.”

Truth was I was crabby. I hadn’t slept well in several nights—my leg kept hurting. I had no appetite and no energy. But beyond that, I felt marginalized in my own home. Other people were making housekeeping decisions about my kitchen! I suddenly understood how my mom felt. She, having lived through the Depression, saved every tiny bit of leftovers, storing them in small jars in the back of the fridge where they soon began to grow mold. Drove my brother wild, and we periodically cleaned it all out. I can still hear Mom mimicking me, “Just pitch it!”

I think aging has been the Joe Bftsplk black cloud hanging over my head all week. The possibility of a blood clot scared me, and then in spite of medical reassurance that there was no clot, I began to suspect they’d just missed it. It wasn’t getting any better—in fact, the leg pain was worse. It’s amazing what you can convince yourself of at 3:30 a.m. when you can’t sleep. I truly began to think I’d never walk self-confidently again (okay, there was even one vision of me in a wheelchair), that perhaps the clot would break loose in my sleep (what sleep?) and I’d never wake up. In calm retrospect I’ll just say that a writer has to have a vivid imagination.

My leg was particularly painful last night, so that at 3:30 I was thinking not about wheelchairs but who I could call. I realized that it didn’t hurt except when I lay down, so I sat dangling my legs (against all medical advice to keep that foot elevated) and then I walked around. I also realized if I lay perfectly still, the cramping in my calf was less frequent and severe. The doctor had assured me the pain was because I was favoring the foot and walking funny. This afternoon I took a long deep nap—slept on in spite of Jacob crawling in and out of bed, coming to talk to me, etc. No cramping. Good sleep. This evening, a vegetable dinner tasted good, and I have my enthusiasm back.

Amazing how the mind can push us into aging if we let it. And Jay? We went grocery shopping this morning and mended our fences. He’s too good a friend and takes too good care of me to stay angry. My world is looking good tonight.