Becoming an Old Woman

For many years, especially after I turned 70, when people asked my age, I would always reply, “But I don’t feel 70 . . .  (71, etc., fill in the blank.) But over the past year, I suddenly started feeling old. Mostly I blame it on losing some physical abilities. The arthritis in my knees has gotten bad enough that I can no longer do the hikes I used to— such as climbing up steep trails to alpine lakes. Since my knee operation last April, I’ve slowly increased the distance I can go, but now I have to be satisfied with walks around the neighborhood rather than mountain hikes. If I try longer hikes, I get winded easily.

Meanwhile, my spinal stenosis is diagnosed as “moderate,” a common condition among older people, and now I’m careful when I lean over to garden or get dishes out of the dishwasher. I’ve crossed over some threshold—the one from moving effortlessly without thinking about my body—jumping on a bike or lifting a heavy load—to being careful. I’ve had to get rid of the image of myself as strong and capable of performing any task that was needed. 

I watch younger people bound up stairs without a thought, while I slowly take each step, planting my foot in the right position so not to feel pain.  “Careful” is my motto, followed by “slow and steady.” For someone who has always loved moving—hiking, swimming, kayaking, snowshoeing–it’s hard to adjust to a slower pace. And I’ve given up skiing altogether.

In an airport recently, arriving late one night, I found myself in a swarm of travelers apparently eager to get home. I tried to keep up with the crowd’s fast pace, but I feared that if I slowed down, I would be mowed over. With the world moving so fast, it scares me to travel now.

Just over the past six months, the arthritis in my hands has gotten worse. Every door handle is a challenge to open. Turning my key in the car ignition is painful, and so is typing–my physical therapist advises using voice-to-text. When I cut vegetables, I use a padded knife and try using my left hand instead, but it’s awkward and I worry about cutting myself. When I open a jar, I have to think first: would this hurt my right or left hand more? How do I avoid the most pain? 

I grow more crooked every day, even though I do exercises to combat that, like laying on the floor and stretching out my arms. I convince myself that I won’t be like my father, who, in his later years, was so bent over that he only saw the floor when he was walking. But then I catch myself in a storefront window and am surprised to see someone who resembles an old woman painfully stooped over.

When I get up in the morning, I slowly unfold my body, find my feet and then push myself up, feeling all the aches and pains that belong to an aging body. I walk to the bathroom holding on to the dresser to steady myself. I don’t bound out of bed anymore.

It’s strange to have to constantly think about how my body works, but on a certain level it’s comforting, because I’m taking care of my body—as lovingly as possible. I no longer move heedlessly or carelessly. When I feel pain in my hands, I massage them with cream or carefully exercise them. When my knees start hurting when I walk, I’ll find a way to shift my weight to lessen the load and pain.

When I look at my hands now, I see my mother’s, thin and gnarled. What arises is a tender memory of her, now gone five years, and tenderness toward my own aging body.

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Seniors Take to the Streets

At the recent “No Kings” protest, I couldn’t help but notice that one-third to one-half the people who filled the city park had gray hair. Nearly 50 years after the rallies against the Vietnam war, those of us who had gathered on campuses to yell “hey, hey LBJ, how many kids did you kill today” were now holding signs that said “Royal Flush, Dump Trump” and “I want a president not a king.”  Some of the younger people had obscene signs like the ones we used to hold in our young hands: “One two three four, we don’t want your fucking war” and “Make love not war.” But in our advanced age, our signs are less angry. We’ve calmed down and don’t feel the anger as much as the sorrow that the world has gotten to where it is.

Our generation was honed on some idealism: inspired by John F. Kennedy, Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King; Jr., and then devastated by their assassinations. We fought for women’s and minorities’ rights. I think some of us still carry that idealism in our hearts, only to see it threatened in front of our eyes.

Can we model that decency and idealism for younger generations? For the “No Kings” protest, residents of the largest senior facility in town, some in wheelchairs and using walkers, stood by the highway with signs denouncing the actions of a president who has arrogantly cut government agencies and workers, and now threatens to cut aid to seniors, the poor and disabled.  No wonder there are so many older people out there—we want to protect Medicaid, Medicare and Social Security.

But it’s more than just looking out for our own interests. At one protest last week deploring the administration’s cruel and random seizing of immigrants, it was mostly older women that lined the street with signs. Do women have more empathy, feel more the pain of immigrants being torn from their families? This is not to say that men aren’t part of these protests, but their numbers are fewer.

We seniors know that the world wasn’t always like this, where a president gets away with disobeying the laws we’ve lived with since our country was born. Even in the darkest days of the Nixon administration, we trusted that eventually truth and honor would rule. And it did. But I don’t feel that way anymore, and I’m guessing that a lot of people would agree.

I think many older people feel a responsibility to younger generations, even if we don’t have children. After all, looking at the world now, we can see how lucky we were to grow up and live in a time of plenty, where houses, cars and food were cheap, and jobs were plentiful. Our water and air were mostly clean, wildlife thrived in still open lands, and we hadn’t yet heard of climate change. We grew up in a world where community existed, whether through church, neighbors or workplace, and in a time before social media took over people’s lives.  

I like to think that if democracy can be saved, it will be by old women (and some men) bravely holding signs and shouting, “This is what democracy looks like,” even if our voices are hoarse, our legs wobbly and our backs stooped. Our hearts are still strong.

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When Downsizing Becomes Personal

A friend of mine, in her mid-70s, is going through her possessions, like everyone else our age. But it’s not like getting rid of clothes, books or knick-knacks. These are very personal—letters from her partner, who died a few years ago; and her father’s journal, with stories about Julie’s growing up. As she describes it, it’s a bittersweet journey–stories of a lifetime but one that’s long gone and knowing we have little time left.

The first stage of getting rid of our stuff is maybe the easiest: dishes we don’t need; paintings we bought in our youth, which no longer mean anything to us; books we won’t read again; and exercise equipment that demands too much wind power and takes up too much space.

But the next stage might be the most difficult: liberating ourselves of items that have emotional meaning—and having the time to think about their impact on us. I’ve seen older friends who were caught unaware, who had to move suddenly out of their homes and ended up throwing much into the dumpster, with no time to think about it. I envy them.

It’s painful to think that our heartfelt letters, beloved paintings, or treasured books will end up in a garbage bin. When my mom, in the last years of her life, was ridding herself of clothes, she couldn’t imagine donating her beautiful wedding dress to a thrift shop. So instead she gave it to her granddaughter, with the hope that she would wear it when she got married. But the dress is outdated, not something a young woman would wear now. I don’t know what my niece did with it, and I don’t have the heart to ask.

One friend, in his late 80s, has photographs he bought that were taken by Enos Mills, who is most responsible for the preservation of what is now Rocky Mountain National Park. Joseph bought them decades ago, when they were cheap and people weren’t aware of Mills’ importance.  Surely these photographs are worth something now—Mills’ books have gone up in value–but it’s not their monetary value Joseph is concerned about. These black-and white-photos show a world long gone—before resorts and car traffic took over the landscape—that few people would value, even those who might be willing to pay a high price for them. If he can’t find an appreciative buyer for them, someone who feels the same way as he does, Joseph will throw them away. It’s too painful for him to think about the photographs ending up in someone’s hands who doesn’t share the same views that he does.  

I have several bound copies of novels I wrote when I was younger (and before computers). They will never get published, nor am I sure I would even want that, at this point. Yet I can’t quite bring myself to toss them-–I put so much effort into them. They are a piece of myself and getting rid of them feels like getting rid of a younger version of me. Should I close the door on that person? But what good are these failed novels now?

When my parents died, I inherited their photos, mostly slides that my father took of all the touch stones of family life: births, graduations and marriages, along with the simpler pleasures: winter sledding, summer swimming, bicycle rides, raking leaves in fall. I’m trying to get the slides digitized as fast as I can, so I can pass them on to my brothers and sisters before I die—even if they’re not interested. Maybe my nieces and nephews might become curious, after raising families and pursuing their careers, about their ancestors–where they came from and what they were like.

But many older people, including Joseph, have no children or siblings. There is no one to appreciate or love what he loves. So his precious books and pictures will disappear when he does.     

At this stage of life, it’s more than decluttering. It’s admitting that we’re in the final stage of our life, and we need to prepare for it. It takes a lot of courage to admit that, to say good-bye, to let go of what we once were.

How do we get rid of the pain of getting rid of our past lives? Perhaps we can rejoice that our lives have become simplified, so we don’t have to paw through old documents trying to find the one we need; or get rid of most of our knick-knacks so we can see more clearly and appreciate what remains, because it’s not buried among everything else.  Maybe now we have more time to do what we love—whether it’s bird watching, spending more time with family and friends or reading all those books we’ve collected over decades.

There’s a peace that comes when we accept that most of our life is gone, and we need to move on. But it’s not easy.

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