Tag: aging

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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My Father in His Last Years

Some mornings, when I open the curtains to see the pink light of sunrise on the distant mountains or on the trees, I spontaneously break into one of my dad’s favorite songs: “Oh What a Beautiful Morning.”  In Chicago, he didn’t have the mountain vistas I do to inspire him, but somehow he found great joy in just getting up and starting a new day.

He loved to sing, often at the drop of a hat, whether it was from the musical Oklahoma or a popular ditty from the 1930s or ‘40s. Music was his first love. From an early age, he taught himself to play the piano, the harmonica and accordion—all without learning to read music. At any social occasion he would bring out his accordion and start playing. Of course, this embarrassed his children, but now, in my older years, I can see that he liked making people happy as much as he enjoyed making music.

He wasn’t always that joyful. In his younger years, my father was often angry. In his middle age, he had to start a new company while supporting a family of nine. But, as he got older, he mellowed, especially after a quintuple bypass heart surgery. His heart changed, as if it were cracked open—not just physically but emotionally. When his youngest daughter told him she and her husband were divorcing, he cried—not something he would have done when he was younger.

As he aged, he suffered other impediments: first severe memory loss, which didn’t seem to bother him, except when my mother scolded him for forgetting to take out the garbage. Otherwise, he was happy to see the sunrise and sunset, to talk with old friends and to work in his garden. I remember once his delight when my mother told him that his granddaughter would be visiting him later that afternoon. Of course, he forgot, so when Laurie showed up later, he was delighted all over again, his happiness doubled.

In the last year of his life, he suffered a severe stroke. Suddenly, he could no longer play the piano or accordion; couldn’t swallow, so his food had to be mashed in a blender; and had a hard time talking—a small tragedy for a sociable man. Yet his caregiver could make him laugh, and I could make him happy by singing with him or finding his favorite music on my Spotify account. He still enjoyed Jeopardy and reruns of Lawrence Welk. When we drove him to McDonald’s for one of his favorite treats—an ice cream shake—he was delighted when we passed the school playground and he saw the children playing. Of course, nothing made him happier than his wife. When he woke in the morning, in his separate hospital bed, he would wave to her, as if delighted to find her there.

Where did this joy come from? Is it innate, or do we have to strive harder as we get older, finding the sweetness in life rather than dwelling on the hardships? It’s not easy.

I think of a friend who, in his 80s, lost his mobility and ended up in a wheelchair. Like my father, he had some inner happiness that he spread to others. In a somewhat decrepit nursing home and dependent on others for all his needs, my friend managed to find and spread some joy by rolling himself from room to room to comfort those who were lonely, sad, angry or frustrated.

I’m sure it made him feel better, just like my father was happy when he made people smile or even sing along to his piano playing. Maybe it’s a case of giving to others. Maybe that distracts us from our own pain or suffering.

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The Shame of Aging

A few years ago, I overheard a real estate agent telling a prospective buyer of the house next door that the tall bushes along our fence must be there because the owners (us) either must like their privacy or they were old and couldn’t keep up.

For some reason, this comment stung. I do like my privacy, yes, but I had to check myself: Had I let things go?  Were neighbors noticing our somewhat unkempt yard, which I preferred to lawns partly because I wanted to preserve some small bit of land for insects, birds and other creatures? But, in a subdivision of mostly neat lawns, were my neighbors gossiping about the old ladies on the block who couldn’t keep it together?

I stopped thinking about this incident until I was recently visiting a relative in her 40s. She and her family had moved into an older neighborhood where most of the original homes were small, maybe 1,000 square feet at most, the kind that were perfectly adequate when my generation, born in the 1950s, was younger. But a new generation wanted bigger houses for their families—I don’t blame them—and was either replacing the smaller houses with bigger ones or adding a second floor. My young relative complained that a lot of the people on the block weren’t renovating their houses but were letting them go, which was bringing down the property values for the whole neighborhood.

Of course, without her saying so, I knew that the people who were content with their plain old small brick houses were my generation, who didn’t need anything bigger or fancier. They had raised their children, who were now gone, and wanted nothing more than their small houses and gardens. Even though my cousin complained about this innocently, not even thinking, I’m sure, that I was one of those old people, I had to cringe.

Yet our yard and house are nowhere near as bad as the older neighbors down the street whose belongings spill out from the garage and whose two decrepit cars are stuffed. There’s no question they are hoarders, but I wonder if young people in the neighborhood think this is what happens when you get old. Of course, the younger generations grew up with computers, where most of their life is stored, so they don’t have old letters, vacation photos, records and DVDs or stereo systems taking up so much physical space.

While I have too much stuff, I don’t have enough memory, which is embarrassing when you’re standing in front of the car service guy and trying to remember the name of your car part that needs replacing. I routinely find myself in situations where store clerks, waiters and medical staff slowly explain things to me, not without some condescension. Or am I feeling shame because I can’t figure out how the self-serve coffee machine in my doctor’s office works?

I was recently at a doctor’s appointment and the young physician’s assistant suggested two procedures that would help my condition. When I went to make an appointment for one of them, I confused one procedure with the other, and the receptionist (but that’s not what they call them, is it?) questioned me. To straighten it out, the PA came out and assured the receptionist that she was right. Did I notice a glance pass between them? —another confused old person?

Recently I took part in a webinar with both younger and older people. One older woman kept interrupting the proceedings because was she having trouble with Zoom. I cringed, not only ashamed for my generation that doesn’t understand technology, but also for this woman’s obliviousness at hogging the proceedings.  

Maybe the worst is our shame about our physical deterioration—wrinkles, balding or gray hair, the canes we use to hold ourselves steady, our stooped bodies, drapes on our arms, or how we sometimes struggle to get up from the chair. How do we fight that judgment in a society that values youth, beauty and physical strength? I recently read that teenage girls (!) are getting Botox, already trying at that young age to have perfect faces. It seems the standard of beauty keeps getting higher.

So how do we seniors even try to keep up? We dye our hair, work out at the gym, get surgery to remove wrinkles, and wear tight jeans so someone might possibly mistake us for a 25-year-old.  Are we accepting society’s shame? Are we disgusted by our bodies and of what they will become? We fear ending up in nursing homes, where there’s a smell of decay—of bodies that can no longer move and can’t take care of themselves—that can be sickening. Maybe that’s why some older folks work hard to make sure their houses are clean and neat, no dirt behind the fridge, no bad smells.

The other day I crossed paths with a younger man, maybe in his 30s, who was jogging. I looked at him with wonder and envy—that he could lift his legs so high without pain and move so effortlessly. Yet I can’t help but feel that, in my older years, I have one leg up on him.  I don’t know this man, but I know it takes a long time to acquire what I have—more understanding and compassion for myself and the world; and the useful ability to not take myself too seriously. He may be physically stronger, but decades of hard knocks have made my heart emotionally sturdy.

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