When we were in Switzerland having a lovely ski-mountain lunch with our son and his wife right before the pandemic, I overheard one of their friends refer to “Matthew’s elderly parents” who were here for a visit.
I was 76.
Elderly? Me?
When I hear that word, I envision a frail white-haired woman in a rocker, crocheting doilies or afghans, struggling to get up, a walker or cane nearby. In her closet are matching pumps and pocketbooks from a long-ago time when she could go out into the world, probably hats with veils, flannel nightgowns, serviceable cotton underpants.
But no, it is me, now almost 81, entering that next place. Not exactly the last place, that would be death (unless you believe in reincarnation as I do, though another life sounds exhausting). And despite the fact that I hope it’s not coming anytime soon, I’m getting prepared. I filled out my “Five Wishes” last week and then, inspired, made a list of what I want done with all my stuff, books, jewelry, papers, who might want what, who gets what.
Now on a roll, especially with a worry I might not get the wooden box I want to be buried in next to my son and husband, I called the funeral home my friend’s daughter works at to check. It seems he can get them--phew--and we had a nice chat. He sent me more forms to fill out:
A viewing or wake will be held at: ___________________________________________
My remains shall be embalmed: Y____ N____
There will be an open casket: Y____ N____
The type of casket will be: __________________________________________________
My burial clothing will be: _________________________________________________
The following jewelry should be handled as follows: _____________________________
Well, that’s taken care of.
We sit with friends over glasses of wine, a cheese plate. What do we talk about? Not the last book we’ve read, what our children are doing, a ski trip or even politics--it’s the broken hip, the basal cell carcinoma, our friend’s cancer, or heart surgery, osteoporosis, or most dreaded of all, Alzheimer’s. Then we laugh, catching ourselves, but still move on to the problems of downsizing (which we swear we will never do) or first-floor bedrooms versus chair elevators, long-term care insurance and what it will cover.
In CVS, we browse the greeting card racks for those that say things like, Isn’t it weird being the same age as old people? or We’re not old, we’re just young people who take multivitamins and joint supplements and go to bed early.
And then there’s that pesky thing, memory. Why did I come into this room? What am I looking for when I open the refrigerator? What did I do yesterday? My husband’s gotten smart about this, he writes everything down in a book on his desk, and just to be safe, one in his pocket too.
It’s been hard for me to identify with aging, but I’m determined to face it with as much grace as I can muster. Easy for me to say I know, still upright, devoted to my yoga classes and daily 4–5-mile walks, busy with writing projects, teaching classes, gardening. And my mother lived to see her 100th birthday, my father close to his, so I’m told I’ve “got the genes.”
I have a bevy of (much) younger friends; spending time with them is a balm and a joy--lost in conversation, dancing or taking long walks with them, it’s easy to forget my age.
And I can wear the same clothes from the Gap or Patagonia my grandchildren and their friends wear--jeans, tee shirts, puffy jackets, cute dresses (well maybe not those, after I’ve looked at myself in the dressing room mirror).
Is denial still denial when you’re aware of it?
AARP cover photo March 2023
It’s so different, this new place. What lies ahead, even tomorrow, is a mystery, unclear, uncertain. Maybe it was always this way, but we “elderly” (I put it in quotes as I still resist identifying with such an unattractive word) when younger, were caught up in the lives and needs of our young children, or new romances, or buying a house, a car, a dog, a washing machine. Planning a vacation.
Then the future held promise, or hope--or just was.
I know our ageist society worships youth. Just look in any magazine, or online. Even Eileen Fisher, whose clothes are bought mostly by older women, rarely if ever pictures an older model wearing those expensive sweaters and pants. And on that rare occasion, she always has a perfect figure, a wrinkle-free face. The AARP magazine that comes to our house regularly never has people on the cover who look like the population for whom it is supposedly produced--instead there’s Jane Fonda (whose plastic surgery, workouts, hair dye and Botox injections make her look 40 years younger at least) and a coterie of other celebrities.
What message does that send to the world about aging? That being “elderly” doesn’t change a thing. You can, and should, still look great, even hot. That with a bit of Botox and a sexy outfit, you can pretend that no time at all has passed.
I want to learn to look at aging in a more realistic way. Or at least to face the fact that it is inevitable, this new narrative of our later years. The popular saying--how sick I am of it --age is just a number--is a lie. It is much more than a number. It is wrinkles, weight that’s hard to get rid of, failing eyesight and hearing, shuffling gait, falls, limits of all kinds. The deaths of friends, need to move to smaller spaces, the possibility of illness or yes, death.
It is also, as I said to a younger friend this morning over coffee, true liberation. I can do whatever I want, sleep late, read all day, eat cake for breakfast, lunch and dinner, free to be without a shred of ambition.
There is a richness to aging. The struggles of younger years --to make it, to achieve, to find a partner, to sort through the choices, worrying about which one to make--are over. We’ve worked hard to create our relationships and careers and now can relax some, at least those of us lucky enough to have retirement savings and the stability of a home and children who will be able to care for us when we need it. Though as I write that sentence, I’m immediately stopped by the fact that the world is in such a turbulent state that the very idea of relaxing is hard to fathom.
Still, we need to try. To breathe deeply, to sit with a good book, a good friend, a cup of tea or a glass of wine. To be in this moment, not yesterday or tomorrow, to not want to be other than who we are, comparing our life now to what it was.
Yes, I get that it’s a tall order, a big challenge.
All the more reason to try.
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Here is a link to “Five Wishes”: https://store.fivewishes.org/ShopLocal/en/p/FW-MASTER-000/five-wishes-paper
Please register for my conversation with dear friend Erica Berry
https://us06web.zoom.us/webinar/register/WN_ECEa0oQEQaKy-Kvo_sI3CA
on Tuesday March 28 at Oblong Books in Millerton, about her new and fabulous book, Wolfish, about fear, wolves and so much more, which is getting great reviews. See this one in The Atlantic: https://www.theatlantic.com/books/archive/2023/03/wolfish-erica-berry-fear-little-red-riding-hood/673269/