Ten years ago, when we were in our early 70’s, my husband and I stopped for a drink at a busy restaurant. “Look around” he said gesturing over his shoulder; “What do you see?” At nearly every table grey heads, white heads, vividly fake colorful heads bobbed above crumply bodies. Alan never liked finding himself part of an elderly crowd and always made some grumpy comment.
However, I had worked my whole career in geriatrics and was not inclined toward that attitude. “So what?” I shrugged. It was the early bird hour. I’d long believed that I was ready to be old. I fancied myself wearing a sapphire-blue velvet dress and carrying an antique silver cane. I would attend art openings and host lively, late-night dinners. I would feel energetic and look terrific
But not long afterward, I went to a show featuring songs from the Grateful Dead. Settling into my seat, I noticed that everyone around me looked old. When the music began, they stood up to sing, arms swaying overhead. Me? I hunched down, cringing. Waves of dismay, repulsion and fear washed through my brain. I fit right in. I am one of them. I wanted to crawl out the door. I guess old age was sneaking up on me and I’d fooled myself about being ready.
Had I been paying attention I might have noticed that I’d been on a disintegrating trajectory for a while. Once, on a paved walkway in a park, I misjudged a step, stumbled and fell, breaking a bone in my wrist. With a cast from fingertips to elbow, I couldn’t open a new jar of pickles, drive the car or hook my own bra. I’d fallen before, of course. Everyone has, on ice or down a few stairs. But that little accident put a few more cracks in my invincibility.
I am all too aware that falls are what land most people in nursing home beds, an experience I fervently hope to avoid. Might I stumble over our cat on my way to the bathroom at 3am? Or when hurrying to watch the new episode of The Bear, martini glass in hand? I caution myself endlessly not to rush, to watch where I’m going. Pay attention. Every year at what was once called a physical exam, I’m asked if I’m afraid of falling?”
“Hell, yes!” I snort. Afraid of falling and more than a few other things.
That night at the concert I was blind-sided by the truth. Now, no matter how I might try, I can’t get rid of the knowing. The knowing that I’m already old. Although a velvet dress may still appeal to me, forget about lively late-night dinner parties – I can’t stay awake that long.
Alan and I now take medications every day to manage our bodies and brains. I remember how we used to pull faces when his parents would drone on and on about health problems. Somehow, we’re finding our own similar conversations with friends to be quite compelling.
Bob, Alan’s brother, died suddenly a few years ago. Well, as we later learned, maybe not so suddenly; maybe he just wasn’t saying how bad things were. There were no last visits. No chance to say goodbye. Maybe he thought he’d be okay; but he was sick for months without telling us how serious it was. How do you do that? Bob knew and hid the truth. Even his wife didn’t know until near the end and was left here to cope.
His death did lead us into more talks about dying and what we each want. Jeanne, my mother-in-law, was always more than a bit of a ditz. But when she was told that she didn’t have much time left, she invited everyone she loved to come and spend time with her. She gave us photographs, her favorite pins and necklaces, the colorful ceramic dishes she carried back from Mexico. She told stories and laughed and remembered with us. I am still grateful. How funny that Bob, such a brilliant man, was so heedless of his own decline and his mom, a giddy butterfly of a woman, was the wiser one.
***
These days, I am far too easily worn out, but I keep up with politics and wear my hearing aids. I take good care of my teeth. There are no holes in my underpants. Although I forget little things like the name of those pickley bits that come in a jar and are good in a butter sauce, I remember most stuff. I walk vigorously to prove to the world that I am still sturdy and fully functional. I may not wish to deteriorate, but I am.
What was that old trope from school? Biology is destiny? Well, yes. I simply cannot keep myself as I want to be. I am afraid of being needy, frail and useless. I’d always looked down on women who fought age with Botox and leather miniskirts and wondered who they thought they were fooling. I have been the same: pretending, denying and avoiding.
I want to be like I’ve always been, keep the strengths I’ve gained, the autonomy, the freedom. I don’t want to lose Alan or become unable to climb stairs or fix a meal. I don’t want to be sick or dependent. I don’t want my hair to fall out or to miss the point of the joke. I don’t want to forget who’s president. I don’t want my life to be over and still be alive. I don’t want to move to a warm place and play bingo. No matter what I do to take care of myself, my body is deteriorating. My skin has gotten papery. My hands are weaker. I can’t see, smell or hear as well. I probably don’t even THINK as well as I once did.
The notion of my brain clogging up is terrifying. I walk into the living room for some reason. What? Why? A tube of toothpaste appears in the fridge. Maybe my husband for no reason put it there? Would that be better than if I did it? Who did I promise to call today? Yes, I ought to have expected changes but I’m not good at it. I expected to be my sturdiest self forever. Not such rational thinking, as my sleepy evenings and achy back remind me. As the Grateful Dead song has it: “Sometimes the lights are shining on me; other times I can barely see.”
So here we are now with you-know-what rattling its chains in the cellar. Alan and I are paying more attention. But having lost that sweet feeling of my life stretching endlessly forward, I entered a kind of limbo-land. I have started thinking about how many years I might have left and how to make the most of them now that I’m supposing that I may not have time for everything. My soothing fog of denial is disappearing. Sometimes I even look at the truth. I am angry that there is an end for me. I’m liking my life. Today I’d say that although I am not ready to be dead, I’m not afraid of dying. But it probably wouldn’t take much suffering to change my mind about even that.
***
One October long ago when the red and yellow leaves rustled in the trees, we shocked Alan’s parents with the suggestion that we all visit the old cemetery in our town. It’s a beautiful place for a walk; but just the thought gave them fits of arm-flapping panic. How could we even suggest such a thing! I’m sure they thought we were nuts. The cemetery never affected us like that and eventually we chose it for our own “final resting place” with two small urns and a plaque amidst some flowering trees on the edge of a pond. Now, when we walk there to soak up a pretty day, we always visit our spot. Funny how comforting it feels. I guess some part of me is accommodating to reality after all.
Rachel Hawk is a long-standing member of a writers’ group. She focuses her personal essays on the physical and emotional hurdles she faces at age 83.
