The meaning of aging has long eluded us. The emphasis is usually on one of two areas: the attainment of some kind of enlightenment, or the bleak process of physical decline. I think, ultimately, the aging experience is one of humbling. That is, we have to be relieved of the illusion of self-determinism before we can travel further on our journey. It is a slow giving up of our power. And it is a daunting process, one that I don’t recommend. There may be a way to do it gracefully but I am neither wise nor worldly enough to have captured its intricacies. Simply, I do not believe in going gently into that good night.
I’m at the airport, trying to navigate my way for the first time with an orthopedic walker. No longer able to lope blithely through the onboarding process, I am now relegated to the TSA sidelines, having to ask for and await instructions at every turn. Okay, in all honesty, I don’t believe I’ve ever loped blithely anywhere. But I could, at one time in the not-so-distant past, walk without the use of an assistive device.
Not only do I have trouble walking due to encroaching osteoarthritis but I’m partially deaf as well as the result of an inner ear tumor. I can’t always hear what they’re telling me to do; “We’ll tell you when you can board…Check your walker at the gate…Enter here.” Every step of the way seems a daunting challenge.
You’re probably wondering why I don’t just stay home. Staying at home is not my style. I just want to get to Reno to see the sights and hit the video keno machines. Same as everyone else. I just want to be as independent as possible for as long as possible. But my options are closing in and I hate it.
Younger people talk to me in that chirpy, singsong voice reserved for children, idiots, and the elderly. It sets my teeth on edge and ensures that I will be extra snappy.
What, you ask, does all this have to do with personal power? I’ll tell you. When you are old, there are fewer and fewer things you can do for yourself. And even if you can do something, there’ll be four or five younger people trying to do it for you. It’s not that I actively resent help when help is needed but, please, just let me try first. Don’t take that away from me.
I’m at the grocery store. Even before I consult my list, I have to make my way from my car to the nearest shopping cart. I always dread that part. Walking unassisted. Once inside, I’m fine. Just leave me alone. I can find the cereal and the dog food. I can pay for my purchases without major mishaps. I can even manage to get them loaded into my car without your help.
You must feel that you are lucky not to be me. But you will be me one day if you are so fortunate. You will pay great heed to the things that you don’t even notice now. You will be hard-pressed to live like a normal person. But it’s okay. You will figure it out. You will cope. If people would just leave you alone.
Yes, I’m getting a little rickety. Did I tell you about my ingrown toenails? Did I mention that I want to go back to Europe? I’d better do it soon, I know, because my traveling days are numbered. Can you imagine how that feels?
I consider all the things I can no longer do. Skip rope. Ride a horse. Love a man. I don’t want going abroad to be one of those things that I can no longer manage. I have to hold on. I have to insist and persevere, even when the going gets rough. That’s what old people do.
Last week, we had some icy weather and I couldn’t get out of the house for a few days. It almost killed me to sit inside and think of all I was missing. Perhaps you can relate to that. Now think about feeling that way each and every day of your life. Stuck. At an end. An impasse.
If you have any old people in your life, and you probably do, cut them some slack. Be patient with them as they attempt to navigate their way on familiar territory. It is not the territory that has changed but the everyday skill set it takes to perform in this newly rigorous landscape.
In Bhutan, I am told people are advised to think about death at least five times a day to better appreciate the here and now. I do. And it’s depressing. Not that I don’t value the present. It’s better than both the past and the future when you really consider it. I live in the present. I think I have a pretty good perspective on what’s important. But, believe me when I tell you that it would be nice sometimes to look ahead without doubt and fear, or to look behind without regrets.
As a younger woman, I was free to move about the planet. I could do what I wanted when I wanted. I didn’t have to consider if I should try it alone or whether there would be stairs. I didn’t have to doubt my safety or realize that my entire future might rest on my falling and breaking a hip. I could rely on logic and circumstance to guide me. And I didn’t need your help.
Western cultures especially seem to view aging in a negative light. Sure, I may have more experience and more wisdom than the next guy. But if I can’t keep up with the pack, I’m not worth much in our fast-paced, competitive world. Sitting by the sidelines becomes my only option. And I’m not well-equipped to bide that choice.
It is certain then, that I must do what I can while I can. Running for buses is out. I can neither join in a game of hopscotch nor read the fine print. My hands are too shaky these days to do the crossword or perform long division. And it so happens that most travel-related tasks are well beyond me: trekking through uneven terrain, climbing a tree, listening to birds, finding my way in a strange city. Those are the unmet challenges that gall me the most. Now I have the time and the money to adventure. But doing so is well beyond my present purview.
Oh, I can reminisce with the best of them. And I do take pleasure in recalling tossing those coins in the Trevi fountain, canoeing the Amazon, walking the Great Wall, and straddling the equator. But the surety that it’s all in the past is what rattles me. What is in my future, I must ask? Lying on the sofa watching The Price is Right? Being fed tasteless pablum out of a rubber spoon. Constantly complaining that I’m too cold. I must learn to savor the middle ground. I still have time to think and observe. Those powers have not yet been taken from me.
So, I am aptly humbled. I have become a whole new person. My skill set has evolved. I am not the one who jumps for joy. I am now the one who sits and rocks, who considers the past above the present, and who forbids myself from wishing it all undone.
Linda Caradine is an award-winning Oregon writer. Her memoir, Lying Down with Dogs, was a finalist for the 2024 Independent Authors Network Book of the Year prize. She has just finished writing a new novel of psychological suspense. You can contact her at www.LindaCaradine.com.
