A new reality has entered my consciousness; I have passed through the gateway to old age.
In the summer of 2011 Dennis launched an interdisciplinary project at KU called "New Cities." The objective was to discover and help create the best retirement environment for the huge boomer population. Many of our evening conversations centered on various aspects of the question – housing, medical care, transportation, intergenerational contact and so forth. At that time I still viewed the topic from a distance emotionally. "They will need...," I would say. Although I'm at least ten years older than the boomers, old age was something other than me, something farther down the road.
Then things began to change. Last June my rheumatoid arthritis went on a rampage, destroying my wrists. This led to three surgeries in four months, two of them to fuse my wrists which now don't move at all. It was a terrible loss. Moreover, for six months I was dependent on others for almost everything. I couldn't even bathe without assistance. Loss of independence, even temporarily, changes one's perspective dramatically.
When Butch died without warning my grief was tinged with the knowledge that I, too, may be on the brink of extinction.
When my friend Linda had urgent, unanticipated quintuple by-pass surgery last week, my sympathy was tinged with the knowledge that we are all in this together.
Last Friday when I sat with Nancy's and Carol's father while he was being prepared for surgery, my compassion for him was tinged with the realization that our youth is well and truly gone. He has lost his hair, his legs and much of his mind and seems a cruel caricature of the handsome man he once was.
In The New Yorker, January 23, the former United State Poet Laureate Donald Hall writes about his experience as an octogenarian. He describes old age as "a ceremony of losses." But brooding and lamentation accomplish nothing. "It is better," he says, "to sit at the window all day, pleased to watch birds, barns, and flowers."
It is true. Once full of plans and busy with projects, I now am more observer than actor. Looking out various windows at familiar scenes as they transit through the seasons is sometimes enough to fill my day. Oh, I still make plans and carry some of them to completion, but they are not long-range. When I envision the future I think not of myself but of our grandchildren and how they will find their places in the world. They are my comfort and my hope.
In the summer of 2011 Dennis launched an interdisciplinary project at KU called "New Cities." The objective was to discover and help create the best retirement environment for the huge boomer population. Many of our evening conversations centered on various aspects of the question – housing, medical care, transportation, intergenerational contact and so forth. At that time I still viewed the topic from a distance emotionally. "They will need...," I would say. Although I'm at least ten years older than the boomers, old age was something other than me, something farther down the road.
Then things began to change. Last June my rheumatoid arthritis went on a rampage, destroying my wrists. This led to three surgeries in four months, two of them to fuse my wrists which now don't move at all. It was a terrible loss. Moreover, for six months I was dependent on others for almost everything. I couldn't even bathe without assistance. Loss of independence, even temporarily, changes one's perspective dramatically.
When Butch died without warning my grief was tinged with the knowledge that I, too, may be on the brink of extinction.
When my friend Linda had urgent, unanticipated quintuple by-pass surgery last week, my sympathy was tinged with the knowledge that we are all in this together.
Last Friday when I sat with Nancy's and Carol's father while he was being prepared for surgery, my compassion for him was tinged with the realization that our youth is well and truly gone. He has lost his hair, his legs and much of his mind and seems a cruel caricature of the handsome man he once was.
In The New Yorker, January 23, the former United State Poet Laureate Donald Hall writes about his experience as an octogenarian. He describes old age as "a ceremony of losses." But brooding and lamentation accomplish nothing. "It is better," he says, "to sit at the window all day, pleased to watch birds, barns, and flowers."
It is true. Once full of plans and busy with projects, I now am more observer than actor. Looking out various windows at familiar scenes as they transit through the seasons is sometimes enough to fill my day. Oh, I still make plans and carry some of them to completion, but they are not long-range. When I envision the future I think not of myself but of our grandchildren and how they will find their places in the world. They are my comfort and my hope.
Dennis and Zander, 2010
Dennis, too, finds great pleasure in our grandchildren. Although in this photo Zander seems none to pleased with his situation, he is now three years old, enthusiastically embracing life. Curious, energetic and busy, he has hopes and aspirations. Because of him and our five other grandchildren, I am resolved to apply much of my diminishing energy supply to preservation of our environment so that they may live as well as I have.
In the meantime, when Dennis and I talk about New Cities, I find myself saying, "We will need...."
1 comment:
I told myself that turning 50 was just a number, but my body and MIND are telling me otherwise! I can't often find the right word when I try to describe things and my body is less sure and steady than it used to be!
I think because you are spry and ornery, your outlook on life is that of a much younger person!
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