A Dream Come True

For several years I had house dreams. In those dreams I wandered through houses, discovering the rooms, the views from the windows. Some were welcoming. Some were hostile. Some were passing strange.

Two of my house dreams remain clearly in my mind, and the same character appeared in both of them.

In the first dream I walked into a closet built into the eaves of my 1920’s bungalow on Rhode Island Street, discovered a door I had never noticed before, opened it and walked into a different world. I walked down a rather long hall and came to a door on the right. I opened that door and beheld a spider web-festooned courtroom. Beside a bank of south-facing windows stood an old woman with wild white hair. She turned her gaze on me. Her presence and her gaze so shocked and intimidated me that I turned back into the hallway, closing the courtroom door behind me.

Shaken, I continued down the hallway and came into another south-facing room, flooded with sunlight. I looked out the window into a rural scene, a meadow with willow trees scattered along the banks of a narrow stream. The only object in the room was an old Singer treadle sewing machine. One of the drawers of its cabinet was open and spools of thread were spilling over its edges. I felt utterly at peace.

Some time later the old woman appeared in another house dream. I was walking though an elegant country home from the kitchen, through the dining room and then into a large, marble-floored foyer. In the center sat a round mahogany table with a vase of flowers sitting in its center.

One chair sat beside the table, occupied by the old woman with wild white hair. I recognized her instantly and was again shocked and intimidated by her presence.

She looked directly into my eyes and said, “You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

Only several years later did I realize that the old woman was myself and that I did not need to fear becoming her.

Only today, when I looked in a mirror to comb my hair did I realize that I have, at last, become her. It’s a dream come true.

Copyright 2013 by Shirley Domer

Getting Personal with Old Age

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.

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...."