When asked how he felt about growing old, a 50-year-old acquaintance said, “I didn’t think I was going to live past 18… so every day is just one big miserable surprise. I doubt if it will be much different in the future.”
Another, pushing a four-wheel walker, says life is beautiful now that he doesn’t have to milk cows and shovel cow shit.
My father couldn’t stand old people. When he was 80, he moved into a delightful senior apartment building with an elaborate exercise and games room, a hairdresser, library and a full-service restaurant. But he wouldn’t leave his room.
“I can’t stand those old fogies. They’re a bunch of know-nothings,” he said. “I’m a man of the world.”
Like my father, very few residents cared to associate with the other seniors that lived there. It’s pretty common for us to think we’re much younger than our age surveys tell us. Fully 60 per cent of adults over 65 say they feel younger than their years.
“In my mind, I am still the 19-year-old girl who married your grandfather. It’s only when I look in the mirror that I realize I’m not,” one woman tells her grandchildren.
My father-in-law once remarked that he didn’t mind being a grandfather, it was being married to a grandmother that bothered him.
Even I have trouble believing I’m old. A short time ago, while visiting my new doctor to review my medical history, she paused and looked at me questioningly for a moment, then looked back at my medical history.
“I see here that you had a brain scan last July,” she said, glancing up again.
“Yes,” I said suspiciously, wondering what might be wrong. Dr. Cox had informed me that everything looked normal.
“What are you seeing?”
“Well,” she dragged the word out, making it sound ominous. “it seems you have the brain of an 88-year old.”
I was shocked. How could that be? I spend every day writing creative poetry and short stories and doing research for a book I’m about to publish. My brain is more active than ever. Yes, my memory’s bad, but Google is a very good substitute. My brain is fine.
“What do you mean?” I asked defensively. “I admit my IQ has dropped from 153 to 127 but my thinking is quite clear.”
Her embarrassment was evident as she asked, “You are 88, aren’t you Mr. Smith?”
“Yes,” I admitted to the number reluctantly, still not realizing she was joking. Of course I have the brain of an 88-year old. I also have an 88-year-old heart, liver and big toe. But I didn’t get the joke until later that evening.
One thing that bothers me is how clearly and frequently my memory recalls my past mistakes, wasted opportunities, and hurts I inflicted on others I loved.
I have always been empathetic to anyone less fortunate than I; a fanatical animal lover; and a loving husband and father, but my memory now insists on reminding me of the exceptions, including the huge mistakes I made in business and love.
Why did it wait until it’s too late to make me aware of my faults and foibles? I could have made amends, instead believing all this time they were either the fault of someone else, or just the fickle finger of fate.
Other seniors, however, enjoy their memories. “My memories seem much clearer now,” a lady friend says. “I was just telling my daughter I am happier now than I’ve ever been in my life, as I recall all the great experiences I had as a food bank volunteer.”
Advice, like anything else freely given, has little value, but I can attest to the importance of remaining, or becoming, active in body and mind. Success as a senior is easier to achieve and the rewards are greater.
In my younger days, I always placed higher than most people in whatever endeavor I chose, but I could never achieve “hero” status in anything.
I was a regular at a local gym and worked hard to build muscle and look like some of the men in the posters that plastered the walls. But my 13” biceps and 250-lb max bench presses weren’t enough to get much notice. Most gym rats could lift more.
When I was 80, however, and benched only 225 I was the gym hero! Everybody paused to watch the old man lifting weights the average member couldn’t budge. Life as a senior can be good.
The only problem was the loneliness that greeted me the moment I stepped outside. It isn’t as enjoyable eating lobster tail and pheasant if you’re sitting at a table for one; and walking on the beach is rather dull, if there’s no one there to share the moon.
It is difficult to find a single senior that fits with the image you have of yourself. So, at age 88, I am fated to stroll the beach with my loving chihuahua, unless I petition the court to legally change my age to something younger as Emile Ratelband is doing in Amsterdam, or until I can finally accept myself as I really am.
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