Getting old is weird. I still imagine dancing wildly and climbing steep mountains. Wanting the gusto out of life, I get bright pink tennis shoes to boogie in – instead of high heels. I wonder, would relocating to Italy be fun? Then my mind reminds me, “Knock, knock, is anybody home? Moving that far away is a big thing.” Do I have time? Decisions are different now. Do I want to cut out carbs? Or, to hell with it, enjoy life? What about another partner? It could be delightful, but do I want to help him with death, taxes or the “X”?
I see swarms of white hair on heads at the Sonoma grocery stores, like froth on a beer bobbing down the store aisles. I wonder if we’re still kids or baby boomers inside, secretly still with libidos and chutzpah, ready to ride our bikes or go surf boarding. Silver heads appear everywhere in political protests. Proud and gleeful, we rise up, off our rocking chairs.
Friends over 70 giggle alongside their changing lives, with a weird half-lip, sideways smile. It’s eerie and interesting, like a good mystery novel, facing an inevitable end. Choices ask us to decide, is there time? It feels like driving up to a stop sign every time I ponder the next decision, vacation or expense. Time’s a thing, more precious now. Before I turn around, my day is over and it’s time to go to bed again. We really don’t know how long we’ve got; it could be over tomorrow or in 20 years.
The question lingers: what really matters before I die? Do I want to leave anything to anyone? Do I need closure with a person or project? How do I give back? Or do I blow the money, go on cruises, take photos and die? Rrrrrrhhhh. What matters?
I sometimes elbow people when dying enters the conversation. I say the topic’s “not an upper.” Dry wit and death are close companions. We talk about ailments and loss, admitting, “I feel like the tin man in the ‘Wizard of Oz’ when I get up from a chair.” Sincere but half joking, I asked someone, “could it be early rigor mortis setting in already?” It’s confusing. Every creaky next thing brings up Halloween-ish questions: “Is it just a passing muscle ache, or bone cancer?” One never knows. So, I’ll probably run to the doctor like everyone else does and see if I’m dying.
As for younger people reading this – be patient. Nobody taught us Aging 101. Living beyond 70, my arms fly wide open with gratitude, but it’s also humbling. It’s luscious to be alive in a pregnant way – full of memories, hallelujahs for every blessing and huge, heart-hurting concern for the suffering in the world. Loss and wanting to help matters more, but sometimes just sitting, letting the weeds grow, watching birds or gophers skit by, is aging’s gift.
It’s relaxing. I used to feel more urgent about things. I’d get everything checked off the “to do” list like the sky would fall if I didn’t. Now I figure it’s all going to fall someday anyway. I lean back and delight in meditating on the overgrowth of relentless trees and bushes, until guilt spurs me to call my equally aging handyman who now needs reminders that – yes, indeed, today was the day he agreed to come help me. Then sometimes life insists I rush or step up to too many tasks. It’s like I’m either in slow motion or overwhelmed.
Some days I chuckle to myself that one of the great reliefs of dying will be no more passwords. I so miss finding a real customer service person at the other end of a phone. Aging is kind of like a Star Wars movie. You soberly execute your last will and testament while excitedly planning something you really wish will still happen.
Katy Byrne, is a psychotherapist and author of From Conflict to Communication.
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