In the classic movie ”Citizen
Kane” (my all-time favorite as a matter of fact) an aging man (not Kane) says
to a younger man, “Old age! It’s the
only disease you don’t look forward to being cured of.” The only good-natured response to that is “Ye
gad! Is it as that bad?” I can remember when I considered anything
past 60 to be old age, the point after which one never speaks about what he or
she plans to do. The capacity for
charting a future course by then will have become non-functional, like a frozen
gonad. The option of doing so will have
flown right out the window on little frog’s feet. Henceforth one will only speak of what has been. One will spend 60-plus time at least
measuring, and hopefully treasuring, past deeds – the fruit, for good or for
bad, of former plans made. “Do you remember when we. . .?” “Do you recall the day so-and-so did
so-and-so to so-and-so. . .?” “I
remember so well the color of her scarf; I begged her not wear it.” “Being chosen for the chorus was one of the
happiest moments of my life. I didn’t
have such a bad voice either, whatever the guys on the wrestling team thought
of it.” “That was some trip we took to
Fargo, North Dakota, even if we did almost freeze our [unprintable] off.” “I should’ve punched that guy!” “As long as I live, I’ll never forget – er
[embarrassed pause] er. . . w-what’s her
name!”
Some would protest, and I am
one, that while it does not call for freezing and fossilizing, old age does
require a heaping helping of adjustments, more than one can keep track of. O-o-oh, how tired I am of that word! To adjust basically means to fit one thing
into a hole or into a framework someone or something else has set in
place. So what are we humans, a bunch of
lugs to be wrenched? Life is
fluid. We are all fluid, so where do we
get off acting as if we are machines with tightly fitted parts, to be kept
greased and geared and periodically overhauled according to some master
design? And yet we do meet up with new
circumstances, new challenges to the liquid surge we are accustomed to imagining
we are. We do have to change our style
of interflow with the universe, what we might call the greater liquid. Glub, glub!
We old folks worry too much
sometimes about what we are called. Ag-ed! Oh, what a ghastly word! Sounds like an affliction, like something has
been done to us. We have been aged. And it inconveniently rhymes with a worse
term – caged. Of course we can think of
ourselves as aged wine. I can live with
that until I am reminded that wine is for consumption, and it gets stored in
vaults at fixed temperatures. Are we to welcome each other to the vault? I
heard a rather nice one recently – seasoned seniors. But I had to reject that label too, because
it still sounds like a subject for consumption.
You season things to make them taste good when you eat them.
The
fact is no one has yet improved upon senior citizens. Even senior by itself is not so bad. It sounds like we have reached some final
year of schooling. We are about to
graduate.
But graduate to what? We do not
really know, do we? But why should
we? When we were finishing up high
school, did we really know anything much about what college would be like or
the world of occupational push and shove without the sheltering care of our
parents and guardians? Would we have
wanted to know then? Maybe heaven, if we
believe we will get to it, will have a few shocks and surprises for us. It may turn out to be simply a new set of
directions with more unknown eventualities.
I doubt if we will be greeted by gates and streets of gold. And what kind of personal reward would that
be anyhow? If the gold is sunk into the
streets, will I have to get a pickax and dig it up? If I were to do that, the local magistrates
would scream bloody murder. I could be
jailed for defacing public property.
Jails in heaven, hmmm – not likely!
They would probably hang me by my feet and let me swing on a star for a
while. I am sure that the most
light-footed among us would expect to dance in those streets. But those of us with rheumatism and arthritis
will not be likely to cotton to that.
Certainly there is no rheumatism and arthritis there. Our worse discomfort would be a goodly amount
of regret.
Let
me, before I proceed any further, dismiss the idea of wishing I was younger,
like 30 instead of the 80 I just became.
Just how would that work, anyhow?
If I woke up and found that that had happened, checked myself out in the
mirror and examined my new, fresh features and somehow confirmed that I was a
bona fide young adult once more, would I be giddy with joy? No, I would be in cosmic clock shock. I would have to give up all I have
accomplished in the past half century.
Worst of all, I would have to give up all the friends I have made and
the loving wife whose companionship I now so warmly enjoy. I would be hauled off to a padded cell at
once, never from which to return.
This
present generation of the aged – oops, sorry, seniors – have it easier than
back in the stone age our grandparents inhabited. We do not have to crank the wheels of the
wheelchair with bare hands. We have what
is now known as motorized wheels, battery-powered. But do not think that when you find yourself
in one, you will be free of possible mishaps.
I knew of a lady in an assisted living facility several years ago who
was a regular hotrod. Though in her 90’s
she could cover a lot of territory in a small amount of time, whizzing and
whooshing all about the place. She
could also maneuver in and out of all kinds of tight places with the most grace
and finesse you have ever seen. She
never collided with anything. She just
had one bad habit – forgetting to recharge.
One day she ran dead right in the doorway of her bathroom. Right in the doorway! On the way in, of course and not to
bathe! Once she stalled in the
elevator. She went all the way up and
all the way down three or four times before she got help. She reported that that night in her sleep she
dreamed she was elevating up and down – all night long. And a couple weeks after that it happened
right in the middle of the hallway on the second floor. She lived on the third floor and had gotten
off the elevator on the wrong floor by mistake.
There she was, not a soul around.
So she yelled out, “I’m stalled and misplaced. Will somebody get me to my room?” I was given no indication of how long that
took. But at least she was stationary
that time. She was what we might call a
rejuvenated baby boomer. She could
handle that contraption like a real pro.
The older any of us get the
more we become attached to getting weighed, whether the doctor orders it or
not. When I was a child in elementary
school, we were required to take our shoes off before we stepped up onto the
scales. I never did figure out why. We still had our clothes on. It seemed to me that the weight of the shoes
would not make all that much difference.
Have you ever weighed your shoes?
They would hardly register on the display, unless they were giant sized
heavy boots. These days in a doctor’s
office they have you step right up on the treadle without shedding a
stitch. Well, I was once told about an
old man under the care of others who thought that stripping to your stocking
feet was still the fashion. Each time he
used the scales, off the footwear would come.
But he was the very suspicious type and didn’t want to part with the
shoes altogether, so he- (are you ready
for this?) he picked them up and held them in his hands as he weighed himself,
for fear somebody might grab them. He
weighed them anyhow. That is like making
a promise with your fingers crossed.
Habits though are quite hard to break, even when you have entered your
sixties or seventies. But what would we
do without them? They probably save
lives, such as keeping you from cutting yourself and bleeding to death.
60, I thought! So what am I to make of the age of 80, which
I became this past year? If anyone had
told me as a kid that I would attain this much longevity, I would have been a
bit frightened. I would have been
assailed by the mental image of a creepy looking fossil barely able to breathe
or wiggle its fins and all but stranded as a mounted specimen in a zoological
entrapment. Or maybe some white-haired
old grandpa hidden away as a relic in a back room of some family house that is
not mine with a few curious children or other relatives allowed into the room
by appointment just to pay required homage for a few minutes. The trouble is I have reached this round
figure with no precedent to help me. I
am the first member of my immediate family to call himself or herself an
octogenarian. So I must survey the
landscape on my own, I guess – set my own precedent. Well, I think I am getting there!
But complain about it? Not on your life! I find the age of 80 much to be preferred
over that of 70. Yeah, really! What I am about to say by way of explanation
ought to give new vitality to those wary of approaching the sunset (!)
years. It might incite you to take your
exercise regimen more seriously, add excitement to cardiovascular bending and
pumping. You see, when you are 70,
everyone begins to notice your new quirks of behavior. At 70 people are impatient with you for being so
dotty and forgetful, and maybe a little scared.
What’s gotten into him? Is he putting us on? But when you turn
80, you have a perfect excuse for failing.
It is expected of you.
That
is especially so when I visit my grown kids or they me. They are all ready to open doors for me, to
help me into and out of automobiles, whether I need it or not, to sit me down
and serve me at the dining table. They
now treat me with respect just for having lived so long. They are amazed at me for what I can do, not
bothered about me for what I cannot do that I once could do. Now who else but royalty are granted such
largess? At 70 I was annoyed when it
looked as if they assumed I was helpless, when I was determined I would keep
handling things as well as I ever did (whether I could or not). But in my eighties I find it an honor to be
fussed over. I feel as if I have
acquired some kind of royal status and entitlement. I can wear my enfeeblements with some
distinction.
So what is old age? It is the point beyond which nothing will
ever be temporary again, at least where physical health is concerned. Spasmodic perhaps, on again/off again
perhaps, crescendo and diminuendo for sure.
(Wow, we can sure make music with that thought!) But temporary becomes a distant memory. Some think of it as the dark side of the
mountain, “over the hill” is the common coinage. But for me it is not a downward slope but a
plateau, one from which I can see far and wide.
Things do not fade; they flatten out.
My horizon enlarges. I see the
big picture more clearly, closer to how God sees it. At least that is the way I have found it thus
far. Thus far!? Listen to how I talk! From that phraseology one would think I
expect to live forever. Well, if 80 is
as rewarding as I have described, I cannot begin to imagine what 90 and beyond
will be like, but bring it on just the same.
To read other entries in my blog,
please consult its website:
enspiritus.blogspot.com. To learn
about me consult on the website the blog entry for August 9, 2013.
