Tag Archives: Aging

9 Rows to Oar If You Want to Reach 94

November yale467x490

(*happily updating my original post from February, 2015 when my Dad had his 92nd birthday. Now it is nearly February 1, 2017 – his 94th!)

Better to have a birthday than not, says my Dad very matter-of-factly. Consider the alternative, he often tells me.  He will celebrate his 94th birthday this Wednesday, February 1.

His pragmatic approach to life – serious when he needs to be, humorous when not, and some great luck in the health department – has gotten him to this milestone.

But exactly how has he managed to reach it?

I thought about this and wondered. For this is a man whose idea of exercise is to lift the remote ever so slightly to aim it at the TV. He eats salami, drinks beer and sees his friend, the doctor, quite frequently – but for lunch, rather than for a check-up.  As a well-regarded-in-his-community lawyer who still goes to the office every day to the firm he founded in 1951, he strongly prefers to give  – rather than take advice.

Perhaps what keeps him going is his love for his family? – not that I have ever heard him say the word “love” aloud.

A tough guy, Mr. U.S. Marine Corps, WWII Vet, he shies away from emotion. But he shows it by his actions, always being there with wise counsel when my sister and I need it. Staying strong for us when our Mom died far too young. Taking great joy in his four grandchildren, his three-year-old and nearly one-year-old great-grandsons  – and bestowing tender care upon his wife, my stepmother, as her dementia sadly advances.

If I knew precisely what got him to this point of great age and great wisdom, I would bottle it and win a Nobel prize. But since that is extremely unlikely to happen, I decided, in the spirit of Dr. Seuss, a childhood favorite, to make an educated guess, and offer the following:

 

9 Rows To Oar If You Want to Reach 94

It is not easy to turn 94

You have to know how to soar.

First, you stay married for a very long time

And Second, be frugal and save every nickel and dime.


The Third thing to try is to go to the office every day

And on the weekends to watch Eli athletes at play.

For the Fourth, you must get the Sunday New York Times

 To do the puzzle speedily, in ink, no matter what the rhymes.


And the Fifth thing to be at your best?

Take regular naps, enjoy getting your rest.

Sixth? Call your “kids” every Sunday morning at 10:30. sharp

But keep the calls brief, you don’t want to carp.

 


Now we are at number Seven, which could keep heaven at bay

Find time for the spiritual, perhaps even pray.

And the Eighth, what could that possibly be?

Provide wise counsel for many without charging a fee.

 

But the Ninth thing, the one that we treasure the most?

It’s when you tell jokes, laugh loudly, even at your own roast.

For it is your humor, your sense of the absurd

That lets you stand out from the ordinary herd.


Repeat all of your stories, not one of them is new

And yet each time you tell them we get another view.

Of your fair-minded approach, your sense of what’s right

The battles to skip, and which ones to fight.

 

So there you have it, the Nine rows you must oar,

If you want to reach the wise old age of 94.

Take my advice if you want to become a sage like my Dad

And then what a glorious life you will have had.

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Filed under Aging, Aging Parents, Family, Lawyers, Moms, Relationships

On Being a Mom Without a Mom on Mother’s Day

Red knitwork, horizontal

“Yes, Mom, what do you want?” I said quietly into the phone. “My boss is sitting right here, I can’t talk now.”

My Mom had been calling me every day at the office for six months. She had been diagnosed with colorectal cancer in the spring of my 3rd year of law school.

As a newly-minted lawyer at a government agency in downtown DC, my first job, with a boss and my own office (albeit very small and without a window), I was learning to deal with her daily calls.

No, I can’t tell you that,” I told her.

She persisted.

Please, just tell me what your bra size is,” she asked again.

Mom, c’mon, I’m at work, I’m in my office,” I pleaded. “My boss, he’s a man, he is in my office, too.”

She pleaded right back.

I’m at the yarn store in Westport. I’m knitting you a sweater. Just give me the number.”

I gave up.

36B,” I whispered into the phone, as my boss rolled his eyes upward, squelching a laugh.

Exactly one year later my Mom died of cancer. (well, actually she died because of malpractice related to her cancer but that is a tale for another time.) She was 54 years old, I was 28.

I still have the beautiful red, V-neck cotton sweater with the just-below-the-elbow length sleeves she made me, although it no longer fits. It was as stylish then as it is now. She was a woman of both good taste and great kindness.

Some women complain that their elderly moms call them too often.

Every night, can you believe it, she calls me every single night, and then she worries if I am not home by 9 p.m. She tells me to eat my vegetables, have I gotten an eye check up lately, she bugs me about the kids or my job or my husband. When are we going to visit her? Who’s going to drive her to her doctor appointments? Or run to the store to get her a new light bulb or better reading glasses. I’m tired of hearing her complaints about who did or who didn’t sit with her at dinner. Honestly, my mom is driving me crazy. Doesn’t she know what a busy life I have?

I bet she does know you have a life. Hers is shrinking in scope, yours isn’t and she wants to be a part of it.

My Mom called me at the office for over a year when she was ill. Then one day she stopped calling. Three weeks later, on a sunny spring afternoon in May as my Dad and I sat by her bed, holding her hand, in the ICU of a cancer hospital in New York City, hearing the beeps from the machines that had kept her alive ebb away, she died. It was mid-afternoon, on the Tuesday after Mother’s Day. Thoughtful as ever, she chose, I felt, to wait and not ruin the holiday for us.

I would give anything for one more phone call, nagging, annoying, insistent, critical, I’d take it.

And you know what, Mom, I’d say? You have two wonderful granddaughters and two terrific grandsons that you never got to meet. And in 2013 you became a great-grandparent, too.

What else would I tell her? Oh yes, my bra size has changed in the past 34 years. I don’t like the color red as much as I once did. But the sweater remains in my closet and it always will.

Miss you forever, Mom! Happy Mother’s Day.

 

 

5 Comments

Filed under 1st Grandchild, 1st Job, Adult Kids, Aging, Aging Parents, Baby Boomers, daughters, Family, Female Friends, Holidays, Lawyers, Moms, Women, Working Women

9 Ways To Be If You Want to Turn 93

November yale467x490

(*happily updating this original post from February, 2015 when my Dad had his 92nd birthday. Now February, 2016 – his 93rd!)

Better to have a birthday than not, says my Dad very matter-of-factly. Consider the alternative, he often tells me.  He celebrated his 93rd birthday this Monday, February 1.

His pragmatic approach to life – serious when he needs to be, humorous when not, and some great luck in the health department – has gotten him to this milestone.

But exactly how has he managed to reach it?

I thought about this and wondered. For this is a man whose idea of exercise is to lift the remote ever so slightly to aim it at the TV. He eats salami, drinks beer and sees his friend, the doctor, for lunch, rather than for a check-up.  As a lawyer who still goes to the office every day to the firm he founded in 1951, he strongly prefers to give  – rather than take advice.

Perhaps what keeps him going is his love for his family? – not that I have ever heard him say the word “love” aloud.

A tough guy, Mr. U.S. Marine Corps, WWII Vet, he shies away from emotion. But he shows it by his actions, always being there with wise counsel when my sister and I need it. Staying strong for us when our Mom died young. Taking joy in his four grandchildren, his toddler great-grandson – and looking forward to the arrival of another great-grand child next month.  Bestowing tender care upon his wife, my stepmother, as her dementia sadly advances.

If I knew precisely what got him to this point of great age and great wisdom, I would bottle it and win a Nobel prize. But since that is extremely unlikely to happen, I decided, in the spirit of Dr. Seuss, a childhood favorite, to make an educated guess, and offer the following:

 

9 Ways To Be If You Want to Turn 93

It is not easy to turn 93

You have to know just how to be.

First, you stay married for a very long time

And Second, be frugal and save every nickel and dime.


The Third thing to try is to go to the office every day

And on the weekends to watch Eli athletes at play.

For the Fourth, you must get the Sunday New York Times

 To do the puzzle speedily, in ink, no matter what the rhymes.


And the Fifth thing to be at your best?

Take regular naps, enjoy getting your rest.

Sixth? Call your kids every Sunday at 10:30. sharp

But keep the calls brief, you don’t want to carp.

 


Now we are at number Seven, which could keep heaven at bay

Find time for the spiritual, perhaps even pray.

And the Eighth, what could that possibly be?

Provide wise counsel for many without charging a fee.

 

But the Ninth thing, the one that we treasure the most?

It’s when you tell jokes, laugh loudly, even at your own roast.

For it is your humor, your sense of the absurd

That lets you stand out from the ordinary herd.


Repeat all of your stories, not one of them is new

And yet each time you tell them we get another view.

Of your fair-minded approach, your sense of what’s right

The battles to skip, and which ones to fight.

 

So there you have it, the Nine things you must be.

If you want to reach the wise old age of 93

Take my advice if you want to become a sage like my Dad

And then what a glorious life you will have had.

18 Comments

Filed under Aging, Aging Parents, Family, Lawyers, Moms, Relationships

When a Friend’s Mom Dies “Old” – and Yours Died “Young”

 

 

 

Mom at party

 

I was standing in my kitchen yesterday when my close friend Liz called. Her mother had died. She was 92-years-old and was in failing health.

My mom died in 1981 when I was 28 and she was 54. She died “young”. I guess you could say that Liz’s mom died “old.”

Does it make it easier on a daughter (or son) if your mom dies at a ripe old age?

Or does it make it harder to lose her since you had her in your life for many more years?

When I sat down earlier today to write Liz a sympathy note – yes, handwritten, yes on personal stationery, yes, very old-school, just the way my mom taught me to do – I wasn’t sure what to say.

In my head I think Liz was pretty lucky. Her mom lived to see grandchildren. Mine did not. Her mom was around to answer questions in Liz’s young mom days. Mine was not. Her mom was an honored guest at the weddings of two of her grandchildren. Mine never had that chance.

I’m not sure Liz saw it that way. The last few years for her mom were rough ones. No matter the number of calls or visits, and Liz was a most devoted caregiver, her mom was always lonely. Liz was busy, worked hard, had her own life; her mom’s life had narrowed.

Perhaps Liz doesn’t even remember what her mom was like in the prime years of her life.

Whereas that is the only way I can think of mine. Age 54. Active, vibrant, on the go. Back to school to get another master’s degree in education. Volunteering in good causes. Taking on leadership roles in non-profits. Hosting family holidays. Watching my sister and I move through our twenties into grad school, boyfriends, marriages, lives.

Then on a random Tuesday – poof – my mom was there one night and the next morning she was gone. I didn’t know she was dying. She didn’t either. (I hope) Am I jealous that Liz got to be with her mom to ease her through her later years as best she could? Or am I secretly jealous that I didn’t have to bear that burden of elderly care-giving?

Likely I would have had many less than admirable caregiver moments. I can be impatient. I might have thought it a personal imposition to give up my time to meet my aging mother’s needs, to take her to endless doctor’s appointments, to deal with insurance, hospitals and aides. I didn’t have to deal with any of that. As Liz ably did.

What do I write to Liz?

“Sorry for your loss.”

Ridiculously trite and also untrue because while I am sorry, and it is a loss, her mother is not going to ever be found. She is permanently gone. There is no death lost and found of which I am aware.

“Hoping your memories will be of comfort.”

This is a phrase I have trotted out before. It is marginally helpful because memories over time do provide some comfort. But then they start to fade. In the first few years after my mom died, she made regular appearances in my dreams. But now I must look at photos to recapture a sense of what she looked and can only guess at what she sounded like.

What I like to do when I write notes of sympathy is to share my own memories of the person who died.

Recalling how Liz’s mom would show up for a visit carrying packages of chicken in her suitcase because the chicken she could buy in New Jersey tasted better than anything you could buy in the DC area.

The time we took Liz’s mom to the beach for the weekend; she loved seeing the ocean again, told me it reminded her of living near the shore when she was raising her family.

When Liz’s mom was in the hospital, I visited her and brought her some chocolate truffles. Liz’s mom, like Liz, was a chocolate connoisseur. After eagerly accepting the candy, she promptly hid the box in the top drawer of the table next to her hospital bed. She did not want to share her chocolates with anyone. I liked that about Liz’s mom.

I happened to be in her hospital room that day when a doctor stopped by – and he stood by the door, barely inside her room. He didn’t even greet Liz’s mom, just started to bark out information and orders.

Not on my watch. I spoke right up and urged the doctor to come in, to stand right next to her bed, I told him that Liz’s mom had very poor eyesight and hearing. She couldn’t see or hear him. He needed to walk into the room, all the way, please, and stand by her bed.

The doctor asked me who I was. I admitted I was not a relative. He finally deigned to stroll into the room to stand next to his patient’s bed and talk directly to her – not at her. A small victory.

I didn’t do much for Liz’ s mom over the years. Not as much as I should have or could have. I listened to Liz when she called me, when she was worried about her mom and when she complained about her, too.

I don’t know that I would have done as much as I should or could have for my mom either. Had she lived. But she didn’t. Liz’s mom did. And Liz now has her memories which I hope will be of comfort.

 

 

 

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Filed under 1st Grandchild, Aging, Aging Parents, Baby Boomers, Communications, daughters, Family, Female Friends, friendship, Letters, Moms, Talking, Women, Writing

The Perks of More Candles on the Cake – Getting Older Gets Better

iStock_000012608221_Double Birthday Candles

It’s my Birthday this week.

And I am firmly of the belief that it is far better to have a birthday than not – Right?

Which is why I have never understood why some people, unfortunately, it seems this happens more with women than men, speak only in whispers about their age.  Try to evade it when questioned.  Or say coyly – I’m 55 plus – or of a “certain age” – or 60-something.

Why would you want to hide your easiest achievement, something you accomplished just by showing up year after year?

So say it loud, say it proud, I am soon to be 63.

And judging by how my 62nd year has been, I expect 63 will have even more of the perks that getting older has to offer.

Perks you say?  Perks??  You may wonder if I’ve lost it. Tell me, Nancy, just where are the perks in the as-we-age bodily aches and pains? Do you find  benefits in the illness of friends or family? Is there an upside that only you have discovered to death and grieving?

No, of course, not, I’m right there with all of you who experience the many woes that accompany the aging process. I don’t mean to minimize them at all.

But in the past year,  I have found, rather surprisingly, for I am definitely not at all a Pollyanna-sort-of-person, that there are some wonderful aspects about getting on in years. Unexpected Perks! –  that balance out the less fun parts.

I count at least 10 Perks– Here’s my List:

1.  The older I get,the less I care what others think of me. Very liberating.

2. If I start a book, I no longer have to finish it. If it doesn’t wow me, I can put it down and move on to the next good read. No guilt.

3. I’ve given up bristling when someone calls me “ma’am.”

4. Resentments? Old hurts? Not so much. It uses up less energy to leave slights in the past.

5. I’m just as opinionated as ever, but I am trying hard to mute my critic voice. If a friend happens to think that wearing a certain tight blue dress that shows her every figure flaw is an appropriate look, then fine for her. My lips are zipped.

6. I still care about my appearance. I do slather on skin cream every night that promises to “rejuvenate, renew and restore” even though I know it won’t. But I have made a few concessions. I am no longer a prisoner to my blow dryer. And recently I tried a radical experiment and actually left the house to do an errand without wearing any mascara!! And life went on.

7. I know that not everyone I meet will like me  -or “get me” – and that even if they do, they will probably like my husband more. Fine.

8. I don’t expect my adult kids to live their lives in ways that will make me happy. I did my best as a parent, they’ve now grown and flown (mostly) and their jobs are to find their own paths, not to follow mine.

9. I still worry a great deal – mostly about things I cannot control (like my family’s health; curious, because I rarely worry about mine) – but I try to worry about only one thing at a time. This is progress for me.

10. I’ve started to say “I love you” more frequently. I’ve always said it to my husband, kids and family. But as I get older I realize that I love lots of other people to whom I am not related.  It’s good to love your friends, too, and to tell them so. Aging has made me more affectionate. Who knew?

**********

Back to #1 for a second – while it is true that the older I get, the less I care about what others think of me – the reverse has also occurred. The more candles on the cake, the more I care about what I think about me.

As my standards for others relax, my self standards ratchet up. I expect more of me than I ever did.  I’m in charge, I set the rules of how I live my life from now on. And I’m pretty demanding!

Turning 63 = Liberating, Terrifying, Exhilarating. Carpe Diem!

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Filed under Adult Kids, Aging, Baby Boomers, Books, Empty Nest, Family, Female Friends, friendship, Men vs Women, Semi-Retired, Women

9 Things To Do If You Want To Turn 92

November yale467x490

Better to have a birthday than not, says my Dad very matter-of-factly. Consider the alternative, he often tells me.  His 92nd birthday is this Sunday, February 1.  (and yes, it does fall on SuperBowl Sunday, perhaps not a coincidence.)

His pragmatic approach to life – serious when he needs to be, humorous when not, and some great luck in the health department – has gotten him to this milestone.

But exactly how has he managed to reach it?

I thought about this and wondered. For this is a man whose idea of exercise is to lift the remote ever so slightly to aim it at the TV. He eats salami, drinks beer and sees his doctor for lunch, rather than for a check-up.  As a lawyer who still goes to the office every day to the firm he founded in 1951, he strongly prefers to give  – rather than take advice.

Perhaps what keeps him going is his love for his family? – not that I have ever heard him actually say the word “love” aloud.

A tough guy, Mr. U.S. Marine Corps, WWII Vet, he shies away from emotion. But he shows it by his actions, always being there with wise counsel when my sister and I need it. Staying strong for us when our Mom died young. Taking joy in his four grandchildren, two step-grandchildren and one toddler great-grandson. And now taking tender care of his wife, my stepmother, as her dementia sadly advances.

If I knew precisely what got him to this point of great age and great wisdom, I would bottle it and win a Nobel prize. But since that is extremely unlikely to happen, I decided, in the spirit of Dr. Seuss, a childhood favorite, to make an educated guess, and offer the following:

 

9 Things To Do If You Want to Turn 92

It is not easy to turn 92

You have to know just what to do.

First, you stay married for a very long time

And Second, be frugal and save every nickel and dime.


The Third thing to try is to go to the office every day

And on the weekends to watch Eli athletes at play.

For the Fourth, you must get the Sunday New York Times

 To do the puzzle speedily, in ink, no matter what the rhymes.


And the Fifth thing to do to be at your best?

Take regular naps, enjoy getting your rest.

Sixth? Call your kids every Sunday at 10:30. sharp

But keep the calls brief, you don’t want to carp.

 


Now we are at number Seven, which could keep heaven at bay

Find time for the spiritual, perhaps even pray.

And the Eighth, what could that possibly be?

Provide counsel for many, without charging a fee.

 

But the Ninth thing, the one that we treasure the most?

It’s when you tell jokes, laugh loudly, even at your own roast.

For it is your humor, your sense of the absurd

That lets you stand out from the ordinary herd.


Repeat all of your stories, not one of them is new

And yet each time you tell them we get another view.

Of your fair-minded approach, your sense of what’s right

The battles to skip, and which ones to fight.

 

So there you have it, the Nine things to do

If you want to reach the wise old age of 92.

Take my advice if you want to become a sage like my Dad

And then what a glorious life, you will have had.

10 Comments

Filed under Aging, Aging Parents, Family, Lawyers, Moms, Relationships

Of Coffee, Ice Cream and Soccer Shoes

6-8Soccer

My friend Liz and I are in that sweet spot between Menopause (been there, done that) and Medicare (not there, not needing that).

She called me the other day and said, “I have two things to ask you.”

“O.K., what’s up?”

Did I want to see a new movie she thought we would both like?  That led to a discussion about possible restaurants to go to after the movie (if we could stay awake that long.) Which led us to talking about why she eats so much healthier than I do.  (I like kale, I do, but really, 3x a week?). After several more stray conversational tangents, I asked her,

“What was the second thing you wanted to ask me?”

She replied, “I forgot.”

“Fine, no problem. Call me back if you remember.” I said.

Maybe she will remember, maybe she won’t.  This happens to me often too. I like to think that we have all the time in the world to try to recall what that second question was, to get together with friends, to make plans. But will we have the time?

Getting older worries me. Specifically, it is the “aging” part of getting older that worries me. My Dad is 91 and Liz’s mom is 90. They are elderly. We see what aging looks like for them. It has its good moments and some not so good. My Dad, who goes into his office every day, is still quite sharp, especially when he remembers to wear his hearing aids. Liz’s Mom’s vision is failing but she enjoys getting a regular manicure. They both appreciate every birthday that they have.

What will aging look like by the time we get there? I’m not ready to be considered “old”, I told Liz recently, although more often I feel that younger people see us that way.

A few Saturday mornings ago my husband and I went to a small coffee shop known for its fabulous brew.  It was packed with 20 and 30 somethings, as it is in a trendy neighborhood near new condos, pilates studios, wine bars and hot restaurants. We stood in line, I ordered my skim latte, my husband his espresso, one scone to share and then with the newspapers (the actual print kind) under our arms, we hunted for a place to sit.

Was it my imagination or did all of the millennials hunch even more closely over their laptops as we walked by silently telling us – hey look, Mr. and Ms. Oldster, every seat in here is taken, shouldn’t you be having a nice bland cup of coffee at the nearest generic place? When no seats opened up at the cool coffee shop, we had to leave, with our coffee in to-go cups, my husband grumbling that espresso is not to be served in to-go cups.

The next Saturday morning we reluctantly did go to the nearest generic Starbucks. At around 11 a.m., it was filling up with young families, the kids in their soccer uniforms, moms texting, dads checking email, chatting about their next activity on a busily over-scheduled Saturday. Looking at them, it seemed like it was only a few years ago that my husband and I were the ones digging through the front hall closet to find shin guards, soccer shoes that still fit and preparing the orange quarters for halftime snacks.

I thought – very briefly – about going up to one of the young soccer families in the Starbucks, and saying, hey, enjoy it while you can, it seems like this stage of life, this being parents of young kids, that it will last forever. You think that the new soccer seasons will keep coming around each fall, but they won’t. In a snap of an eye your kids will be teens, then gone, then grown. Oh sure, the parents would say to me, you are such an oldster. Go back to your coffees, you have all day to hang out, we are a very busy young family, this is a Saturday;  you’ve had your prime time, leave us to our fun.

Has our time for fun passed?

I hope not. I heard an interview with Dr. Atul Gawande (surgeon, public health researcher, author of a new book called “Being Mortal”) on the radio the other day about how we should change the way we approach aging. We have “medicalized” aging, he says, putting far too much emphasis on keeping elderly people safe, rather than happy, by minimizing their risks in restrictive nursing homes to the extent that they have nothing to live for in lives with few pleasures. He suggested instead that we create places where the elderly can live with their own pets, their own kitchens, their own art, being able to eat and sleep when they want. Hey, I wanted to tell him through the radio waves, I am all for that. (and yes, I will send in my pledge donation to my nearest NPR station very soon.)

Last Friday night my husband and I went out to dinner to a neighborhood restaurant that serves “contemporary American food”, you know the kind with menu choices designed to please the old and the young.  The dining room was filled with people of all ages, including young soccer families, maybe not the exact ones we had seen in Starbucks but close enough to be their cousins. Mom and Dad in their 30’s or 40’s, looking harried and hassled, squabbling with each other after a long work week, two or three bored looking kids in elementary and middle school, staring at their individual tablet screens, pushing their siblings just for something to do, everyone ready for dinner out to be over.

Then I saw (and I swear I am not making this up, this was not a hopeful mirage) in the middle of the restaurant a table of maybe five or six women. Just women, all old enough to classify as elderly, in full throttle aging mode, out for Friday night dinner together. Unlike the young soccer family, they were laughing, talking to each other with smiles on their faces, really enjoying being out and – dare I say it?  – having fun.

Dessert arrived at the all-women, all-elderly table and I was close enough to see what they ordered. A giant white bowl with multiple colorful scoops of different flavors of ice cream. Each woman had her own spoon and they all reached in to the center of the table and eagerly dug in. More laughter, more talking.

I called Liz from the car as my husband and I were driving home.

“Hey, Liz, I’ve seen the future of aging. And it looks pretty good. We are all going to be sitting around a table together and eating ice cream.”

She, of course, had no idea what I was talking about it. She also has yet to remember that second thing that she was going to ask me. The future, assuming we get there, will have its fun times, I’m now sure. And I always thought soccer was pretty boring to watch anyway.

 

 

 

 

 

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Filed under Aging, Baby Boomers, Female Friends, Moms, Women