Suddenly I feel old. Actually old.
It seems like it happened overnight. And it happened well after I had that old-people's surgery to replace a worn-out knee.
The AFib episode on Sept. 5 -- exactly two years after my mother's death, and exactly six months after my knee surgery -- might have been when this accelerated sense of aging started. Or maybe it was getting the CPAP machine two days after Christmas. I have to admit, it's helped me fall asleep faster and sleep more deeply (not to mention that I don't stop breathing in my sleep anymore). But the thought of hauling the thing with me on vacations, and hooking it up before bedding down in a resort hotel bed, makes me feel...well, old.
Also, would I take the CPAP with me if I were to anticipate being snowed in overnight at Portage? I already carry an emergency suitcase in my car trunk for that purpose -- including a supply of the rapidly-increasing number of pills I have to take every day.
Then there was the day-after-New-Year start of my newest newsroom colleague. He's 22, fresh out of college; I was working at my fourth newspaper gig when he was born.
So, yeah. For all the talk of 60 being the new 40, I am, and I feel, officially old.
To feel old is to perceive that more of my life is behind me than ahead of me. It entails thoughts of letting go -- of physical vitality, of career, of health, of life, of just about everything except memories and stories. (And I've known people, afflicted with dementia at my age or younger, who have had to let go of those, too. I can't even fathom such a devastating loss.)
In describing this "feeling old" experience, and in owning it, I'm trying not to wallow in it.
And I'm reminding myself, over and over again: With better nutrition, a lower body weight and pain-free movement, I am far, far better able to cope with these realities of aging than I would have been otherwise.
I can be what Phoenix area real estate developers call an "active retiree." As long as I remain physically active, connected to other people, involved in activities that interest me and yes, just a little silly, I can embrace this emerging stage of life -- not give it the false name of "staying young," but realizing that my life is not over, and will not be over, until I stop craving new knowledge and new experiences.
In many ways, I owe my ability to continue moving forward to the work that began two years ago, after I came home from Phoenix with a crippled knee. I'm about to mark the two-year anniversary of the days when the Dans came into my life -- when both of them, but especially Dan S. at first, guided me on the journey of reclaiming not only my mobility, but also my body and my identity.
I haven't seen Dan S. (young enough to be my son!) for a while, not even in passing. I don't get to the pool as much as I want to (work schedule!), and when I do, he's not on the deck with another patient.
But when I do see him next, I'd like to use our minute or two of conversation to tell him that, yes, a lot has happened to me, physically and psychologically. But look! I can move! I can walk! And I make a point of moving, and embracing life for as long as I have it.
This is what an "active retiree" looks like:
It seems like it happened overnight. And it happened well after I had that old-people's surgery to replace a worn-out knee.
The AFib episode on Sept. 5 -- exactly two years after my mother's death, and exactly six months after my knee surgery -- might have been when this accelerated sense of aging started. Or maybe it was getting the CPAP machine two days after Christmas. I have to admit, it's helped me fall asleep faster and sleep more deeply (not to mention that I don't stop breathing in my sleep anymore). But the thought of hauling the thing with me on vacations, and hooking it up before bedding down in a resort hotel bed, makes me feel...well, old.
Also, would I take the CPAP with me if I were to anticipate being snowed in overnight at Portage? I already carry an emergency suitcase in my car trunk for that purpose -- including a supply of the rapidly-increasing number of pills I have to take every day.
Then there was the day-after-New-Year start of my newest newsroom colleague. He's 22, fresh out of college; I was working at my fourth newspaper gig when he was born.
So, yeah. For all the talk of 60 being the new 40, I am, and I feel, officially old.
To feel old is to perceive that more of my life is behind me than ahead of me. It entails thoughts of letting go -- of physical vitality, of career, of health, of life, of just about everything except memories and stories. (And I've known people, afflicted with dementia at my age or younger, who have had to let go of those, too. I can't even fathom such a devastating loss.)
In describing this "feeling old" experience, and in owning it, I'm trying not to wallow in it.
And I'm reminding myself, over and over again: With better nutrition, a lower body weight and pain-free movement, I am far, far better able to cope with these realities of aging than I would have been otherwise.
I can be what Phoenix area real estate developers call an "active retiree." As long as I remain physically active, connected to other people, involved in activities that interest me and yes, just a little silly, I can embrace this emerging stage of life -- not give it the false name of "staying young," but realizing that my life is not over, and will not be over, until I stop craving new knowledge and new experiences.
In many ways, I owe my ability to continue moving forward to the work that began two years ago, after I came home from Phoenix with a crippled knee. I'm about to mark the two-year anniversary of the days when the Dans came into my life -- when both of them, but especially Dan S. at first, guided me on the journey of reclaiming not only my mobility, but also my body and my identity.
I haven't seen Dan S. (young enough to be my son!) for a while, not even in passing. I don't get to the pool as much as I want to (work schedule!), and when I do, he's not on the deck with another patient.
But when I do see him next, I'd like to use our minute or two of conversation to tell him that, yes, a lot has happened to me, physically and psychologically. But look! I can move! I can walk! And I make a point of moving, and embracing life for as long as I have it.
This is what an "active retiree" looks like:
Comments
Post a Comment