There’s a sadness to getting older. An underlying cloud of hazy gray covers the days and at night there is worry or maybe remorse at misspent opportunities. Not every day is seen through this heaviness, of course, but there is a realization that hits, and I begin to know, really know that my days are numbered.
Time is whizzing by at an alarming rate. I recall the birth of my children as if it were yesterday, yet my baby will be forty-six this year. It is April and I feel as though I was just putting out my fall decorations and enjoying pumpkin spice coffee creamer. Fourteen years ago, my first grandchild was born and soon he will be a sophomore in high school. It all seems to go so fast now, and yet some things never change, like the need to be loved and accepted, the awe of watching a sunset, or the joy of warm chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven.
Sometimes I forget that I am older until I pass the mirror and look into the droopy eyes of someone I don’t recognize at first. “Oh, hi love,” I say to myself. “I see you. It’s ok. You’re doing ok.” As reluctant as I am to share my self-talk, I appreciate the encouragement and realize that in most situations my own support and nurturing is much more important than the words of others. (A realization that has taken me years to learn.)
I’m feeling sad lately at the adversities and misfortunes that are befalling my dearest friends. All of us, if we live long enough, will pass through the valley of the shadow of death. All of us will have hard times, and I have had my share of these seasons, but seeing my sweetest friends go through sorrow and suffering puts a heavy pit in my stomach. I want to help. I want to change the inevitable outcome of diseases and grief. I want to do anything other than accept the unacceptable. But, as my Sittin’ Ugly Sistah Ginger says, sometimes all you can do is just show up.
My dear friend of fifty years has Alzheimer’s. It has been a slow dissent for her, but things are speeding up. I show up but it rarely seems enough. I send prayers and good thoughts, but it hasn’t changed the course of this barreling freight train. My tears have done nothing to soften the harsh reality for her children and yet the tears keep coming and somewhere in there is my own self-pity at being left behind, without my friend. Aptly named the long goodbye, Alzheimer’s is a cruel and heartless disease that robs the very life from its victims and tortures the family and friends left to watch.
That is part of the sadness of getting older. We are either leaving behind or getting left behind. It’s a constant hello and goodbye. Things are ever changing and mostly when you least expect it. Like our bodies, and their predictable, but often unwanted revisions. Our hair, skin, and nails become shapeshifters, morphing into entities that do not resemble their former selves. Our limbs betray us, and our inner organs are like an old pair of tennis shoes, scuffed, tattered, and worn completely out.
There is a nursing home with memory care near our neighborhood. I used to find it humorous that its name was Autumn Leaves. But it is no coincidence that many homes are named according to this time in life and what that brings. Serene Meadows, Tranquil Oaks, Sunrise Senior Care all names meant to bring peace to this time in life. A rose by any other name…
When my dear friend Randy passed away two years ago, I became mute with sadness. What I wanted to say to her children and sister, I somehow couldn’t. I was overcome with this feeling of disbelief and such a deep sense of permanence. If the unimaginable could happen to her, a vibrant, loving, generous spirit, what could become of us lesser beings?
There is a sadness to getting older. The time for do-overs has passed us by. There will be no more children to try and get it right with. Our best hope are the grandchildren who we can love with abandon and try not to interfere with their lives.
This year Boo and I bought a new car. “We need to hurry and buy one before they all become electric. I’m too old to learn about electric cars,” he said.
“You know this will probably be your last car, babe,” he added.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we kept the last one for eight years. Do the math. Do you really see yourself car shopping at seventy-eight or seventy-nine?”
“I suppose you may be right, but I’d like to keep my options open, just in case.”
Last new car. Last colonoscopy. Last driver’s license. And I probably will not start a rock band or learn to snow ski. However, even with the sadness of lasts, nevers, and goodbyes, there is an open opportunity for gratitude and appreciation that somehow makes everything more palatable, if I can let it.
Gratitude for having one day at a time, so the sadness and frailties of life don’t overwhelm me. Thankfulness for the health and wealth I do have, not what I wish I had. And compassion for this old body who has served me well all these years. Aging is not for the faint of heart. It takes courage to walk through this life with all of its highs and lows, and even though there is sadness around every corner, I will choose to keep walking toward the light.
Sittin' Ugly Sistahs 