Know Your Nonagenarians
At 70, I’m grateful to have older, wiser mentors.
It’s happened. I felt it. I’ve just passed the adolescence of my senescence and am entering the home stretch. And much like I was dying to learn the birds and the bees of baby-making when I was 10, at 70 I want to learn to age gracefully.
Puberty was so predictable by comparison: tomboy nipples budding into breasts, then monthly bleeding, then getting hot for other bodies. Puberty was minor, five years at most in length, in turmoil, compared to this prolonged period that now constitutes getting older with all its cosmetic and medical interventions, its shocks when friends of any age leave too soon. For aging there’ll be countless maps and menus to choose from, and schedules over which we have no control.
I break open my brand-new journal and start setting goals. I pledge to observe my precious elders — my involuntary mentors in this unpredictable improvisation called aging — comparing, evaluating, observing, inquiring without asking aloud: When should I give myself a break from grit, learn the lesson of lessening, unclench my grip on relevance without regret, forget my fear of being forgotten? When do I retire from acting? Should I still go on location, do age-appropriate stunts? Is my ambition outrunning my body? Am I still on the incline, or peaking, teetering, tipping toward decline? Should I become a writer as a career move for a more graceful fade-out? Am I even up for reinventing one more iteration? Who can I trust to tell me my cut-off date? There’ll be none the wiser than I am about my own life.
I have a delightful lunch with my long-time friend Diane. She’s in her 90s, a lifelong actress, who knows she could go at any time. “I wonder where I’ll be,” she muses, still wearing her same ol’ smile lip-sticked beyond her lip-line whenever we meet. “I plan on it being a surprise.” Eating off the pink with her daily cheeseburger and white wine, she confesses that she’s a festival of cholesterol, but sees no point in changing her diet now. “Preventive medicine? Hah!” I love her spunk, her lust for life, her defiance of the odds. We reminisce about friends who’ve passed, then shake off the sad with remedial gossip, giggling naughtily about living friends. If they’re still alive, it’s no holds barred, she says.
She’ll email me the link to her one-woman show on YouTube, her most recent bid for immortality. “An artist never takes off the training wheels,” she lectures. “An artist never retires.” I’ll certainly be writing that down. I thereby appoint her my role model for maturity, but she demurs, insisting that she aims to be immature till the day she drops. Her humors life-affirming, I let her lip print linger pink on my cheek all day — a reminder of her affection for me, an emblem of her aim to leave her mark on every moment she lives. I will follow her lead and stay upbeat while it all goes down.
The next day I coast toward a hospital’s discharge door, awaiting the wheelchair containing another funny older friend, Sarah, currently in position three for take-off. At this distance, in this line-up of new mothers and the sports injured, Sarah looks otherworldly, like she’s already half left her life. As it’s my turn at the handicapped ramp, I dash out of my car and throw open the passenger door, efficiency camouflaging my concern. I downshift to slow-motion to help the male nurse transfer her tenderness into my car, belt her in to drive her safely home. Although her little body is at a low ebb, her sassy mind is still sharp. “They said I need an operation but wouldn’t live through it.” She’s going to insist on the procedure and commit suicide-by-surgery, to control her end point. “Whoopee! Look at me? How could anybody turn me down?” We drive in noisy silence, with her pleased to have decided and me in pre-bereavement grief. I admire her courage, and will miss her her a lot.
There’s lots to journal about that night. I itemize the early warning signs of my waning. I’m sleeping more guiltfree, reading, feeding my head for no purpose other than my own pleasure, relaxing without fear I’m missing anything, without fear of being left behind. Exhaustion obliterates my workaholism. Exhaustion may be how ending begins, naturally prioritizing what’s urgent over what’s expendable.
My home mirror, in which I measure myself the next morning, has been kind. I write that down. Today I’m sure I look cute and stain my lips a little extra. I take my car in for service, power down the window to smile at the middle-aged manager, milking my charm for a faster turnaround. He gives me a broad smile. “Well, what can I do for you today, young lady?” Ow! Kiss of death, overcompensating for the fact that he sees me as old with this curse of a compliment. His veiled judgment of my effort makes me feel foolish.
And then my facial dysphoria kicks in. How can I feel so young while looking so old? I can well understand folks who feel so wrong in their bodies and undergo operations to feel right. I will insist that my health insurance cover the dysmorphia of living in the wrong face, to pay for several procedures that restore me to a face that suits the way I feel in this phase. It will be a landmark case, a class action suit by all us vain women against the tyranny of age. That should keep us busy for the home stretch. Oh, I know full well I must let go of vanity for my sanity’s sake and stop looking outside myself for validation, but it’s an actor’s bad habit.
Two weeks later, I sit by my 97-year-old mother’s side, watching the classic movies she’s always loved as she softly snores. She’s lost interest in the actors, the outfits, her life and mine. She eats minimally now, with too few teeth to enjoy our shared supper. I take her for one more trip to the bathroom before her nurse comes back. Her bladder’s gone bad, and, knowing I might inherit it, I kegel constantly. She has outlived her anxiety about such small things, which bodes well for me outgrowing mine, unless my clinging to dignity trumps my heredity. “I’m not afraid,” she reassures me. After our possibly last visit, shorn of sentiment, unable to raise her arms to my hungry hug, she murmurs, “It won’t be long now.” She’s been saying that for years, but who knows — this time it might be true. I breathe deep to detach as I go out her door shoving down love with the lump in my throat as I fly from her.
I settle myself into middle seat 24-B, like it’s some form of lap, while strangers’ elbows and a seatbelt hold me tight. I stay passive in stillness, mothered by a well writ woman’s e-book and my own journal writing as the jet speeds 3,000 miles in six hours. Wasn’t it my mother who said, “the faster you move, the longer you’ll live,” decades ago when we used to move and play together, in walks, dancing, and yoga? Does jetting fast while inert count? I’ve had this mother all my life. Where will I find a surrogate to look at my photos, listen to my stories, criticize my hair color, remind me of my age at the most awkward moments? I doubt Facebook can ever replace a parent. As the main human support beams of my scaffolding collapse, I must find new ways to hold myself up. Daily journaling to expose myself to myself will help.
I’m in good company visiting a long-time friend my age. We lounge in the shade of her trees watching a butterfly show off in a sunbeam. It doesn’t need us to tell it how beautiful it is. We commiserate about our latest little ailments and medications, her left knee, my right shoulder, but her 12-year-old retriever puts us to shame. He recently had a leg amputated, and as he digs joyfully three-legged to find bones he buried in my friend’s yard when they both were pups, we cheer. How we wish we knew less about loss, like he does. In wonderment at how unaware nature is of time as it barrels on and on, she and I decide to stop sharing articles on beauty tricks. We seem to forget a lot of what we read now anyway. We promise to be more like her dog, to dig joyfully with less care about finding. We pledge to learn less about aging as we age.
Deep in thought, leaving the Chinese acupuncture office after routine maintenance, I make a stop at the restroom before hitting the road. I head into my safe place, the second stall. I always assume that the first is overused, but maybe all women think that and use this same second stall. Too late. I’ve settled in. As another woman strolls into the first stall, I spy white medical shoes with familiar white slacks dropping to the floor. It’s my acupuncturist. My sphincter gets shy and clenches. There’s a turgid pause. This is silly. We both know why we’re here. I have to plug my ears with my fingers to squelch my self-consciousness at hearing how my pee might sound to her or hers might sound to me. And once I finally let go, I speed pee to make up for lost time. But through finger-plugged ears, I hear my next-door neighbor hiss at me.
“Stop!” Stunned, I stop midstream and listen. Is she talking to me? “Slow! Don’t be Type A! Don’t push like a man hose. Be a woman, gentle.” She hisses again. “Slow. You just had tummy treatment. So, now relax and just let go. No pressure. Like meditation. Concentrate and you let it fall out when it wants to, like this — Aahhhh.”
Didactically, she demonstrates, stops, and restarts with impressive control. She does it twice. “See? Good for the lady muscles to stop then go, then stop. Then they live a long time.”
After what we’ve both heard behind closed doors, I’m embarrassed to face her in the mirrors at the sinks. “I know you’re right, Dr. Ho,” I say to deflect, and she smiles benevolently, pats my shoulder, and goes. I mist up in the mirror, a sucker for even her stern style of kindness today.
And as I leave the building, I look up to the sky and say, “thank you” — a completely preposterous move as I don’t believe in any heavens or in any gods up in any skies. I realize I am thanking upwards for all the insights on aging I now know I’ll get by osmosis, thanking upwards for how life will equip me with my unique instructions for letting go of it.
