Spoon-Feeding My Father
Thoughts on age, written on my 70th birthday
When I was a child, my father weighed over 200 pounds, loomed over us at six feet tall, and reached the heights of success in his profession. A decade ago, I sat next to my father as he lay in a hospital bed, feeding him soup because he was too weak to lift a spoon.
Lying in a hospital bed, shrunken, with only a few wisps of hair, he was reduced to a helpless child. At the time, I thought for a moment that when I got to this point, I’d like to be shot.
But then I caught myself. I thought, no.
This is the ultimate stage of human life, the Omega Point, the plateau that we reach when we’re finished. If we are lucky, we get a little span of time to think, say goodbye, let go of life and of all we once thought was so terribly important.
I’m 70 today.
This is different from previous birthdays. Before on such milestone days, my major feeling was fear of aging, and I was full of plans for defeating it. Denial, in other words.
This is different.
Seventy is not The New 50 or even The New 60. Seventy is really, truly old.
Of course I’m old. I’ve lived a really long time. I’m not dead yet. I should feel bad?
This is also different because, while I haven’t yet beat the average life expectancy for an American woman, it feels like an honor to have made it this far.
I feel honored to be alive, to have a good roof over my head, enough food, enough enjoyable work, and a partner with whom I can enjoy it. I also feel honored to have seen the best of times and survived some of the worst of times in American history.
I have never lied about my age, but I’ve worked hard to maintain both my health and a youthful appearance, only to reach this time, when I look not a day over . . . um . . . 60?
I regret the time and energy spent on trying to stave off the appearance of old age, but I don’t regret the energy spent on staying fit.
This culture is cruel to older people, and crueler to older women. Internalizing that, we can develop a particularly insidious form of self-hatred: Hating ourselves for being old.
When we do, we hate ourselves for being human.
