Reflections on aging from two points of view.

I will start with a caveat. Maybe I am wrong. Maybe I am thin-skinned and take offense too easily. Well, thinking about that, it doesn't make me wrong.

I saw a physical therapist recently for an evaluation on my hands.

Actually, her measurements and tests were done meticulously. I am pretty sure they are accurate.

It is her conclusions I find fault with, and I do so because I think she is prejudiced against the old. At the least, she has preconceived convictions.

Well, you know, I am not so old. 71. I've already figured out my ownself that those a decade or two ahead of me--and I know people who are--have different expectations, habits, and behavior. Once upon a time, I didn't. Old was old, and I didn't differentiate much.

Most people I know my age and older are doing some pretty remarkable things. A couple have been stricken with dementia. A few have had extreme illnesses occur. But most are quite active, either still working, volunteering vigorously, or both. Some are amusing themselves with sports and active vacations.

I say I am in the youth of my old age, and so I am. I have learned that 71 is as different from 81 as 31 is from 41.I lived briefly in my sixties in a retirement village where most were in their eighties. It was like socializing with my parents' friends. They lived in a different lifetime, shared a different history. Maybe you just have to be here to know this.

So. My hands have been hurting. Especially my left hand, because I am left-handed and use it the most. I realized recently, to my surprise(this stuff creeps up on you), that I couldn't lay my palms flat on a table. They cupped. And muscle strength is really down, and it hurts when I lift heavy stuff. Like a 7-pound bag of bird seed.

I saw my doctor, and she wrote a prescription for physical therapy. I was seen and evaluated by a savvy woman who may be in her thirties. Maybe younger, but I can't tell.

And she evaluated me, and she told me the reason I don't write pages and pages by hand anymore is because of my disability. I protested. I've been typing since I was sixteen, I said. I was a professional writer. I've always typed everything. I haven't had occasion to write enough to find out what she's telling me. No, she said, you don't do it because it hurts and you can't.

She basically said, "Look, you are arguing. Do you want this evaluation or not?"

I shut up. And under my choked throat and stopped-up tears, I wanted to throw something. Preferably soft, at her. I didn't. Whatever her assumptions about my attitude and expectations, I did want her assessment. She was more vague than I would have liked. But I shut up and listened.

After all, she was a standin. She won't be the therapist. Which is good. Because I don't think she believes in any meaningful progress I can make. I may need a canvas splint thing--I kind of expected that. There are exercises to do, and I am killer on stuff like that. But even before that, she showed me a magazine full of devices and tools to help me do the things I find painful or difficult now. Actually, I have a couple already. I have a number of adaptive behaviors. And the more I think about it, the madder I get. To show me the tools before I get the exercises is NOT a good message. She didn't suggest I consider them while I do therapy to improve. She suggested I consider them as permanent aids.

She didn't expect much from me. As a former therapist in another field, I know how unhelpful that is.

I have high expectations for the therapist I actually will work with. I think I can change some of this. If I can't, then I'll do it anyway and grit my teeth. The evaluator said she knows a lot of people my age who can't do much. Duh. This is what she does for a living.
I think she thinks I should trot out to my pasture and chew the grass.

I doubt if this is her technique to get me to work harder. But I suspect the initial result is, I probably will.

Then I'll get on with the rest of my real life.

Finding quality of life in being cozy

Cozy: giving a feeling of comfort, warmth and relaxation.

It is one of my favorite feelings.

It is 52 at 9 o'clock this morning, and 71 in the house.

Last night, my last thought before I drifted off to sleep was how cozy I felt, and how good that was.
I had washed all the bedding, added a new fleece blanket on top, just enough to be able to snuggle.
And it was good. The pillows were soft and plumped, the sheets smooth, the covers surrounding me with a soft layer of comfort.

A nice cool bed with the lightest of cover is welcome in the summer, but it is not cozy. Nope.

I love the springs and falls here, when days are in the 70's or no more than low 80's. The nights can get into the 40s, and there you go. Cozy.

As I grow older, comfort has become an important component of what I do. I never was much of a shopper and never a fashionista. I don't seek for a fashionable house and am frustrated when items I want, like curtains and bath mats, come only in the fashionable colors, not the ones I want. Can color be part of making a cozy home? I think so.

Cataracts are constraining my movement abroad these days. I have always been one to hop in the car and go, a habit from growing up in New Mexico. Now I sedately stay within about a 30-mile radius. I hope that will change post-surgery, whenever that will be. Hopefully this spring, which is the soonest I can see the doctor again.

For now, however, there are gardens I have sped by before to explore, my own home to concentrate on, little art galleries to discover, and such a plethora of new restaurants I never will get around to all of them. I have chafed at the restrictions. I have indeed let it dull my pleasure at what is within my reach.

But last night I was cozy, and I went to sleep happy and woke up the same way.

I intend to continue that way.

I can deliberately create a cozy environment.

And happiness is a choice.

Aging Into The Good Stuff

What I miss most about aging, frankly, is talking on the phone to someone in synch. We never have a lot of them, but we all have a few. I have two left. One in Oregon. One in East Texas.

I can, when we have time, talk an hour with these two friends about anything from gun control and global warming to the name of the bigger than usual blue and grey blue jay thant just drank out of my new birdbath.

Actually, we don't talk gun control. All three of us have three different opinions and believe their are more. We prefer friendship to all these ideas.

Funny, but as I age, I don't talk relationships because I have lost two damn many to age and illness. My two friends have, too. I'be been single forever. They have been married forever. None of us needs to discuss that.

One, though, loves music and ballet as much as I do. The other one and I share wild and domestic flora.

I know women are supposed to natter on about our families. The two of us with grandchildren do share their activities. Not the parents. The kids. We both know we get to play strongly with The Grandkids. More sedately with The Children.

I used to have a number of friends close by. Some have moved, some have died, some have disconnected. I am developing new friendships as we speak, but none with the plants, the art, the music, the essays, the books, the same values. Right now, those are just two friends I talk to.

It isn't lonesome yet, but it looms. I don't want chitchat. I want meaningful conversation. Ideally, conversation than can be discussed, disected and marveled at with a third person.

My ears are still fairly good. What I dread is a time when the interesting conversation fades, and fades, and fades.

I am years from that. Not so many now.

Funny. I guess for some it can be a time of peace and letting go.

For me and others like me, it is the time to learn more, do more, work harder than ever.
I don't want my aging to be a sump tank but a think time. Damn. Less energy, more need.
Aging is a fact. Living is a choice, at least, living well. I've learned some stuff.

Might as well keep talking and writing.

I never want a future with (shudder0 BINGO. I know I am a snob.

We have to draw the line SOMEwhere.

Do we blame dementia for the hearing difficulties in the old?

While I was in rehab, I noticed the majority of patients were older. They would do what they were told, but often the therapist had to tell them 2-3 times before they heard the instruction clearly. This slowed down what they could accomplish in an hour.

Very few were proactive. One of the few was a vivacious 92-year-old woman who had fallen and broken her hip. She has always been active, and the fall and resulting break frightened her.

"I'm staying here as long as I can," she said. I don't blame her.

My therapist said he loved to see me coming because I was proactive. As we were going through a set of exercises one day, I talked to him about that.

"It seems to me one of your biggest problems is loss of hearing," I observed.

He said it was, but more than that, it was what it led to.

"People who can't hear tend to become passive and just go along to remain a part of things socially," he said. "They are embarassed to keep saying 'I can't hear you' and they also fear, quite realistically, that if they do, people will just quit trying to talk to them."

The habit is so engrained, he said, that it takes a while for them to realize the physical therapist isn't going to give up--if they even notice their habits by then.

(I remember the first morning in therapy I was walking with a therapist who smiled and pointed. "Why aren't you bending your knee?" she asked.

Right. I was walking the way I had before surgery and I was there to learn to walk differently.)

The therapist I talked to about hearing problems had more to say.

He said that when patients really don't hear well, he then has to determine if the problem he is working with is poor hearing, diminished mental capacity, or both.
This takes time. So the therapy I was able to do in a week usually takes them two weeks.

A few weeks ago, I heard a paper on dementia that said 40 percent of those who reach their 80s will develop dementia of some kind. But that means 60 percent will not. And we are talking 80s here, not 70s.

However, I know quite a few in their 70s who are deaf as posts.

It makes me wonder if a lot of the dottiness of old age is actually more attributable to hearing than diminished ability to think.

One thing I noticed about the oldsters in my classes--they were tough. Most did the exercises required without grumbling, whimpering or protest. Waiting for the next exercise, they would talk among themselves.

"This your first?"

"No, this is my second hip. I did the knees 10 years ago."

Then they would enumerate the heart surgeries, the appendix, the gall bladders before day surgery, and on and on. They would smile grimly at each other.

They knew full well they were survivors.

And I, doing my knee raises, or peddling, or whatever, just listened, marveled, and muttered to my Creator, "Lord, if it is possible, I don't wanna be that tough."

And it's time again for a bout of my daily exercises.

Love with inflexible standards

It has been a busy month. I notice it has been the same with others who are among my favorite sites. For one thing, life keeps changing, and sometimes we would rather live it than write about it. And when so much is going on, and I am noticing so much, it is hard to focus on a single topic. I decided a long time ago not to journal, per se, in my blog. So it has been difficult to write.

And I seem to be in a period of life where I feel hugely, but seldom strongly in opposition or in anger. Is this a natural process of aging? or where I am going in maturity and spirituality? I hope both. That will make aging a more pleasant process, I think.

I was surprised on Sunday to have my family tell me I am anal. How can that be? I'm sloppy, have to work at organizing. Like to work hard in spurts, then loll around reading books and maybe eating sandwiches because I'm too lazy to cook. But when I cook, and increasingly I do again, I mostly like to start from scratch. Today I will make a white sauce for a chicken pot pie, for instance, instead of using canned soup. Which I sometimes do. But this time I want to flavor the white sauce with sage and poultry seasoning for just the right taste... just the right....hmmm. Anal is inflexible, isn't it? Yes, I can be particular. But I don't wear makeup. I have wash and go hair. I buy a few pair of good shoes, then wear them for years.

When my sons popped the A-word, with much laughter, I appealed to my oldest granddaughter. She smiled sweetly and demurely looked down. She might be agreeing, or choosing not to be involved, but still. And then I looked at my youngest granddaughter, who is carefree and often mussed. Sooner or later, when I come in the door, she knows I am going to say, "Brush your hair." It is very fine, thick and beautiful, and tangles easily. Hopefully that will be something she will remember about me someday and smile. Currently, she rolls her eyes. But she does it. Her father once said I told him to tie his shoes more often than I told him I loved him. But he still knows I love him. Maybe I'm anal about that, too. Can anal be another word for steadfast?

Huh. A peek at how others see me, and an unexpected picture. Maybe I really WAS a good bureaucrat.

The Daily Practice of Happiness

I met a woman recently whose family is concerned about her--she's in her late 80s, slipping slowly into Alzheimer's and a little confused, but still with life and personality in her eyes. She really likes people. I had met her before, but didn't thik she would remember me. Her face lit up, and she said,"Oh, I've missed you! Where have you been?"

Her family adores her. We talked for awhile, and it struck me, and it had before, that this was a woman who has been happy all of her life. She looked for the goodness in her life throughout, and she found it. She's had plenty of cares in her world, but she has focused on the good things going on in her life.

And I began to wonder, is happiness a gift or a talent? I think we expect it to be just given to us. We don't expect to work to expand it, to make it grow, to sustain it. Every day, though, our attitudes, our expectations and our focus have a great deal to do with whether that day is happy or sad.

Sometimes, life is just sad. Several decades ago, I was terribly sad for a spell, and I started a habit of waking up in the morning and writing down the good things I expected to happen. I remember one day all I could think of was, "the sun came up." Every evening I would review my list and write down any additional good things that had happened. And there always were some. Every single day. I learned to look hard for those things.

If happiness is a talent, then some are more gifted at it than others, and I believe this to be true. Some just excel at it. I had to practice, because I have a melancholy streak that rises periodically--but as the years have passed, learning to focus on each day's blessings has helped keep maloncholy at bay. No matter what, these days I know with certainty every day will have good things happening in it. No matter what.

I plan to pratice happiness, and keep getting better at it on a daily basis.

This old woman I talked to is fading now, but she is retaining the central essence of her personality, I believe, through long practice. She is happy. She is kind. She is loved.

When Different Can Mean Happy

Visiting a friend in the hospital recently, I approached the volunteer desk to double-check the room number. One of the women was about my age-in her case with smooth, lovely skin, pretty features and simply cut silver hair. Pretty. Not pretentious. Not particularly conscious of her "presentation", wearing her volunteer jacket and serving her shift. Oh--and her clothing? Ordinary.

We fell into conversation, and she mentioned her husband is 97, blessed with good eyesight hearing and an active mind, but with declining knees.

"We are blessed," she said.

I grinned. "He must have done some cradle-robbing to get you," I said, because this lady was nowhere near her 90s. (Although lately, I've been fooled a few times).

She gave a rowdy laugh. "He sure did! He's 31 years older than me. We've been married 33 years."

Here smile reflected contentment and pleasure at the unexpected longevity of her marriage.

There's a story there. A good one. She was in her 30s, he in his 60s when they married. A love match. She may have been dropdead gorgeous, but she just doesn't have the moves of a woman who counted on it or traded on it. She still loves his personality, sooooo? Maybe he was, or is, very rich. But she was out in public not dressed like it.

I remember the couple I approved for an adoption where she was 26 years older than he. I remember neighbors with the same dynamic. In both cases, the relationships involved equable relationships. Really good ones. Like this woman and her much older husband.

Individuals still defy the cookie cutter systems of categorizing.

I'd love to know the story of the hospital volunteer. I don't need to, though. It's validation everytime I hear about folks who are leading good lives outside any mass demographics. The more we get along with different lives and voices, the better. In a chorus, it's called harmony.

"They" don't all have to be like "us", thank gooness.

Old Folks Talking

"Life is a gift!" he said passionatly. "It is to be treasured daily, hourly, minute by minute."
"Aww," I said. "You make me feel guilty. I've spent so much of my life in depression or wasting time."
"Oh, Charlotte, we have all done that! It doesn't matter. We all waste our gifts. It only matters that we know them."
"Well, as I am aging, I should know better."
He smiled kindly.
"You are not old. You are just a kid. I am the complete adult."
He is right. He is 98. I am 65.
And I learn from him.

A real steel magnolia

I met a woman named Maureen yesterday. Tall, thin, with a deep voice and brown hair. She had a walker but stood ramrod straight as we talked. She's 95. After a couple of minutes, she told me she had to leave. "To be frank," she said bluntly, "I have to pee."

"Then you better hurry," I replied.

She slapped the walker. "That's just the trouble. I can't."

"Then you need to plan ahead very carefully," I responded.

She moved off, guffawing.

I will look forward to talking to her again. I don't know what she used to do, but there is an air of command about her. She's a little bit scary. I think that is a great trait when you are 95.

Move Evokes Nostalgia

My wrist is healed and I have moved. Lots of changes. I moved across town. I think of good friends who moved last year from Texas to Oregon, and I am awed. They are my age--mid-sixties--and say they are glad they moved when they did. They aren't sure they could have made it if they had made the move in another few years.

I think at my age a lot of people upsize to their dream house, or they start downsizing as I have done. Of course, there are the folks who simply stay put and will for the next 20 years or more, or move laterally, to another location with about the same space/cost.

More about that later.

One of the items I moved is a cheap, scruffy pottery plate which currently is sitting under my ficus plant in the window. But I smile when I look at it, because it came into my possession on New Year's Eve, 78/79, with the remains of the evening's baked Alaska on it. That was quite an evening. Beef tournedoes. Pouilly fuisse wine. dancing. and one whale of an ice storm. Memorable. and when I see or handle that plate, I remember it. Actually, the plant resting on it is from a farewell brunch at my old office. The brunch was a surprise, and I understand the food was great, but I missed it because my car caught fire on the way home and I was busy shopping for a replacement. 1)I learned that antifreeze thrown on an engine fire will put the fire out. 2)I learned car dealers will send a car to pick you up when you tell them you have to buy TODAY. A bedraggled ficus on a scruffy plate. See what rich memories they evoke! I could do complete and lengthy blogs on both stories, and probably I will later.

I've divested myself of a large number of personal belongings, sometimes painfully. I don't have much at this point, but there are memories associated with every single thing I have. My sons and daughter-in-law did the packing and moving (I was still exhausted when we were finished)and we all enjoyed looking at some of the photographs. I have some that go back three generations. Maybe more. We showed my son's 5-year-old daughter a picture of her daddy at about her age and told her it was him. She examined the picture thoroughly, then said decisively, "No, it's not."

This place is smaller than my last, and I am determined to keep every thing I brought somehow. I still have unpacked boxes and it has been more than a week. (sigh) But I can't unpack right now--I have to go exercise, and then a neighbor is coming over and then I have to fix supper, and I have to read sometime, don't I?

more later. FYI, the best keepsake from this move is the love my family has shown me, and I don't have to store that anywhere. I just keep giving it back, getting it back, and giving it again.