The other day I saw a handsome older man scurrying down the aisle at Harris Teeter. I’m guessing he was in his early 70s, but his thick white hair and fit body made him look a little younger. As he walked away, I wondered what he looked like when he was younger. Then I thought it would be super cool if we could wear age decoder glasses that allowed us to see people at different ages in their lives. I’d love to see my parents as teenagers, and I’d love to see my 5-year-old self decked out in my Partridge Family-style suit. (Oh how I wanted to be a member of that family.) My guess is that the older man I saw at the Teeter was a fox in his younger days.
Before you even think it, I know I’m turning into a geriatric stalker, but there’s a two-pronged reason that I notice senior citizens more these days. First prong, I constantly compare the health and wellbeing of random old people with my parents and my husband’s parents. Sometimes the comparison makes me thankful for the shape they’re in, other times it leaves me jealous.
The second prong is that I’m at the halfway mark in my life, and I often wonder what I’ll be like when I’m old. I want to believe that I’ll be the 80-year-old woman driving to the Y in a convertible every morning donning a white ponytail and cool exercise clothes. I’d love to be the one that all the young women point to and say, “I want to be like her when I’m old. Just look at her legs.”
That’s the goal, but you never know what life is going to throw at you, and the older I grow, the more I realize that I can only control so much of the throwing. (Note, if I have any say in the matter at all, I will have a convertible in my golden years.) Now, back to my geriatric friends.
Most people try to sugarcoat getting older, and of course, there are some great things about it. First of all, you’re not dead. Second, most likely you’re wiser if you’ve paid attention. Third, and best of all in my opinion, you can say all sorts of things, and if some or all of them are offensive or crazy, the general public will just write you off as a batty old person and go on with their day. It’s a free pass to say all of the things you’ve always wanted to say. I can’t wait for that.
However, a lot about growing old is heartbreaking. Losing the ability to do the things you love has to be excruciating. I’ve only dipped my toe in these waters, as I can’t pull off a good cartwheel anymore, and I rarely stay up past 10:30 p.m. But what happens when you can’t drive or dance or walk down the stairs anymore? It’s hard not to mourn that loss, and it’s even harder not to be angry about it.
My parents are in their eighties. Three years ago my mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, a bastard of a disease, and though she’s holding on as best she can, she is slowly fading away. As for me, I try to connect with her, but I’m doing a lousy job. She can’t hear well, and I end up screaming at her out of necessity, not anger. We both end up frustrated and wishing things could be the way they used to be.
As I try to think of ways to connect with her, I find myself paralyzed by the present and the future. It’s hard not to imagine what the future will be like for her. My grandmother died of Alzheimer’s, so I’ve seen this before.
What does make me happy is the past. I relish it more now than I ever have, and I find myself discovering more memories by the day. Either my children will do something that reminds me of being a kid, therefore being with my mom, or I’ll just remember something on my own — like the time my mom grounded me for jumping into the neighborhood lake in February.
Those memories feel like a hot bath, as they take away the chill of right now. I think of all of the times my mom drove me to dance class, to cheerleading, to play practice, to piano, to voice, to Girl Scouts, to wherever I needed to go. I think about how she used to surprise me with dresses from Neta’s, our hometown boutique that just recently went out of business, for special occasions — my baccalaureate, my high school graduation, my first real job.
So many times people find pain in the past, but for me, there is so much goodness when I think of my mom. Though I hate so much that she has Alzheimer’s, I wonder if I would cherish these memories as much as I do if she were cognitively okay. I can’t answer that, but part of me thinks I would take them for granted. All I know is that remembering helps me deal with now, and I hope somewhere deep down inside of her, she remembers all of the good times, too.