A few of aging’s simple pleasures
“Old age ain’t no place for sissies,” actress Betty Davis wrote. Her book, The Sad Life,was published shortly after her conflicted, tumultuous life ended in 1989 – my age now. There’s also a heads side to the aging coin.
Mornings are the best. I get up whenever I’m ready. Usually before 8:30. My day starts with juice and coffee, reading the paper, and meditating. An hour or so later I hang out birdfeeders and move on to the rest of the day.
I’ve reconnected with Pat, a best friend from Ferris in the 50s. She was from a small UP town and I from a small town ‘down below.’ We grew to like each other a lot and, for our four years together in college, had many great times. Bowing to our families’ religious intolerance, we didn’t take the natural step to serious boyfriend-girlfriend. We’ve been e-mailing for several years now.
I recently began renewing a relationship with Bob, another friend from the 50s’ Ferris. We went through pharmacy and medical school together and have seen each other occasionally since. His wife recently entered a residential facility with dementia.
Daughters-in-law Karin and Jodi have given me wonderful gifts of assistance in joining the 21st Century electronic communications world as a wannabe, late-budding journalist. Karin built a website to host my articles and coaches me on using it. And Jodi set me up with a Twitter account and tutors me on using it to broaden the audience for my diary on aging.
The golden years offer interesting possibilities for discovering life-enriching dimensions in relationships. Ray, a fellow physician, friend and neighbor is providing me with an opportunity to learn what it’s like to slowly die. He has no pain, but his lungs are failing. He’s tethered to oxygen, and can only walk a few feet with a walker before stopping to catch his breath. He’s fallen a few times – a splint protects a broken wrist. A few nights ago he slipped off the bed at 3AM, couldn’t get up, and called 911 for help returning to bed.
His well-appointed condo has furniture and keepsakes from the home he and his late wife shared for many decades. He’s determined to die there – if possible. He has hospice and hires caregivers who arrive when he awakens and stay until he retires with his memories at bedtime
I try to visit him weekly, but don’t quite make it. Before he tires, we talk about many things, like his work, travel, old friends, passion for jazz, playing trumpet in swing bands, and our MSU Alumni Band trips to Europe. He asks for my thoughts on various issues. Once I inserted a suppository because he couldn’t reach back there. I believe I’m learning more from our experience than he gains.
My most important simple pleasure is exchanging nightly massages with my wife. Several years ago she was struck by a drunk driver and suffered a shattered shoulder. Our insurance paid for a masseuse, with a portable table, to treat her in our home. That worked so well, we bought a table and taught ourselves the art of massage.
During our massages, the PBS Newshour, with its usual litany of disasters, shootings, greed, lust and stupidity plays on the TV. While one watches and massages, the other tries to listen, but more often than not gradually descends into a blissful snooze. Later we fill each other in on the missed segments. The table’s the best $300 investment we could have made.
Contentment from watching fellow earthly creatures living their lives in our backyard doesn’t take a back seat to any grander pleasure. Taking time to observe their comings and goings, I watch turkeys courting in the spring, mother robins teaching their young to hunt for bugs, mourning doves patiently sitting on their nest while their eggs mature, chicks hatch, grow and launch into flight, and Canada Geese leading their chicks to the safety of the secluded pond behind our place.
Of course I can’t know what the future holds, but I’m building a stock of good memories – in case I can remember.
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