When the first pain came, I didn’t think much of it, but aches in my bones were occurring more frequently.
When the first arthritis struck my fingers and writing hands, I shrugged that off as well. It happens to older people much younger than me.
When I started forgetting people’s names, my doctor assured me it was no big deal – he did it all the time.
A very natural kind of fear crept into my soul. I guess it is almost always there. It shadows me.
It was odd, but as I passed 65, I joked to people that I was at the age when something always hurt.
Slowly, but steadily, I realized it wasn’t funny; it was a new reality, a peek into the future.
It was also a warning of a relentless, unnerving physical and emotional change.
Thing by thing, my life was about to change; there was plenty of warning, a generous amount perhaps. I couldn’t ever say I didn’t know what was coming.
I decided to become a believer of the idea of living in the now.
One day at a time, dying would take care of itself. It’s not interested in my preference.
I did know that rates of disability were rapidly declining, surgeons routinely replace knees and hips, and people who took care of themselves were living longer. But still…
It hit me like an emotional bomb: it was a crossroads for me, one no one ever really prepared me for, and I was too self-absorbed to prepare myself.
Getting old and dying is taboo in our society, the invisible story.
It was the starkest kind of crossroads for me; the older people that I knew described these new things as nothing but a painful string of losses.
A spiritual writer I turned to wrote that “without doubt, we have a lot of life to live.” But I wondered. How did he know how long I might have left to live? I could never be sure.
The books on aging I read were almost universally shallow and not very useful to me. I had to look hard to find them.
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As one who had never really been sick or in pain – I rarely even saw a doctor – I wasn’t shrugging aging off any more.
The challenge was profound. I had a new and great responsibility to myself.
My flopping around and struggling to get my life in order was getting smaller and less important.
There was one major question following me now, and I had the responsibility of figuring out the answer:
How will I live? Will it be a dark time of slow and painful dying, life being one endless list of perpetual endings and suffering?
Or could I get to work on my sense of humility and acceptance, and accept that this was not the end of life, but a new and very different stage of life?
Most of the people I knew never wanted to think about this or talk about it.
I decided that I would think about it- deeply and regularly. I owed it to myself, the rest of my life, and the people I loved who were around me.
People talk about the sadness of dying alone, but I believe we never die alone; our death affects all of the people we know and have known and loved, good or bad.
The shadow stalked me. I got to work making my path, seeking my direction. I found some valuable thoughts.
This new stage of life, wrote Joan Chittister, “meant both to challenge and to develop a maturity, a mellowness, of personality and character that makes us not only acceptable but even necessary to those around us. Sought after,” in fact.
Chittister became one of those Angels Joseph Campbell was always writing about – Magical helpers, people and animals who show up and guide us along the way and help us find our place.
I didn’t want to kid myself – this is a difficult road; it leads only to one place but shapes the meaning of how I would get there and for the rest of my life.
Thomas Merton, a cherished guide to me, came up short here. He believed the only answers about aging came from talking to God, but I don’t really believe in God as such, and Chittister seemed to be talking to me about how I really wanted to live the rest of my life.
I loved the idea of being mature and mellow, even of doing some good before I left the world. I doubt I will ever be mellow, but I can do some good before I’m gone.
I’m still working on it. I decided to focus on what I could do, not what I couldn’t do.
That idea came from the Little Flower, Mother Terese. She chose small acts of gratitude, kindness, and a rose for the suffering. This was my version of staying fit, active, and healthy forever.
Going to a gym wasn’t the only way; my strongest needs would come from the heart.
I would stay active and healthy in my own way, not others’.
I understand that physical diminishment was inevitable, but it didn’t have to be just about that.
My crossroad led me to a new way of thinking about aging. I would give myself over to a new kind of development at a new kind of time, the kind of change that began in me at the time of birth and remains in me still, sometimes buried alive.
My moral obligation was not to be rich or great at tennis and golfing or money; it was to stay as well as I could and as active and meaningful as I could.
I came to my crossroad and crossed over.
My task at every stage of my life was to confront its fears so my life could become more than it was. I would learn to cope with weakness and put it to good use.
I don’t know how this will turn out; I’m no prophet. But I feel strong about sharing my process, in case it helps someone else find their own.
It’s exciting.
That’s what writers do.
My obligation was to live, not to die.
