I’m 59 years old. Eight months away from actual old age. I don’t approve of what is happening to my body.
“Old age ain’t no place for sissies,” said Bette Davis. I agree. I thought I was aging in my 30s and 40s. I thought I was doing it pretty well. It wasn’t until my 50s that I noticed the old all over me. We all know aging is better than the alternative. I’d rather slowly die of embarrassment than die young.
But there are some things people just never talk about. What happens during childbirth, for one thing? I mean the nitty gritty. I split in two and had to get double-digit stitches in an awkward place, and a month later, discovered that my doctor had sewn me up in such a way that going to the bathroom was very uncomfortable. A month after childbirth, I had to have surgery to fix it. Not too long ago, they shaved off all your hair, and episiotomies were de rigueur. And how about breastfeeding? No one told me my boobs would swell up to twice their normal size. The video only mentioned latching on and what a mystery that could be.
My friend, Sara, called a few days after my son was born and asked, “Has your milk come in?” I said, “How would I know?” She laughed, “Oh, you’ll know. Your boobs will swell up like cantaloupes.” I didn’t believe her, but the next day my boobs were swollen like cantaloupes. I did what she said, too. I put frozen peas on them. No one talks about how when you’re breastfeeding, the more you feed your baby, the more milk you produce. You’re like a milk factory controlled by a baby. It was fascinating and cool. I loved breastfeeding once the pain went away. Nobody else was closer to my baby than me. I don’t remember hearing anything like this before childbirth. If I did, I imagine I filed them under things that will never happen to me.
You know another thing we don’t talk about? Aging, except to say aging sucks. I’ll start with gray hair. I have had gray hair at my temples for a decade now. It doesn’t bother me. I color my hair a lot. I grew out my hair color a few years ago because I wanted to see my natural hair color. A month ago, I had it colored dark. My husband says dark hair and light skin make my eyes “Pop,” he says with hand gestures. I have a problem with gray hair in other places. I currently have gray hair in a mole on my face, eyebrows, and eyelashes. The mole is on my right cheek. It has hair growing out of it; sadly, some is gray. The dermatologist says it’s not a problem, like the other ones. I’m okay with a mole on my face. I’m even okay with hair growing out of the middle, as unpleasant as it sounds. I’m fair-skinned, and my hair is light. It’s not a problem. What bothers me is the gray hair. After someone brought it up to me, I started pulling the gray hairs out with tweezers, which was not a comfortable exercise. The dermatologist told me that tweezing the hair was not good. It could change the configuration of the mole. Refer to where change and melanoma are twins.
After my doctor’s visit, I started cutting the hair off. It didn’t bother me until that first hair turned gray. Now, it’s a big problem. Now, I monitor hair growth. I notice when one or two new gray hairs interrupt the blonde ones. Why does it bother me? I don’t care about getting old. Well, that’s not true. Some serious vanity has crept in. I think it’s the fact that my body is betraying me and broadcasting the state of itself to the world without my permission.
My skin is also a problem, especially on my face. I have bumps and brown spots. I had a plastic surgeon take a bump off my eye. The scar it left behind was ten times worse than the bump was. He was an esteemed dermatologist specializing in plastic surgery. Now, I don’t want to have more surgeries, because of the scars, so I live with the bumps. You don’t mess your skin up enough to have melanoma five times and escape the consequences. Skin tags and brown spots bothered me a lot nine years ago. I don’t mind wrinkles or gray hair on my head.
I Snapchat with my daughter. I like the templates you can overlay on your face–flower leis, butterfly leis, elves, lots of things. Later, while taking a selfie, I notice the skin around my neck is weird. I look at it in a close-up mirror, and I see that my skin is kind of loose and shapeless. I worry that I’m going to get turkey neck. Now, turkey neck can keep me awake at night. I actually investigated how to get rid of it, and a full facelift is the only way. This discovery is the first step in stage 1 of freaking out about aging, like real aging.
I start to think about plastic surgery. I research on the internet that you can’t just get neck surgery you have to get a facelift, which I don’t want. I’d rather look old than pulled back. Plus, I keep going back to my eye surgery. I don’t want that kind of screw-up on my face. I remember all the actresses I’ve seen with bad plastic surgery. Jane Fonda is the only one who can pull it off, but I don’t have Jane Fonda dollars. I don’t want a facelift, so I temporarily scrap the neck surgery.
Next, I worry about my boobs sagging too much. I want to get a boob job. I tell my husband this, and he says, “No, absolutely not.” I say, “You’re not the boss of me.” But I decide if he doesn’t care, why should I? Plus, I don’t want my boobs always upright, at attention. That would creep me out like they have a mind of their own. I scrap the boob job.
A while later, I discover my skin is saggy at my joints. Oh my God! This decline is unacceptable and fast. But for many years, I’ve proclaimed I want to want to live to be 100 years old. I will have to go through these other ages to get there.
Many people think I’m younger than I am, making me feel like I should feel younger. I don’t feel younger, though. The skin on my hands is wrinkled now. Wrinkles creep over my arms, my face, and even my legs. When I first noticed, I thought I’d wear turtlenecks, scarves, long pants, and sleeves. I’d be posh. Think of smoking a cigarette with a long black tip. Think Elvira. But when the temperature hit 86, I put a t-shirt on and said to hell with it. A commiserating friend kindly told me about crepe skin, where whole areas of skin, like from your elbow to under your arm, have a drooping, crepey look, like the elegant, draping neckline to a cocktail dress, but not at all like that. My body is communicating my age to the world without my consent. Soon, my skin will be paper-thin, not just wrinkled. What then? I need to make peace.
I started exercising again. It’s part of my fight-aging plan. I’ve been a bit of a couch potato, and my back started screaming at me. Move it! I want to keep my balance and delay immobility as long as possible. I want to walk strong when I’m eighty, like my mother. So, I guess I’m not too upset about growing old. I’m just not a fan of looking old.
At some point, I realize that I’m turning into a vain, self-obsessed nut job, and I’m mystified. Why? I realize that I didn’t believe I was beautiful or perfect my whole life. I thought I passed, but now, I realize that that woman is fading, replaced by an older version. Since we don’t venerate or respect the elderly in this society, becoming one of them is something to approach with disdain and cynicism.
I need to change my mind about aging. Try a new tack.
I’m a realist. Aging is part of life. Aging is better than not aging. I’d rather not die.. I’d rather be a gray-haired old lady full of skin tags and turkey neck than dead. Those are really the options. The part I don’t like. The part no one likes is the death part. Everyone has a natural instinct to live, so we fear elderly people because it is obvious that the aging train is running them down. It seems like older people are separated because we’re afraid to get their scary death juju on us. If I don’t believe society’s, you should be thin, pretty, perfect, why worry over the deterioration of my outsides? Am I deteriorating? When a leather jacket is completely worn in, it is the best kind of comfortable. I need to think of myself as well-loved, comfortable, and soft. Accepting my age means I’m more than my fears, more than my looks, and more than my outsides.
I’m in charge of the way I view myself. Me. My happiness depends on my own thinking. If I want to live to be 100, I need to make peace with my aging body to be happy during the next 41 years. I’m still figuring out how to do that. I pray regularly that I can accept my body and the changes that are happening.
When menopause was over, I was thrilled. No more maxi pads, cramps, or birth control! What’s not to like? But there is much more to getting older. My Mom says, “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” which I assure you worries me a great deal. I can’t roll over in bed some nights because my back hurts so much. My husband and I joke that rolling over in bed or sleeping wrong can cause damage that takes weeks to recover from. “Ain’t seen nothing yet?” Huh? Wonderful!
As a kid, I never felt comfortable around the elderly. Many of the people I considered old were not very nice to me. I also associated the elderly with death, and I wanted nothing to do with death. So, I respected my elders and steered clear. I didn’t have many occasions to hang out with older people, except on holidays, so I never overcame my prejudice. Now, I’m punishing myself with all my ideas about aging.
I don’t know how to produce the metamorphosis I need. Affirmations are not going to cut it. I need to be rewired to cut out moaning about my aches and pains, which gives them more power. All my life, I’ve been told I need clear, mole-free, smooth skin, but I’ve always had moles and freckles and didn’t feel bad. I need to change my mind about wrinkles and aging, too.
There is more to worry about than outward physical changes. I worry about my mind, Alzheimer’s disease, and being pushed around in a wheelchair because I’ve lost the ability to walk. Trying to accept aging is a lot about worry and fear. The gift and the curse of youth is the lack of experience. I have experience with death scares now. My GP once said during a visit, “If you don’t die of melanoma, you’ll live forever.”
Will I become immune to the changes? Will it bother me that I can no longer be recognized by a picture of my younger self? You can recognize me now. We’re still similar, but that day is coming when I’ll be changed to my older self.
Love is the reason for my fear and disdain for being old. I’m afraid I won’t be enough and will lose the people I love. I’m operating under the erroneous idea that only young people can be loved. These are all old fears, fear of abandonment, that go back to my five-year-old self sitting on my Mom’s lap at my father’s funeral and listening to the 21-gun salute. Losing my father set off a life-long fear of abandonment. I’m afraid of abandonment by death, betrayal, or whatever worst-case scenario my mind cooks up. I can find peace when I seek it by recognizing that God takes care of me in all situations. I don’t need to worry. No matter what happens, I’m not alone, which leads to the positive aspects of aging.
There is joy in aging, too. I’m wiser than my younger self and can avoid pain more easily. While I still worry about how I look on the outside, it’s not nearly as much as when I was younger. While I’m not completely at peace with myself, I’m much more peaceful now than at 35 or 45. I’m more concerned with the state of my insides and with how I treat people. I try to be kind, useful, and attentive. Qualities I wasn’t so interested in when I was young. I wanted to be smart, successful, and well-liked.
Old age means more friends, great memories, and watching children grow into their best selves. Listening to their struggles, cheering them through.
I have two beautiful children. My son is gregarious and brilliant. Says me. He also doesn’t want you to know he has a kind, sensitive poet’s heart. He is the whole package. His humor and improvisational skills are astounding. He can make up funny stories with lightning speed on stage. As a parent, I can see where I encouraged some of his strengths and weaknesses and how others were just his.
My daughter is a light. We called her Florence Nightingale in elementary school. She was always the first on deck to help another child if they got hurt on the playground. She is stoic. Once, she took a stapler to school when she wasn’t supposed to. After school, she accidentally stapled her hand. She didn’t want to get in trouble, so she went to the bathroom and called me with the staple still in hand. She’s kind and thoughtful. She is fierce and loyal. She does her homework without prodding. She has two semesters of college left, and she’s only gotten one B. Her other grades were As. She was passionate about prison reform at 15. She’s a model child. I’m mystified about where she came from. I was not like her, and my mothering skills are not that good.
Because I’m middle-aged, I have enjoyed watching my children grow into young adults. Seeing them growing and happy, stretching to find their way, is a joy. I’m not silly enough to think it’s my influence. I did my best those first five years, the most important, they say. After that, it was the village: teachers, friends, friends’ parents, and good old life experiences.
I couldn’t pass on what I don’t have. So they’re insecure but good at covering it up. I was emotionally immature when I had them. I grew up later. I didn’t realize how disciplined I was or why. I raised them the exact opposite of my parents. I didn’t make them do chores because I always felt like I was only around to be a farmhand. And yet, somehow, they’re disciplined too.
When I look at them sometimes, I feel old. I can still remember their babyhood vividly: first steps and funny things they said. My son’s “Mommy, we’re so lucky to have green yogurt” and my daughter’s Clap song for Mother’s Day. “Clap song, Clap song. Clap, Clap, Clap. I’m singing the Clap song for Mom.” They are so good. I was not. I do feel old but not tired. I’m not tired of life or learning and growing. I feel less negative about aging than I did at the start. I’m hopeful. If I live to be 100, my grandchildren will be young adults, give or take a few years, and I might even have great-grandchildren. Children of any age make me happy. I love being a mother. I’m not saying I was great at it, but I enjoyed it to pieces. I’m sure I will love being a grandmother, too. I have so much to look forward to.
After I retire, I look forward to not working and just writing when I want to. I look forward to waking up when I want to. I’m not Mrs. Energy, so writing while working is difficult. I have done it, but I’m not consistent. I wrote a book once. I was terrified by the rewrite. Couldn’t possibly make time for that. But retired, I would have time. I know myself, too. I’ll need a schedule, so writing will be like a retirement occupation. I need to be busy.
We can travel more. We want to buy an RV and see all the National Parks, all the beaches after that, and all the wonders we can get to with an RV. We did Utah in an RV. It was fabulous.
I’ll get to hang out with my husband more and not have work hanging over my head.
All the fear and anxiety about getting old is just that–fear and anxiety. In reality, old age is not just better than death; it’s better than youth in some ways. As an older person, waiting isn’t as uncomfortable as it used to be, whether good or bad news. I know how to wait. I’ve waited a lot. Waited for my kids to be born. I have the experience of waiting and getting the reward. Like waiting for test results, sometimes they’re good, and sometimes they’re bad. No use spending all my energy thinking about what I’ll do if the results are bad. I just pray that the worry is taken from me until there is something to worry about. Sometimes, that works, and sometimes, I imagine my demise in various ways until I know the truth. Even bad news can turn out not so bad. Each time I had melanoma, it was easily treated. It was still cancer, and it could come back anytime, but I experienced the best possible outcome. I have hope.
I’ve had a good life, a great life. I can’t complain. There’s no reason to think I won’t have a great retirement, even a peaceful death. I’ve always said I wanted to die being shot out the blowhole of a whale just because it would make a great story. An impossible death story that would make everyone laugh, especially if you knew that’s how I wanted to go.
Most importantly, I have loved and been loved. The true reason for me to feel peace. I have been blessed with great relationships–love from my parents and siblings, the kind where we sit around the table for hours after meals and tell stories. I thought this was just for us when we came to visit from California, but now that I live here, nope, that’s just what we do. It’s so much fun. I’ve been in three marriages. It’s OK that two of them didn’t work out. That’s how I got my kids, and now, I have an extraordinary marriage with my husband. My relationships with my kids are like my other relationships, with joys and heartaches, but love runs through them both.
Now that I’ve aired my fears, I have cleared the way for hope and excitement for the future. I know the next time I see a new indicator of old age, I may panic momentarily, but I can handle it because I’ve made peace.