That Age
“It was so nice to meet you”, said my friend’s grandma, as he put on his coat to leave.
“It was nice to meet you, too”, he said in return, though they’d never been estranged. “I love you so much!”
His headline gift was shining. Chief among his collection of many had long been his ability to meet people wherever they are.
It was Thanksgiving and the family had gathered again after skipping a year due to Covid. The holiday itself felt strangely familiar, like an old high school classmate he hadn’t seen in 20 years. A little awkward, but recognized and appreciated, like it hadn’t been in a very long time.
Feeling oddly buoyant as he left the facility and walked toward his car, my friend mouthed to no one in particular, “Thank you.” And he WAS grateful. Appreciative and aware—perhaps in ways he’d never been before--of the blessings that come from time spent with loved ones, even when loved ones can’t remember who you are.
I’m at that age. The one where all my contemporaries and I are watching our folks grow old and disappear. The conversations we used to have about what our children are into and what schools they might want to attend have shifted to when do you take the car keys from your parents and how do you pay for their care. It’s brutal talk. The kind that makes Golden Goose tennis shoes seem sillier than they already are and age spots show up on your hands.
I’m at that age. The one where all my contemporaries and I are watching our folks grow old and disappear. The conversations we used to have about what our children are into and what schools they might want to attend have shifted to when do you take the car keys from your parents and how do you pay for their care. It’s brutal talk.
We talk about it all, my friends and me. In raw terms with exasperated detail. The dad who’s gotten heavy, the mom who’s gotten frail, the dad who sticks his spoon in his ear, the mom who thinks her son is her brother, the grandma who can’t remember if her daughter’s mom is alive. We talk about it because we have to, and because we need to, and because we want someone to help us figure out what to do. And sometimes because it feels like fiction until the words make sounds in the air.
While getting older sure has its advantages, getting old is a whole other deal. And watching it happen to the people who raised you is the G-force of mid-life.
They say that as we grow older, our dominant traits keep growing, too. Like if your nose is big, it gets bigger. Or if your ear lobes have mass when you’re young, there’s a chance they could graze your shoulders before it’s all said and done. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but I feel like it as I watch it play out with people I’ve known and loved.
The same often goes for non-physical traits, too. The thing that makes you distinctly you, becomes what you most wholly are as you move toward the end of your life. For example, my dad was funny. And though dementia thieved his speech and his mind, it left his humor alone. His funny stuck with him to the bitter end—alive and well pretty much 24-7 down the homestretch. And what a gift! Laughter—his and ours-- became the bubble wrap that cushioned the ride when the wheels on the wagon finally fell off. We list that as one of our greatest blessings as we count them out at night.
His funny stuck with him to the bitter end—alive and well pretty much 24-7 down the homestretch. And what a gift! Laughter—his and ours-- became the bubble wrap that cushioned the ride when the wheels on the wagon finally fell off.
Unfortunately, exacerbation of identifiable traits is not always good, especially if the dominant personality trait is less than stellar. Like a grumpy dad or a resentful mom. What was sufferable in moderation can be devastating in excess. I ache for my friends who have to navigate a booby-trapped path like that.
Sometimes, though, it’s just the opposite. Sometimes the elderly parent becomes someone he never was at all. That’s just how aging goes. Sometimes the funny dad becomes the angry dad. Or the perky mom becomes the languid mom. I have a friend who never once heard her mother utter a curse word and now she dog cusses every human in sight. It’s cruel the way that disease and time, or the combination of both, can just take a brain as hostage and twist it however it wants.
My mom just celebrated her 80th birthday and she’s well and still sharper than just about anybody I know. We often talk about how hard it is to lose loved ones, because it happens so often around us now, no matter how they go. The last mile of the way is a tough one, and it is almost always mostly uphill. And twisty. With blind curve after blind curve after blind curve. And though the roads all have a great deal in common, each is as unique as the family through which it bends. The best traveling companion one can pray for is a bucket full of grace.
And a gaggle of friends who get it, who can help you feel your way.
Sherri Coale
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