Accepting change gracefully, even geezerhood
At the risk of wading into the minefield that Los Angeles Times columnist Sandy Banks wrote about last month, I feel compelled to take a deep breath and do just that. Her first column, “At an age when luxury can’t hide the future,” apparently struck a dissonant chord with some readers, which she addressed in her follow-up piece, “It isn’t so easy being old.”
One reader concluded that Banks’ column was intended to be “totally depressing, completely discouraging to a large segment of the population and [to have] no redeeming features whatsoever.”
Well, when you want to know what it’s like to be old, ask an old person. Banks did that, interviewing Meril Graf, an 82-year-old resident of Westwood’s Belmont Village, a candid and thoughtful optimist who admittedly has mixed emotions. I thought the result was balanced even if it touched a few raw nerves in those close to “geezerhood” and their adult children dealing with the frustration and guilt of moving mom or dad into safer digs.
As a resident of a similar facility (albeit not in California) for the past three and a half years, I have perhaps a slightly different view based on conversations with many fellow seniors and my own experience.
First of all, as Banks points out, attitude matters. To that I would add timing. The people who seem to have the most difficulty adjusting to changed circumstances are those who wait too long and are forced into it by illness, accident, frailty, failing eyesight, the onset of dementia, and/or children who worry that their elderly parents are living alone.
Considered a “spring chicken” by those in their mid to late 80s, I am probably the youngest resident of this lovely lodge and sometimes wonder why I moved in so soon when I don’t really need to be here. The fact is I love it. I’ve met wonderfully interesting people.
Once I was asked to give a short talk on “Downsizing,” part of the transition that many find frustrating or just plain sad. I learned about downsizing early. The house I grew up in burned to the ground when I was 18, taking with it all my childhood mementos, photos, trophies and the like. Much later, I moved to the ranch, then from the ranch to Hidden Hills, out to Malibu, back to the ranch and, eventually, way up to Montana. Each time, I left behind things I loved, but things my children had no particular affection for.
My sister, the pragmatist, said, “Get over it; It’s just stuff.” And of course she was right.
For most of my adult life it was my mission to see that no child or student got hurt, not understanding that they only learn from making the mistake, not avoiding it. Later, I wasted countless hours and dollars trying to make sure my children would be taken care of if something happened to me. Planning for every possibility. Well, guess what. They didn’t want that either. One day I woke up and realized the ultimate parental role reversal. The kids were worried about me.
Now I see and talk with people in the same boat. The ones who adjust best seem to be those who have given up trying to engineer great lives and futures for their families. That part of life, more appropriate for young parents, is no longer relevant for us old folks. And good riddance. Now we have time for books, music, theater, art, movies, photography; the opportunities are endless.
The decision was made but the choice was mine alone, with gentle encouragement from a daughter who worried about me living on my own in Spartan quarters an hour-long drive away on a dangerous canyon road. She had a point but I loved it.
Nevertheless, I listened to reason and started looking. After all, I thought, this might be an opportunity to fix up another place, which I enjoy doing. Betty, however, found fault with every little house I found. “Cute, Mom, but the garage isn’t attached.” Or, “Great, Mom, but it’s on a corner and you’d have to shovel snow all the way around.”
So I settled on this community where many things I can still do are done for me. The place is gorgeous; the best views in town, apartments are cozy with wide doorways, large kitchen and bath to accommodate the possible necessity of wheels. We can be social or solitary depending on our mood.
Banks writes: For those of us trying to stare down aging-worried about each new ache, misplaced set of keys and brain freeze when we forget a name-we ought to focus less on the existential acceptance of mortality and more on the prosaic (like how we will afford decent care). To that I would say: Save what you can while you can, but don’t lock yourself into a plan. Be open to circumstances that may change.
They say older people don’t accept change easily. I would disagree. Getting old is what allows us to change in ways we never imagined. In spite of occasional brain freeze.