The Gifts of Old Age

 Gather around, children. It’s story time.

Sometimes I worry that I am too happy.

Understand – in my earlier adult years I planned to be a hard charging elder, still singing, still performing, still writing. I thought I’d drop with my guitar on. Just blink out in the middle of a song.

At that time, I had no idea what was ahead – that I’d cruise into my late seventies unable to walk without falling over, having to use a walker, and sometimes, on bad days, a wheelchair.

I’d say I didn’t see breast cancer coming, but I kinda did. I was in shock when that jagged little object showed up in a mammogram, but so many women get breast cancer that I thought it was simply my turn. The experience I had was not a big deal as cancer treatments go, but frankly, in my opinion, cancer treatments tend to be brutal. Even though my treatment was comparatively simple – surgery, radiation, no chemo, and the experience turned out well, still – it changed me. It changed my body. The experience left me tired, and it was almost a year before I emerged from the brain fog the radiation produced. We’ve all heard about “chemo brain.” Radiation brings its own challenges: “radiation brain.” Boy, was I surprised.

I also did not see in my early years that my husband would die so young. He was 68. From the vantage point of 75, that’s young. He’s been gone for almost ten years now. I integrated my grief into my life and have kept living, even though I have often wondered why, when it seemed like my functional life was over and most of my energy was drained by taking care of myself day to day. Once more I was asking the God I believe in, why? Why this?

After wrestling with the conundrum of why I was still living but not being productive, at some point a deep relaxation set in, and I became downright complacent about my non-productiveness.

“I did nothing today, and I’m okay with that.”

 I could not have imagined doing nothing all day when I was young. I was so driven by my need to prove I had worth, to justify taking up room on the planet, to prove I was not lazy, but now I have many days when I hang around the house and read, and play solitaire, and watch British mysteries and comedies and period pieces in the evening.

I talk on the phone with friends and family. A lot of my purpose now – my productiveness, if you will – is listening to people. I have always loved listening to people. I love their stories, and their spirits. I feel like listening to people is the best thing I do these days.

A bonus is that listening keeps me from shooting my mouth off and saying something incredibly stupid. Seriously, I almost always regret saying anything in any public venue. While I’m kicking myself for what I did say, as well as for what I forgot to say, it is exquisite agony. Why did I say that? Why didn’t I say this? Will I ever not feel like I don’t belong in a room?

Okay, I’ll tell you when I feel like I belong in a room: when I’m singing and playing with other musicians. I still worry about being off the beat or being flat when I’m tired and singing low notes, but mostly we’re all in it together and having a good time. The best time. Yeah. Doing music together is the best time there is.

It doesn't happen often enough anymore – the pandemic kind of threw us all off, and we’re still learning to congregate again, or at least I’m still learning.

I am learning that as the truth of this being in my last years and knowing death is not far away sinks in, I still want to be of some use in the time I have left. I still want to laugh with people – inappropriately if possible.

And I hate it that I’m going to die. I don’t want to leave this party. I am finally getting the hang of life, and many times I am more happy and contented than I have ever been before. This is one of the great gifts of old age.

I didn’t see that coming, either. But I will take it.