I look at my hands, and I see the same wrinkly, veined hands as my mother’s. And my grandmother’s. And it isn’t just the outward appearance of my hands. It’s the way I hold things.
A little digression here. Remembering this reminds me of the years when my mom worked downtown. She added an additional thirty minutes to her commute so she could take The Little Arthur to my grandmother’s house. Little Arthur was a ragamuffin dog I found behind an Arby’s one day when I was still in high school. My mother fulfilled the wishes of two: The Little Arthur and my grandmother. Little Arthur didn’t want to stay at home alone all day and neither did my grandmother. It worked well.
During holidays I’d come down from Boulder for dinner. We’d sit in the den, grandmother stroking Little Arthur as she sat in her lap, me watching her hands as she stroked the dog. Decades later, my mother would sit in our living room, Monkey and Mimi on her lap while unconsciously stroking the dogs while she talked or watched tv. Both dogs would eventually roll over, tummy up, and fall asleep.
Now, Monkey is lying next to me and when I pet her, I can see that the bend in my wrist forms the same angle as did my mom’s. Those veins, wrinkles, and age spots look strangely familiar. I have my mother’s hands. And my grandmother’s.
I’m surprised that my hands bring me to memories. I think about my parents and that’s strange because I never paid much attention to anything they did or said. It was a habit I developed pretty much when I was about, probably, I guess right at the beginning. Apparently, I created my own language when I began talking and my mom developed a dictionary so babysitters could understand me. I also didn’t take well to toilet training. My mom would sit me on the toilet, and she’d be on the phone. After a while, she hung up, took me off, and as I stood up, bingo. I didn’t do well with playpens either. For anyone who doesn’t know what that is, it’s a padded cage for small children.
So, as my grandfather Louis used to say, I raised myself.
And that’s why I ignored my parents.
Until they reached 75 or so. Then I began to think back on things they had done that would eventually give them very long, healthy, active lives.
They were resilient. After our family lost everything in the 1965 flood, my parents cleaned up, stood up, got jobs and kept going. In those days, money was very tight, but they continued to travel in country. Within a few years they had saved and joined a travel club that went primarily to Mexico.
They decided Mexico would be their go-to for annual visits and then began selecting other trips to Europe, Asia, and within the US like New York or Alaska.
They did something else besides travel. They remained social, mom more so than dad. He was relatively isolated at the house because of macular degeneration, but my mom made certain he had audio books, and each week would include outings with friends. Or family.
Lessons learned. Resilience. Travel. Socialize. Keep the brain active.
When GB and I decided to sell the house (which, by the way, still sits unsold on this shit market, thank you Mr. Trump) and move, we looked at a variety of options. First, we’d downsize. That didn’t work because we couldn’t get much for what we wanted to spend, and we’d still be stuck with maintenance. Second, condos. Same reason plus the existence of HOA’s which made me crazy.
We landed on apartments. We began looking at gorgeous apartments with floor to ceiling windows and views of the mountains the downtown. They had great amenities. They were walkable to the museums and restaurants.
They were filled with people under 40.
I thought, hmmm, no one is going to talk to us except when they pick us up on the floor or help carry something heavy.
We’d be isolated.
Parents’ lesson. Socialize.
We turned to a 55+ complex.
The apartment is small. The view is of another apartment across the street. But I love it. There are about 300 residents, and sub-communities have developed along interest lines. I, of course, joined the dog group. There’s also a group of women who meet monthly at a potluck and discussion of some sort. GB joined a poker group, a woodworking group, and became an “ambassador” to welcome new residents.
I also connected with Jews who live here. There are about 30 of us and holidays are celebrated with dinners (not on the exact day of the holiday, but close). There is a class at Temple Emanuel, and I invited one of the women in our group to go with us.
I go to another class on the Constitution with friend, Susan.
On Mondays there’s a Great Courses given in the theater room. One of the residents organizes it. I go to that.
Parents’ lesson. Keep the brain active.
Travel has been more difficult. Prior to GB’s brain surgery, I traveled alone or with friends. He came with me to Israel but became sick and I had to send him back to Denver to friends who, thankfully, picked him up at the airport and took him to the hospital. I went to Rwanda without him. Now he’s well enough to travel but we need to sell that damn house first. Last night I announced the desire to return to Africa, specifically Kenya and Tanzania for the Great Migration. GB is on board with that.
Parents’ lesson. Travel. Also, resilience from illness.
But there’s something else I learned that I’m pretty sure my parents knew about but didn’t tell me. It’s not just the secret to good aging, but it’s the sheer horror of it all.
When we get together with our age-appropriate friends, we talk about, you guessed it, illnesses. Doctors’ appointments. Complaints about waiting for specialists. That’s the conversation for mixed groups. When women get together, we talk about the strange things that grow on our bodies. The flab replacing muscle. Do we have dementia if we lose words? If we have husbands, we complain. Then the ones without say we should be grateful we still have them. Loneliness is a big conversation among the women.
My parents never talked about that to me. They were always future-forward. Dad used to say lots of things, but his favorite was “nobody wants to talk to anyone who wears their heart on their sleeve.” He’s right about that. But I suspect the conversations they had with friends were like our own: health, travel, reminiscing, loneliness. I remember my Mom driving her friends to events. I complained to my Dad that it was too much for an 85-year-old woman to do. He said I needed to have “rachmonus” (Yiddish for mercy, compassion, empathy). “These women don’t have anyone living with them. They’re lonely. Your mother is doing a Mitzvah”.
I didn’t understand the point. But now I do. Mother needed to be of service to the women who needed help. My father wanted to remind me that not everyone ages the same way. For some it’s easier than others. Simple, that.
I didn’t want to hear that then. And, if I think about it, I shouldn’t have. I couldn’t have understood it, maybe because of my own indifference, or simply I hadn’t reached an age of understanding. This intimacy with aging is like a sorority, membership available upon reaching a certain age.
Aging would be a nightmare, I think, if this sorority didn’t exist. It helps to be surrounded by people of a similar age, albeit some are much older, some younger. I like living with people of my generation. Our sharedness. Music, history, politics, literature, colleges, Viet Nam, Nixon, Kennedy, 9/11, children, grandchildren, health, joy, tragedy. Oh, all those elements that create a life worth living. One worth talking about. One worth sharing to form an unspoken bond.
Aging is wonderfully liberating. But it’s frightening as well. The better part of my life is gone. Sometimes it seems like I just began living a few minutes ago. Time accelerates with age. We speed while the rest of the world ambles along its usual pace. Our friends look bent. They lose their acuity. “Rachmonus” comes to mind.
I now know that my parents knew all about these matters of aging. But there was more. They knew the grief of losing parents, the moment when they became middle-aged orphans. My mother knew the horror my grandparents felt when they learned their parents had been murdered in the Holocaust. My parents knew the unimaginable grief of losing a son.
Those things, the loss of parents or even children happen along the way. What I didn’t expect, and I suspect was exactly what they didn’t tell me about was the loss of potential. I have met my potential. I have fulfilled my career goals. The dreams I had when I was young have either been fulfilled or fallen by the wayside. That is the horror, I think, of aging. Yes, we have plans. We plan on a trip somewhere. We plan to see friends. We involve ourselves in activities that provide mental and emotional stimulation. I still work with nonprofits.
But it’s not the same. The drive is, for the most part, gone. If I were younger, I might run for office. Or I might move to a different country. Or change careers. I no longer contemplate those sorts of things. I no longer want to. I’m satisfied with how my life has gone. I’ve worked in the areas of my passions. I’ve traveled to pretty much everywhere I wanted. I’ve had a good, long marriage, rescued a loving youngster who became my daughter, adored the grandchildren we were so fortunate enough to have. I’ve had a wonderful, lifelong relationship with animals. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not waiting to die. There’s too much left to do and love. It’s simply that the unknown part of aging is that withdrawal from the life that is so all-consuming.
My parents lived through it all that but never said a word. They never burdened me with it. They must have known I would face my own recognition and why, after all, taint mine with theirs?
One time I asked my mother why she was down and she just said, “There are things you can’t understand.”
She was right. I didn’t.
I do now.
Air. 
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