Not Me!

I never agreed to be 80. Never.

When I said so to my daughter, she answered: “What’s the big deal? It’s only a number.”

“Easy for you to say,” I replied. “You’re only 50.” I knew she was right, but could I possibly be 80?

            I’m in good health and enjoy many of life’s amenities. I’m college-educated, married, live on the Upper West Side with my husband, Richard, have two adult children and five grandchildren, and am retired. Plus, I have long-term health insurance.

            My daughter and her family live in my building, on the same floor, directly next door. My living room wall and her dining room wall are adjacent which, for that to happen in Manhattan, is nothing less than a miracle. My son and his family live in Takoma Park, MD; we keep in touch regularly and get together as often as possible.

            Plus: thanks to the skills of a professional financial planner, I’m able to live my retired years in much the same manner as when I worked. I am the president of two boards—my co-op building and my local Democratic Club. I volunteer at a New Jersey organization dedicated to serving people with vision loss. Then, too, I have my beloved writing class and recently finished a memoir called Tales from the Boarding House, a collection of 24 stories about being raised in Jackson Heights, Queens. On top of which, I am in good health.

            But how could I possibly be 80? It’s come on so suddenly! I didn’t even feel it. If anyone asked how old I felt, I’d say “maybe 60.”

            My loving husband and family insisted on celebrating my birthday and were planning a party in New Hampshire in August, when we would be all together. On my actual birthday, July 13, Richard and I were vacationing on Cape Cod. My kids phone—and my grandkids texted—to wish me happy birthday, fully aware of my unwillingness to accept the reality. My son tried to make me feel better: “We’re not celebrating for another month,” he said, “so don’t think about it.” But that didn’t appease me.

            Instead, it made me think of all the times my mother said, “Don’t think too much; it’s not good for you!” She was hoping to teach me what the Catholic Church had taught her: If you think too much, you’ll ask too many questions, such as, how is an immaculate conception possible? Or, why can’t women become priests? Or, why are people who have sinned allowed into heaven just because they confess their sins just before they die?

            When I got married, in preparation for a church wedding, I went to confession. The priest asked if my husband and I planned to use contraception. “Yes,” I said, “for a few years so we could save some money to start a family.” “No,” he told me, “you don’t need any more than your parents had when they had you.” “How do you know what a family needs?,” I asked him. “All your needs are taken care of.” The priest didn’t have an answer, and I never went back to confession.

            On my birthday, I spent the day going for a swim in the lake and reading in the hammock. I selected a book by one of my favorite writers, Donna Leon, whose Inspector Brunetti detective stories, all of which take place in Venice, Italy, are hard to put down. All of them—over 20—plunge you into the store on the very first page. Just the thing I needed to forget about the onset of my ninth decade. By the time, we went out for dinner, I was looking forward to sipping a martini and the age factor seemed less intrusive. With the second martini, my age didn’t seem to matter at all.

But come August came reality. Richard and I left our comfy rental in Great Barrington and drove to Francestown, New Hampshire We stayed at the Crotched Mountain Inn, a small, pretty timeshare at the foot of the mountains and only ten minutes away from Tom and Sara’s cabin. My party would be a family get-together—just the 11 of us—with a small surprise that I’d enjoy.

On the drive to Francestown, I couldn’t put the big 8-0 out of my mind. The number kept jangling before my eyes like a big blinking sign. Getting old was so hard to accept. Like being told how good I still looked and how becoming my gray hair is; being given a seat on the subway even though I’d rather stand; climbing subway stairs so slowly that people passed me on my left; gaining weight no matter how little I eat; cutting out martinis because my aged body can’t tolerate them as well as it used to.

Most difficult of all was to recall the image of my mother when she turned 80. Always an overly-anxious person, she had become dependent on lithium and valium to get through the day. When she started hallucinating, she could no longer live on her own. I found an assisted living facility near my home, small and friendly, where Mom had her own room. But she kept wondering what she was doing there. She’d look at the other residents and say, “But I’m not that old.” Now I knew how she felt.

But a funny thing happened on the way to New Hampshire. By the time we arrived, I had forgotten to think about my age. Instead, I looked forward to seeing my family, splashing in the pool, swimming in the lake, having Happy Hour on the porch.

My family had planned exactly the kind of birthday party I wanted. They reserved a private room for dinner at the Inn where we were staying. No big deal, but perfect. And when the waiter came with a great big ice cream sundae—which I’ve always preferred over a cake!—and my family sang Happy Birthday, I didn’t have to listen to the whole restaurant join in.

            After dinner, we went back to our timeshare. Christine had put together a Shutterfly album with family pictures from the past. Tom picked up his guitar and, Lu, his youngest child, grabbed their ukulele, and led us in singing “How Sweet It is to Be Loved by You,” written by my favorite singer, James Taylor, but with words rewritten for the occasion. It went like this:

How sweet it is to be loved by you,

How sweet it is to be loved by you,

We close our eyes at night

Wondering where we’d be without you in our lives.

Everything we do, you’re at the core,

Everywhere we go, you give us room to explore.

You give us comfort at the end of our day,

With a love so sweet in so many ways.

It’s just time to stop and thank you, Grandma

We just want to stop and thank you, Grandma

How sweet it is for us to love you!

How sweet it is for us to love you!

Unbeknownst to them, I had a surprise for them, too. A copy of my memoir, Tales from the Boarding House, that had taken me five years to write. All at once, they began skimming through the 85 pages, reading aloud snippets here and there, learning more about me.

And so it was that though I had not looked forward to facing my age, it finally dawned on me that I couldn’t have written Tales from the Boarding House—and wouldn’t have had the pleasure of sharing it with my family— if I was not the age I was. The next morning, being 80 seemed okay. It seemed easier being 80 than thinking about being 80.

Perhaps Satchel Paige, the Major League baseball pitcher noted for his longevity, had it right:

  “Accepting one’s age is an issue of mind over matter,” he loved to say.

If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.”