She is formidable.
At her birthday lunch she took to the microphone and gave a stirring speech, stating emphatically that growing old âisnât for sissiesâ. Although she has an older brother and one younger sister, Mary has lost her husband, a sister and many of her friends and neighbours to old age. While she hasnât stopped living lifeto the full, she is nevertheless saddened by the sense of loss that accompanies living to such a great age. She has a lively circle of much younger friends, many in their seventies but many my age and younger, with whom she socialises on a regular basis. It doesnât bother them that Mary is twenty, thirty or even forty years their senior; her mind is still that of a young woman. At her birthday party she surprised us all by producing a limited edition book which she had written on a recently acquired computer, beautifully bound and presented. Part memoir laced with imaginative fiction, itâs a series of short stories, essays and anecdotes drawn from her life, presented as a timeless gift to her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren (of whom there are eleven).
Looking at my stalwart mother-in-law, Iâm prepared to admit that I have neither the genes nor the lifestyle to reach the age of ninety. And I seriously question that I want to. David is eleven years my senior and we regularly discuss the pros and cons of the ageing process. For someone as usually positive as me, I take a negative view. For someone as usually negative as David, he takes a positive view. David is working on himself to remain as youthful and healthy as possible. He watches his diet, has shed more than 20 kilos in the last five years and goes to the gym almost daily to keep up his cardiovascular health and flexibility. He has late-onset diabetes, which he controls admirably with diet and exercise, and his blood pressure and cholesterol are fantastically low. At sixty he was delighted to receive his Seniors Card and regularly quotes from the small print on the back: âThe holder of this card is a valued member of our community. Please extend every courtesy and assistance.â In 2004 he turned sixty-five and pronounced with some pride that if he wasnât stillworking he would be eligible for the pension. I winced ever so slightly at the prospect of living with a pensioner, ashamed at my own attitudes which may appear ageist but in fact are based on fear.
My father committed suicide at sixty-two. I resolutely believe it was because he was terrified at the prospect of growing old. His lifetime of heavy drinking and smoking had taken its toll on his physical appearance and health. He suffered from undiagnosed depression, and after the dissolution of his marriage to my mother, sparked by the latest in a twenty-five-year string of infidelities, he was in a frame of mind where he saw no future for himself. Like most of his actions in life, his decision about his death was purely selfish. At the time, I was not distraught at the loss. He had been such a difficult person to deal with in life that his death seemed to me, then twenty-two and pregnant with my first child, a blessed relief.
Now, in my mid-fifties, for the first time I feel compassion for my fatherâs plight. I am saddened that he was incapable of sharing his fears about ageing with his family and that he saw his future purely as his own to deal with. Not as part of a family unit. Although he had niggling health problems, it wouldnât have taken that much of a lifestyle adjustment to haul himself up and live for another twenty years or more. He chose not to.
That said, I fear I have similar thought patterns to those of my father when it comes to ageing and death. It alarms David when I mention my penchant for âliving hard and dying youngâ. I take a rather fatalistic attitude to the whole thing. Iâm not saying Iâm right â and the medical profession would clearly argue against me â but
At her birthday lunch she took to the microphone and gave a stirring speech, stating emphatically that growing old âisnât for sissiesâ. Although she has an older brother and one younger sister, Mary has lost her husband, a sister and many of her friends and neighbours to old age. While she hasnât stopped living lifeto the full, she is nevertheless saddened by the sense of loss that accompanies living to such a great age. She has a lively circle of much younger friends, many in their seventies but many my age and younger, with whom she socialises on a regular basis. It doesnât bother them that Mary is twenty, thirty or even forty years their senior; her mind is still that of a young woman. At her birthday party she surprised us all by producing a limited edition book which she had written on a recently acquired computer, beautifully bound and presented. Part memoir laced with imaginative fiction, itâs a series of short stories, essays and anecdotes drawn from her life, presented as a timeless gift to her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren (of whom there are eleven).
Looking at my stalwart mother-in-law, Iâm prepared to admit that I have neither the genes nor the lifestyle to reach the age of ninety. And I seriously question that I want to. David is eleven years my senior and we regularly discuss the pros and cons of the ageing process. For someone as usually positive as me, I take a negative view. For someone as usually negative as David, he takes a positive view. David is working on himself to remain as youthful and healthy as possible. He watches his diet, has shed more than 20 kilos in the last five years and goes to the gym almost daily to keep up his cardiovascular health and flexibility. He has late-onset diabetes, which he controls admirably with diet and exercise, and his blood pressure and cholesterol are fantastically low. At sixty he was delighted to receive his Seniors Card and regularly quotes from the small print on the back: âThe holder of this card is a valued member of our community. Please extend every courtesy and assistance.â In 2004 he turned sixty-five and pronounced with some pride that if he wasnât stillworking he would be eligible for the pension. I winced ever so slightly at the prospect of living with a pensioner, ashamed at my own attitudes which may appear ageist but in fact are based on fear.
My father committed suicide at sixty-two. I resolutely believe it was because he was terrified at the prospect of growing old. His lifetime of heavy drinking and smoking had taken its toll on his physical appearance and health. He suffered from undiagnosed depression, and after the dissolution of his marriage to my mother, sparked by the latest in a twenty-five-year string of infidelities, he was in a frame of mind where he saw no future for himself. Like most of his actions in life, his decision about his death was purely selfish. At the time, I was not distraught at the loss. He had been such a difficult person to deal with in life that his death seemed to me, then twenty-two and pregnant with my first child, a blessed relief.
Now, in my mid-fifties, for the first time I feel compassion for my fatherâs plight. I am saddened that he was incapable of sharing his fears about ageing with his family and that he saw his future purely as his own to deal with. Not as part of a family unit. Although he had niggling health problems, it wouldnât have taken that much of a lifestyle adjustment to haul himself up and live for another twenty years or more. He chose not to.
That said, I fear I have similar thought patterns to those of my father when it comes to ageing and death. It alarms David when I mention my penchant for âliving hard and dying youngâ. I take a rather fatalistic attitude to the whole thing. Iâm not saying Iâm right â and the medical profession would clearly argue against me â but
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