Getting Old is Hard Redux

[HOUSEKEEPING NOTE: Among thousands of others, a new blog is launched today. A Sense of Place is a companion to Time Goes By - a corner of the blogosphere to track the developments of finding somewhere new to settle down, contemplate the feel and meaning of home and, perhaps, create some enlightenment around the phrase of the title. I would be pleased to hear what you think…]

Some of you took issue with my post last week about pulling away the cultural veil that frequently masks physical aspects of aging:

Evelyn Schall: “…in general, I find the constant inquiring into my health to be "hello" from most people, and pursuit of that conversational avenue would be tiresome…”

amba: “One of the lessons of age is that we are more than, beyond, our bodies.”

From Kenju with Cop Car in agreement: “One has to curb the urge to talk about nothing else but physical aches and pains. Too many older people entertain themselves and bore others to tears with a daily recital of their ailments.”

Begging everyone’s pardon, I see it differently. In my experience, old people do not speak up about their health. I’ve had to drag information out of elders I’ve known, people whose cupboards were bare of food or medication because they couldn’t walk to the store or pharmacy that week.

These people were more willing do to without the necessities of life than admit to infirmity.

A couple of weeks ago, I ran into an 88-year-old neighbor collapsed against a building, breathing hard. He had too many heavy grocery bags and just ran out of steam. I check in with him regularly and he has my telephone number. I’ve helped in the past and frequently remind him to call anytime. But he is afraid of being a burden.

I understand what amba is getting at, but it is hard – nay, impossible - to be “beyond our bodies” when they refuse to function as they once did. Great Aunt Edith, whose sense of humor about herself was unbounded, made a joke of the fact that after she’d scrubbed the kitchen floor on her hands and knees – in her 80s – she couldn’t stand up again. My brother, who lives in the city she did, hired a cleaning service after that.

A significant fact about old people is that the ability to clean house or get to the store one day doesn’t mean they can the next. Weakness comes and goes and a lifelong adherence to the cultural pressure to remain youthful and independent can fool the rest of us into thinking someone is fine when they are not.

And this derives from the cultural admonition to not talk about our health.

What I was trying to get at in that post is that in keeping silent, keeping secret the changes in our capabilities, others have no knowledge or understanding of the physical part of growing old. I want to know what the older years before the old-old age of my neighbor and Aunt Edith are like. I want to know how accommodations to gradual changes are made. What was it like the day it became impossible to move the sofa or climb a ladder? And I’d like to know how these things affect people’s perspectives and beliefs on age and dying.

As Evelyn rightly points out, “how are you” is a greeting, not a request for information. But too much silence poorly serves everyone who is growing older. It’s all part of “what it’s really like to get older” that has been a mystery too long.

I never meant to suggest that we maintain a running commentary on every ache and pain – you are right, that’s boring. But health or, at least, capabilities do wane with age and in silence, we deny reality, pretending that we are just wrinkled kids when we are not.

Comments

[Tamar]

This post is so terribly important. Silence and witholding is pervasive about everything, in my opinion. We are afraid to talk to people with different abilities, who are older, have diferent life styles, different cultures, religions - you name it. We have been brought up to believe that "it's not polite," "it's nobody's business," "we might offend someone," the list is endless. The result is millions of people whose stories are never told and who are rendered speechless, silent and alone.

Ageing is just one of these taboo subjects. I adore how you say: "pretending that we are just wrinkled kids when we are not."

Heck I know that I am no kid! I work in my yard for an hour and the next day I have muscles I never knew existed from the different aches and pains that come at me. I saw new wrinkles by my mouth a few days ago. At first I thought I must be too sad lately. And then I took a look at a photograph of my father and realized it is probably genetic. On and on. Yes, Ronni, let's talk about it, and share our stories! I certainly do not want to be silent or witholding. Ask me - I'll tell you. And sometimes I might tell without you asking!

[AlwaysQuestion]

When I read your earlier post I thought about it a bit, and finally took it in the spirit I thought you intended. I finally agreed with you.
Between the extremes of the... instinctive?... withholding of any sign of weakness or infirmity and the sharing of every ache, pain, and want, there is the sharing of what this experience of aging means to us.
Aging has changing my life.
Most of us tend to at least attempt to endure alone and in silence. There's a soldier on another blog who's just revealed that he's dealing with what may be a career-ending injury; and the outpouring of support for him and his family has been fantastic. He's not complaining... he's just sharing another part of his life.

[Blogin Idiot]

It means something to me.
I have got a ways to go in life still but I feel age breathing heavily down the back of my neck.

Thank you.
Michael

[kenju]

Ronni, I didn't mean to imply that we should not ever share our problems, especially with family members and our children. It is important to be truthful and forthcoming about what we can and cannot accomplish.

But some people of my circle entertain themselves (and me) daily with a recital of their newest aches and pains, and while I am somewhat sympathetic (since I have some of my own) I do not wish to hear it ad infinitum.

I suppose I was referring to those people who are borderline hypochondriacs - if not full blown ones.

[Old Horsetail Snake]

kenju has a point. but then, so does Ronni. You are both right.

I love settling arguments.

[amba]

Ronni, in my comment I meant to say that I think old people don't talk about their infirmities much, not only because of a cultural prohibition but because of a growing feeling that "it's just my body, it's not me," and a desire to be "me" as much as possible -- not necessarily the youthful achieving "me" defined by physical energy and activity (though perhaps that is the "me" the culture wants us to try to be), but the timeless "me" for whom the body used to be a transparent vehicle. So now it is slower, more opaque, needs more maintenance - but it's still not "me."

That said, I think there is a place to talk a lot about these unspoken things -- and that place is HERE. It's yet another one of the things you're doing for us -- giving us a place to talk about aspects of aging that are actually interesting, as well as elegiac or discouraging. I thought going through menopause was interesting, and I had not read a single accurate description of it! The talk about it is very stereotyped -- "oh, my hot flashes." A lot of unnamed experiences fall through the cracks. I told one of my sisters that for a while after my last period I had "ghost periods," regular times when I felt "menstrual" and might have the faintest trace of bleeding, and she said "Me too!!" I'd never heard anyone speak of this before. The same was true of the experience of going through puberty.

So the more we actually tell, the less we will feel alone and the less those who come after us will be lost in a trackless landscape. Thank you, Ronni . . .

[Anna]

I agree with you, Ronni; such denial blocks access to kindness and help. And care of those who are reluctant to acknowledge frailties is tough. My lot were all of the variety who say "Leave me alone, I am perfectly capable of doing it myself," when they patently were not. It's agony and a great test of patience to watch a proud arthritic struggle with buttons - but it has to be done.

[Donna Woodka]

My mother was in terrible health and hid it from everyone, family, friends, her church, until she spent the last 6 weeks of her life in the hospital before she died. Even then, when I rushed to be with her, she told me to go home to my family.

My father battled cancer the last six months of his life, and my parents didn't even call when he almost died in the hospital. WHen he passed away a few months later, it was on a vacation to Hawaii, and I found out via a phone call.

Parents are impossible when they get old, and won't tell even their kids a thing. I wish I had been able to spend more time with them before they went, but they wouldn't let me - they didn't want to be seen as old and weak, they wanted me to remember them from when they were healthy and strong. But finding the condition of my mother's home, knowing she was so ill and hadn't told anyone, left me very angry for some time.

[ml]

In a comment above, Amba refers to bodies as "transparent" and "opaque." I don't know what this means; can anyone enlighten me? (It apparently correlates with age, because young bodies are transparent, and older ones opaque).
Please clarify.