Requesting Youth Do-Over, Please!

Most of us Boomers talk frequently about our misspent youths. Misspent mostly on underachievement, it seems. Today’s young people have accomplished so much more when they hit 20 that it boggles my aging mind. Last year, I had the opportunity, as a Saint Louis University alumnus, to interview students applying for the Presidential Scholarship, a full-ride tuition scholarship for four years, not chump change by a long shot. As I reviewed their resumes and talked to them, they sounded more like college graduates than high school, or maybe people who has been OUT of college for a while. Two of them had already established their own non-profit organizations working on international projects.

What was I doing in high school? Besides trying to impress my parents with my GPA, I was going to dances, doing volunteer work at a local hospital, and participating in school clubs. Homework took up a lot of my time.

For today’s high-schoolers, homework continues, but somehow they manage to take advance-placement college classes, compete in high level sport teams, establish non-profit organizations and still have a social life. How is this possible?

Most of my friends agree that we wouldn’t want to re-live our high school years to become overcommitted, but there are some things I would have liked to have done. Recently I came back from a trip to Cuba, sanctioned by the US State Department as a cultural exchange. One of the things we did was to watch a rehearsal of the Opera de la Calle, street opera, a concept developed by a Cuban opera performer who has performed all over the world. His goal was to make opera more accessible and affordable for the average Cuban. What he developed was a vibrant, colorful and life-affirming performance that just lifted you out of your seat. More like West Side Story than Othello, it was magnetic. As I watched it, all I could think was: “I want to do that. I want to BE that!”

Well, let’s be real. I’m not 19 years old and I’m not a great dancer. As my husband pointed out: “Did you see how LONG they kept that up? We don’t have that kind of stamina!” But I have the soul of that person and I wish those types of opportunities had been available when I was in High School. That they weren’t, and my parents would never have understood, doesn’t mean I can’t find some semblance of that dream at age 65.

A wise person recently said (and of course, I can’t remember who that was) that we should write down all the things we would do IF there were no barriers (money, age, health, etc.), and then start doing them. So I just need to find an old-fogey band, some other people near my age who want to sing and dance, and start putting together our group. Even if we have to perform for nursing homes, hey! A gig is a gig!

#   #   #

Gratitude Increasing with Age

I think one of the truly great things about advancing age is the time and experience we accumulate to amp up our gratitude quotient. Some of the things I’m grateful for:

1.      My “Old Love” of 45 years, Tom, who have been at my side through thick and thin

2.      My parents: At 90 and 88, they are one of the greatest blessings to still have in my life at my ripe old age of 65.

3.      My son and daughter-in-law: great people, great parents

4.      My two (don’t get me started) smart, adorable granddaughters

5.      My sisters: three truly remarkable women who inspire me daily to be more than I am

6.      My health: I can do what I want to accomplish without health issues holding me back.

And if that weren’t enough, my financial comfort. That was never a more apparent gratitude than after a recent trip to Cuba. With the US embargo of Cuba in its 56^th year and with Cuba being a Communist country, the people there have dealt with considerable adversity. After their main supporter and importer, the USSR, collapsed in 1991, the country spiraled into an economic downspin. The average Cuban had lost 20 pounds through malnutrition by 1994. They went to rationing for key staples.  

There are no supermarkets in Cuba. Farmers can’t own the beef from their own cows. Only certain ages are entitled to milk. All products in Cuba, if available, are very expensive because, other than produce, have to be shipped in from other countries, usually around the horn of South America. Because of the embargo, ships bound for Cuba can’t even use the Panama Canal. And yet, the Cuban people are alive, vibrant, and produce music and art to die for.

When we returned from the trip, I had to go to the grocery to buy perishables. I felt a profound sense of guilt at the amount of products available to us at reasonable costs. The choices can be overwhelming. I stood in the canned tomato section for 15 minutes totally at sea as to what type of diced tomatoes I needed. Such a dilemma to have!

We could all spend five minutes thinking about our blessings and the things for which we are grateful. It makes all the creepy parts of getting older pale in comparison.

I Was Right About Skiing

When I was about 11, my dad took me skiing for the first (and last) time. It was the most humiliating day of my life. I couldn’t stop on those darn skis even snowplowing like I’d been taught. Down I went. Down I went. Down I went. Just trying to get across an almost level area to the other side was fraught with peril. I started sliding, was able to grab onto a low sign before my feet when out from under me, and I was left hanging from the sign with an entire crowd of people laughing their heads off. I was never going skiing again! And I didn’t.

After a long and fairly accident-prone life, and being in the health management field, I have become convinced that as we age, by pushing ourselves, we will continue to function physically and mentally at a higher level longer than if we don’t. After last week, I’m thinking under certain circumstances, it can also get us killed.

Case in point: we belong to two different chapters of our University of Michigan alumni association: Denver and St. Louis. The Denver group has some frantically active members who do all kinds of things, including climbing mountains.

We found out they were climbing a numbered peak of 13,760 ft to apply for the right to name it: Wolverine Peak, naturally. Two weeks before that, they were climbing another “thirteener” so we decided it would make a good training hike. Now we have climbed 30 peaks over 14,000 ft, and two peaks of 19,000+ feet, including Kilimanjaro; okay, a few years ago.

So we showed up for the training hike to find 24 people there, all in their 20s and 30s, and us on the dark side of 60. The girls were all six feet tall with legs up to my armpits. They took off and we brought up the rear—and came pretty darn close to the top before we pooped out.

Now comes the big Name-the-Peak day. Knowing we are a bit slower than this pack, we start out 90 minutes ahead so we won’t get shown up too badly. This hike made the other one look like a walk in the park. We took the recommended route, which included an almost vertical scramble up a scree field of loose gravel with multiple snow fields. We could see the top beyond a field of huge boulders. It looked like we could shorten it a bit by crossing a very steep snow field. I led the way gamely, tramping across to about the middle, at which point my feet shot out from under me and I found myself body skiing down the mountainside over snow and rocks toward a precipice, with nothing to stop my descent. My poor husband had to stand there and watch, not knowing if he would be taking me home in a body bag.

My life and several others flashed in front of my eyes as I headed for the edge. Finally, guardian angel working overtime, I came to a stop on the edge of rocks. Frozen, soaked, scratched, and sore all over, I had more than 250 feet to climb up to regain my starting level.

The thing about near-death experiences is the adrenalin rush, followed by the rubbery legs. I think we both experienced that. We met up with the climbers near the top: five 20-something guys—and handed off the sign, so someone could take it back up and plant it. Limping home, I realized I had been right about one thing: Stay away from skiing.

On the Road with Two Best Buds

Think Thelma and Louise here, but without the downer ending. Last year, three of us did a driving, hiking and pueblo-discovering trip across New Mexico and Arizona. I hadn’t taken a trip with anyone but family for quite some time, so I wasn’t sure how it would go. Doing a road trip with two other over-the-hill friends seemed like it would be complicated.

Take, for instance, bedtimes. One of us is an early riser, and I do mean early. She’s up way before dawn to meditate and get her day started. She’s asleep by 9 pm. The second one is an early riser by my standards, up by 5:30 or 6 am. She has big critters and has to get them watered and fed. But she will stay up later, until about 10:30 or so. And then there’s me. I’m a night owl. I can read until 2 am and will wake up by myself in the summer with the sun in my eyes about 7:30 am. (Add an hour to that for winter.) Before that, I need an alarm. So our solution in a room with two queen-size beds was for the two night owls to share a bed and a reading light, while our early sleeper got the dark side of the room.

Hot versus cold: That can be a huge divider when three women of a certain age are sharing a room. The early riser doesn’t have a heat problem. The other two of us are throwing off covers all night. Seriously, who wants to share a bed with that? Luckily, the early-to-bed gal is also the colder one, so she piles on a full sweat suit to sleep in so we can crank up the air conditioner. Luckily, she is also the one who turns in early, so she gets the bed in the dark corner and the farthest away from the air-conditioner.

Driving: One of us (that would be me) is severely directionally impaired. I can get lost coming out of an elevator. So the other two decided right off the bat to keep me out of the driver’s seat. Because one of us (not me) had planned out the route beautifully beforehand, much of it familiar to her, we had a lovely stress-free itinerary.

Diet: Two of us are carnivores and the third, a vegan. We eat vegetarian/vegan a lot on these trips, which is really good for us; and most restaurants cater to a variety of preferences for those occasional meat cravings. We all like wine, so we’re good!

The only downside of a vegetarian diet is that vegetables, especially raw food, are higher in fiber. That, combined with an aging gastrointestinal system that has a harder time absorbing some fibers, sugars and starches and we tend to toot more. But since the trip is mostly about being outdoors and hiking, we can toot away! 

Physical limitations: We’re all about the same age with the same abilities, so hiking and nature discovery have been some of our most enjoyable pastimes. After a couple temporary physical problems, we know the value of flexible planning, so we don’t worry about them. For now, we keep on pounding up and down the mountains.

Road trips with good friends are a treat and help nourish our friendships and overall well-being. If you aren’t a hiker or a bicyclist or a kayaker or a bird watcher, road trips are still a good option, even without driving. Train travel can be very relaxing and allows you to get out into scenic places stress-free. Bus tours with a good guide and someone to schlep your luggage can make travel enjoyable with physical limitations.

So get out there. Hit the world or your corner of the USA. See things you haven’t seen before. Try things you’ve never done. And do it with good friends or people you think might be good friends if you spent more time with them. Your life will be the better for it.

Stepping Over the Medicare Line

Well, I’ve arrived. I’m officially “Mrs. Medicare,” as my son calls me—in retribution for me making a big deal over him turning 40. I’m now eligible for any senior citizen discount out there; and I’m not really sure how I feel about this.
 

I’m happy that I’m moving from onerous private insurance premiums to lower Medicare payments, but now I have to think about doctors. I have a competent internist, who continues with me into Medicare, but my trusted oncologist retired and my gynecologist doesn’t take Medicare. So I’m doing my homework to see what I need, helped by the advice of a geriatrician (gasp!) I interviewed. As far as health screenings go, my priorities should be a yearly mammogram (as a two-time breast cancer survivor), and an every-five-year colonoscopy (for the same reason.) If pap tests have been normal, she says those can be stopped at 65. Bone density, if low, should be done every couple years or so, but an internist can handle that, colonoscopies and mammograms.

 

If for some reason, I become a three-timer with the breast cancer, I will shop a couple of opinions for a new oncologist. Otherwise, life actually becomes simpler at this point. All of us seasoned citizens need a yearly vision exam to watch for cataracts, macular degeneration and glaucoma, and should keep our eyeglass prescription up to date. Dental visits for cleaning and check-ups should be twice a year, because if we have our teeth, we really need to keep them.

 

The geriatrician had a couple other practical suggestions:

 

If all my friends and family seem to all be mumbling and have the audacity to ask me to turn the TV volume down a notch or so, I should get my hearing checked. If there’s any appreciable loss, I should get hearing aids. Studies show the earlier we correct our hearing, the better we adapt to the aids and the more we stay in the flow with our surroundings. The newer technology makes them almost invisible, and nothing says aging like repeatedly saying: “Huh?”

 

But the most important determinant of health, she says, is staying very physically active. Walking errands and our Colorado mountains will help with that! And because I’ve always been a secret gym rat at heart, it’s really neat that my Medicare Advantage plan includes a free fitness center membership!

You Know How Old You Are When….

We were hosting some undergraduate students from our alma mater, University of Michigan, for dinner. They were in St. Louis doing service projects over Spring Break. I got talking to one student who mentioned that her mother also graduated from the School of Nursing. I asked her what year she graduated, thinking it likely her mom and I were contemporaries. Imagine my shock when she told me her mother graduated 20 years after I did. I should have asked about her grandmother! How did this happen?

On the way home, my husband, who had had a similar experience, started musing that you know how old you are by what you spend your time doing:

Age 10: Birthday parties

Age 20: Fraternity parties

Age 30: Weddings

Age 40: Baby Showers

Age 50: Financial planning seminars

Age 60: Retirement parties

Age 70: Doctors

Age 80: Funerals

Age 90: The bathroom

Age 100: What do you care? You’re still breathing!

Adding to his assessment, it seems to me that it’s what we choose to do with the rest of our time that determines our quality of life every step along the way.

Irretrievable Memories

Besides misplacing names and the car keys, we lose real friends and relatives as the clock ticks by. We mourn them and take comfort in the lives they've led and memories of experiences we've shared. Some of our friends and relatives have led fascinating lives. I like to feel that I’ve led a pretty exciting life, missteps and blundering aside. The difference between me and many others is I’m a writer and I have written this stuff down. Right now, our son and his family have zero interest in having that record. They are focused on their own lives. But I like to hope that someday, someone will find my chronicles positively riveting.

When I recently interviewed five long-lived seniors about what they feel is important give life meaning, one of them said that we should all do a memoir, write down the most interesting parts of our lives in simple language to give future generations a window into how we lived and the events and people who shaped us. Great idea. Too many people have told me: I wish I had done that with my mom. Now she’s gone or she has dementia and I’ll never hear those stories.

About a decade ago, my husband’s aunt and uncle, siblings of his father, sat down in front of a videotape run by one of their children to talk about growing up with their parents, the Great Depression, and life in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. They laughed and cried about particular memories and we all have a copy of that tape. Both are gone now. His aunt died a week shy of her 100th birthday, his uncle, younger.

Don’t be hesitant to do this. One time I was doing a book reading at a retirement apartment building and I urged my audience to write down their life stories for future generations. They looked skeptical. Perhaps most of them thought their future generations, like my family right now, didn’t care. After the talk, a 90-year old woman came up to me and said she had had an interesting life. As a very young woman, she went out West by herself and became a frontier schoolteacher, with many adventures. Then she said, “I never wrote about it because I was afraid people would think I was putting on airs.”

I offered to ghost-write it for her—for free, but she never took me up on it. There is a certain mindset about talking about yourself and she took those stories to the grave. What a loss.

In a world where too many people get paid to write or Tweet about the nconsequential minutiae of their lives, real stories of real people trying to live and love in their given circumstances are being lost. These stories have value for both their window into eras of our history, and for lessons to be learned in our own lives. Write it down, write it down, write it down.