aging

Four Keys to a Long, Happy, Purposeful Life {An International Women’s Day Tribute}

March 8, 2020 Leave a Comment

After my father died too soon from Parkinson’s complications, my mother’s older sister Dorothy Ellen assumed, in no uncertain terms, the mantle of family matriarch. Known to everyone as Auntie, Dorothy Ellen went on to lead our family for another ten years before she passed away at the age of ninety-four.

I know that Auntie would be pleased that I chose this particular day – International Women’s Day; a day set aside each year around the globe to celebrate the social, economic, cultural and political achievements of women – to pay her tribute. She was a strong, life-long supporter of equity and education for women and girls (long before it became fashionable to do so), and exemplified throughout her life that a woman can be strong, independent, happy, and capable; married or not.

Like my father, our Auntie was a teacher, and I can’t remember a time when she wasn’t teaching me something. She inspired me and cheered me on in my first artistic endeavors. She impressed upon me that attention to detail matters, and if you are going to create something, make it the best you are capable of.

Auntie taught me countless lessons passed on from her Girl Scouting days, which later motivated me to become a Girl Scout leader for all five of my own daughters. She introduced me to Native American art and cultivated my appreciation of our local indigenous peoples and cultures. She taught me what it meant to be a big sister, long before I discovered I had a little sister out there in the world. She helped me with my homework, and encouraged me in my pursuit of a teaching degree. She taught me that little things matter.

However, while I appreciate the lessons of my youth, it is the lessons I learned from my aunt as she got older that I am finding the most valuable now. Auntie did Old Age right, and I took notes, because I can already hear that train in the distance, and it’s coming faster than I ever imagined.

(If you are 20- or 30-something, and are skimming over this because you think you have all the time in the world, be careful not to blink.)

Sure, physical, emotional, and mental health are somewhat reliant on genetics, but Auntie showed us all that living into your nineties with a sharp mind takes more than good genes, and it doesn’t happen by accident: among other things, it takes drive, dedication, tenacity, and a solid group of friends and family.

Four Keys to a Long, Happy, Purposeful Life

1. Cultivate and nurture a strong, supportive circle of friends.

Auntie taught us all that aging with grace takes work. (A bit of a stubborn streak probably doesn’t hurt either.) She exercised, she read, and she challenged herself mentally and physically. She stayed actively engaged with her book club and other organizations far longer than anyone ever thought she could. But most important, at least from my perspective, was the circle of friends she fostered and kept close around her to the end.

As she got older, Auntie wisely made friends with younger people, and by the time she hit 90, nearly all of her close friends were younger than her by at least a few decades. (I mean, when you’re 90, you don’t have much of a choice.) But really, she loved her friends – especially those longtime neighbors who supported her, kept her company, watched all those hours of basketball with her, shared their families with her, took her on outings even when it became cumbersome – and even pushed her when she needed it. Particularly in these last few years, She would not have had the quality of life that she did without them.

Right out of Better Homes circa 1957. Auntie is standing in the center.

2. Express gratitude.

I don’t think there was ever a time when Auntie didn’t say thank you when something was done for her. She meant it too, and that made a difference. Even hard things are easier to do for others when you know that your efforts are appreciated. Moreover, there is significant research to suggest that having a grateful heart can improve overall health and happiness, and extend life as well.

3. Be where you need to be. Be present.

There wasn’t much else I could do for our Auntie in the last days of her life, but I could read to her, so that’s what I did whenever I went to visit.

On that last day, I read to her from “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.” It was a favorite book of both of ours. As a child, I was a precocious reader, and I can still remember the day my aunt pulled her copy off the shelf from its place next to For Whom the Bell Tolls and put it into my hands. I was ten or eleven, and it was my first “grown-up” book.

Anyway, on that last day, I sat there reading chapter after chapter to Auntie as I had on previous days. Unlike previous days, however, her eyes were filmy; and only once – for a flickering moment – did I catch even a glimmer of life. Her fire was gone, and I had the overwhelming impression that this would be the last time I would read for her.

That day, we were planning to take our youngest daughter downtown to celebrate her birthday, and I knew we needed to get going. But I kept on reading, because I wanted to end on a happy chapter. I knew in my heart that this would last time Auntie would hear anything from any of her beloved books, and I wanted to give her something beautiful to take with her as she passed from here to what lies beyond.

In that moment, I felt to my bones this lesson: Be where you need to be. Be present. So I kept reading.

4. Leave a legacy of love.

I had the privilege of being in the room on one of the last visits from her neighbor and dear friend Elizabeth, and as I watched Elizabeth lean over my aunt’s bed and look into her eyes, I saw so much love.

In fact, every person I witnessed come through my aunt’s bedroom in her last days – including off-duty caregivers who came on their own time – who came because they loved her – every one of them seemed to offer her this singular message: Thank you for being in my life. You are so loved.

In that moment, watching Elizabeth say goodbye, I thought to myself; that’s what I want. That’s what I want.

When I leave this earth in my last days – if I can be surrounded by people whose only message is, “You are so loved,” I will know that I have lived well. If I can do that, then I will leave the legacy that I want to leave.

The legacy that Auntie left to me.

Originally published March 19, 2017 on The Good Hearted Woman

Alzheimer’s Prayer

February 6, 2020 Leave a Comment

When I cannot recall your face or name,
Come visit me.
Sit close and paint my memories
with your words.

When my joints are gnarled and useless,
Hold my hand.
Warm my tangled fingers between your
praying palms.

When my bones ache and my body fails,
Take me to the ocean.
Let me face the falling tide and breathe in
sea’s last light.

When my words are gone and evening falls,
Sing me Shenandoah.
Hold me close and let the last notes ring, long after
I am sleeping.

Alzheimer's Prayer

In memory of my mother, Clella Mae [October 1926 – January 2020]

Claudine

May 22, 2017 4 Comments

My mother is one of those fine-boned, teeny-tiny, osteoporosis-prone women. You know the ones: women who shrink so with age that you find yourself fearing they might one day simply disappear into thin air. Mom’s little companion dog, a toy poodle named Teddy, is equally diminutive and fined-boned. Both have well-manicured nails and shoulder-length white hair.

They are inseparable.

So there we all were – Mom, Teddy, and I – sitting in the lobby of the DMV on possibly the most uncomfortable chairs ever made, filling out our paperwork to get her a new government-issue ID card. What a ninety-year old woman with Stage 5 Alzheimer’s needs with a new ID card, I’ll never understand. Stage 5 Alzheimer’s, in case you don’t know (oh, how I hope you don’t know) means Mom is starting to forget even the simplest of details, like how to spell her own name. If I’m not right there with her, she usually thinks I’m dead.

Anyway, as Mom was signing her name, one careful letter at a time, inside the yellow box on the little card that they use these days to put your signature onto the back of your newly issued ID, a guy with a well-behaved young pit bull mix walked by. Of course, Teddy went ballistic like he always does when he see other dogs (read: Little Man complex).

Thankfully, the incident was over almost before it even started: the other dog passed by and Teddy barked. They went out the door and Teddy stopped. But that didn’t stop a very cranky DMV employee (let’s call her “Claudine”) from letting us know what’s what.

So, Mom and I are both sitting there on our impossibly hard plastic DMV chairs, minding our own business. Teddy is on my lap, done barking, not making a peep. All of a sudden, here comes Claudine, running our way like a wet, angry hen, planting hands on hips, sticking her bony chin out like she’s trying to poke a ‘possum out of his den.

“Service dogs,” she scolds, “are not supposed to bark.”

I look at Mom and then up at Claudine. “OK,” I say. Like, what am I supposed to do? Teddy barks. (And for the record, he isn’t a ‘service dog’: he’s a companion dog.) Then I sit there, hoping she will go away.

“They are not supposed to bark,” she says again, as if my response wasn’t satisfactory. Teddy hasn’t made a peep since the pit-bull left.

“Ok,” I say again. “He’s a companion dog – for my mom.” As if that should explain it.

“Service dogs cannot bark at other dogs.”

Hmmm. Pretty sure they can. It’s probably not a good time to correct her grammar though.

Long silence. Apparently, she wants me to apologize for bringing a poorly trained “service animal” into the holy shrine that is the DMV. Maybe she wants my assurance that Teddy will never bark on government property again.

Nope.

There are so many things I want to say to Claudine, the first being, it’s sad that your life sucks so much that you get some joyous power rush over verbally attacking little ninety-year old ladies and their tiny dogs. I don’t say anything.

In my mind, I’m already writing about Claudine. She already has a name.

Mom looks at me. She doesn’t know why Claudine is there, or why she isn’t leaving. It’s gone on long enough. I don’t need to defend us. I just say, “Thank you.” Dismissively, with a smile on my face: the same way a teenager will say thank you when they really mean “F* You.”

Claudine has no idea what to do. Her body language suggests she is bracing for an argument, but the small crowd on our side of the DMV is watching her as she hovers over my tiny mother and her equally tiny dog, and from all outward appearances, Mom and I are both being courteous and compliant. There really isn’t anything else she can do without coming off like a full-tilt witch. She narrows her eyes at me, turns on her heels, and goes back behind the counter.

Mom leans in and asks me what that was all about. I tell her that the lady was just reminding us that Teddy isn’t supposed to bark inside the building. Mom says, “He’s such a good boy.” She looks down at Teddy, “You wouldn’t bark in here, would you, Teddy?” Then she gives him a hug. She’s already forgotten about the pit bull.

Every once and a while, Alzheimer’s works in our favor.