In my youth, I loved the feel of speed. 110, 120 MPH as I raced through lush canyons in Los Angeles in my bright orange Fiat 124 Sports Spider. Top down even when the weather turned cold. Isn’t this why coats and heaters exist? I adored riding on the back of a Harley motorcycle zipping through the streets of L.A., the faster the better. I had no fear and loved the thrill.
But now I’m on a speedway that is far from thrilling as I approach my 75th birthday. Two and a half months to go. The rate of speed is like I’m an Olympic skier, leaping from high onto the snow and traversing the slalom course straight downhill at ever increasing rates of speed. Will I crash before I reach the end, reach the end and crash, or will I feel the thrill of racing faster than anyone else and raise my arms in triumph?
“I can’t believe how fast it’s gone,” my mother said. She was 90 and dying. I nodded in agreement, deluded that at 55, I had a clue about the rapidity of passing years.
Seventy-five. I don’t relate to that number. I swear I turned 10 only a moment ago, and it was a big deal having my age in the two digits. Twenty was a shock. How could I have doubled that 10 so fast? The other decades raced by in a blur, and because no colossal changes had yet occurred in my body, I didn’t notice. Sure, by my late 40s, I saw a line on my face, but it was only one. It wasn’t until years later that the troops moved in, creating the patterns on my cheeks my mother once wore.
I’d heard we shrink as we get older, but no one told me about the discomfort of sagging breasts, or that my waistline would be bigger although now I weigh less than I did 20 years ago.
When I was a little girl and people would tell me I looked like my daddy, I’d always say, “I do not. He has a mustache.” That changed one day when I rested on the table enjoying a facial and the esthetician said, “Would you like me to wax your mustache?” “What?!” I screeched. Trust me, these are not the eight words any woman wants to hear.
I could go on about the various body changes and challenges, but perhaps instead of thinking myself on the way to serious old age, I can reframe that. I’d rather consider that I am on my way to a more spectacular and wonderful me. The same me but improved. Like a garden after removing weeds, adding new plants and flowers, and filling the hummingbird feeder so those fabulous fast wing-flapping birds will appear.
I want those birds. In symbology, birds are considered angel messengers. No angel myself, I could use angels gathering around as I traverse whatever is ahead.
Last week, a young friend, 50 years old—I can’t believe I think someone 50 is young!—said she intends to live another 50 years. I hope she does. At this point in my life, I consider living another minute a triumph. And there’s a gift in that. Lots of gifts. I pay attention to the beauty outside, and move through life with a gratitude I didn’t understand when I was young. I took moments, days, months, and years for granted. Tossed them out by filling them with worry, regrets, and demands about how a day must look for me to enjoy it.
Now, I enjoy every day, even those that make it hard to find a sliver of something to appreciate.
I think the first time I was aware of the importance of doing that was on my 70th birthday, when I woke up on a small, uncomfortable couch in the hospital next to my husband’s bed. My frown felt like it reached below my feet. How could I find happiness?
Recognizing my mood was unpleasant, I told my husband I needed to go home to shower and would be right back. What I needed was time alone to reset my attitude. And that’s what I did. In the shower, I washed away This is a lousy 70th birthday, and turned it into, Look how lucky I am to celebrate my birthday with my husband still alive. Because he’d danced with death the night before, coming within two hours of dying, his every breath couldn’t have been a better gift. And so, I discovered my birthday smile. On my way back to the hospital, I stopped and bought myself a small Bundt cake because, after all, we all need a celebratory cake on our birthday.
That day reinforced my intention to focus on what I can be grateful about rather than everything that might be going wrong. Some days are harder than others. When I’m suffering, I remind myself how fortunate I am to be alive to experience this pain or discomfort, no matter how unpleasant. Once I’m dead, I assume all pain will depart with me.
Given the choice, I’ll work with what I have here, right now.
Let’s have a conversation! Your turn:
How do you live your one precious life?
Do you have any strategies for difficult days?
Feel free to add anything you’d like to share.
We learn from each other.
There is nothing I know of that beats gratitude for every day unless it's gratitude for every breath we take. I am looking at finishing 87 years in 16 days. There are no guarantees I'll make it but rest assured. That's what i'm doing, resting assured. I was drawn to your title partly because of my title, "From Both Sides Now" so we must be reading the same script. I had a convertible or three, a motorcycle or two, loved skiing downhill, always wanted to drive a real race car with a number painted on the side. When I suggested to my wife that I paint a big white number on the side of her racing green Mini Cooper S convertible, she said flatly, "No, I don't think so." Nowadays, not so much in a hurry to get anywhere but still traveling.
I'm very lucky to be relatively healthy, especially when compared to many of the seniors who live in this very large Senior Apartment complex. There's an ambulance carting someone away once a week it seems. And I see my peers struggling with their walkers just to go get their mail.
I have good days, and bad days, struggling these days with depression over the situation in Gaza and witnessing such cruelty and aggression, when it is women and children who are suffering the most.
I'm terrified that the election in November will be very traumatic--no matter who wins, there will be protests that the election was "rigged," or some other insane comments. Truly, these are the things I worry about daily.
And I feed feral cats here, which the management says is a crime worthy of eviction. I used to worry about that, but they can't enforce such a command. The County neuters only the males and sends all the feral cats right back where they found them. Right now we have kittens running and hiding in the bushes, and I risk my neck by giving them minimal food and lots of water (our temps are now in the 90's and 100's). I'm 83 and while I have loving grown children, and a few good friends still alive, I'm not afraid to die--only need to secure a loving home for my kitty--my buddy--who has many more years to live and I don't.
Lots of folks got pets during the pandemic and then went back to work, and back to the shelter went the poor animals! This is a problem all over America!
Peggy, keep up that attitude, you give me hope!