Is 90 the New 70? Ask Pauline.

UPDATE

A few years ago I met Pauline, then 91, at an annual  July 4 celebration at the forest home of her son and wife in nearby Wimer, OR, an unincorporated rural community. As told in the post I wrote then, she impressed me with her youthful appearance, her bright spirit, and her formula for graceful aging. 

I loved seeing her again at this year's July 4 party. She'd driven from Southern California, about 1,000 miles, with her younger friend, who is only 88 , Thick traffic.

Pauline celebrating her 90th birthday.

The last time Pauline,  age 91, saw her doctor he gave her license to eat whatever she wants.

"My HDL is 96," she mentions casually, referring to a cholesterol number that would make many younger persons swoon. "He told me, eat what you want. You've earned it."

And so she has. She's not sure what her healthy aging secrets are, but she's willing to explore, with a stranger (that's me), how she has arrived in her ninth decade in an enviable condition.

I'm interested because 1) I'm looking at my seventh decade right in its wrinkly face and 2) my mom is approaching 99, and her ninth decade has not gone well for her.  During the seven years since my mom relocated from Minnesota to Oregon to live close by, I've spent a lot of time with people in their 80s and 90s. I've seen that so many are absolutely delightful human beings trapped in bodies that have gone south on them.  I know, I know. The southward direction is inevitable. But some people seem able to postpone the worst of it, or maybe they're just lucky?

Perhaps Pauline is lucky. I don't know, but I wanted to investigate and maybe pick up a tip or two.  I met her at a July party thrown by her son, Scott,  and daughter-in-law, friends of mine. I noticed her, an attractive older woman of indeterminate age, but I guessed maybe mid-to-late-seventies. I struck a conversation and my jaw hit the table when I learned that her age exceeded my estimate by about 15 years.

We chatted amiably, and she was soon telling me that she'd been married, happily, for nearly 71 years to a good man named Harry and that they had a lot of sex, because, she volunteered, men like it.  Presumably, women too. I loved this! I would never have asked a question that resulted in such a personal revelation, even if I was dying to know. And especially when we'd just met five minutes earlier. She just laughed and said, "My boys (adults in their 60s and 70s)) do not like to hear this, but it's true!"

That's Pauline on the right dancing with her son on the uneven lawn, to a live band. You see lots of gray hair in this photo, but young families were the predominant demographic.  My gray hair is second from the left next to pink-shirted Linda Hugle, Pauline's daughter-in-law.

Pauline at 27. 

A week or so later, I called her at her home in California and heard the abbreviated story of her life. It isn't that Pauline hasn't experienced tragedies, rough spots, and even health problems. But she never let bad things beat her down. Pauline lost her husband in 2012 after a two-year siege of aggressive prostate cancer. Earlier in life, her fourth child, the couple's only daughter, died when she was just two-and-a-half and childhood leukemia was still a death sentence. (Survival rate has improved dramatically.) Most of her long-time friends are gone.

"I don't know what was worse," she says. "Losing a child or losing my husband after 71 years."

She also has had her own health problems. She lost her thyroid to Hashimoto's disease when she was young and had back surgery in her sixties. The upside? Back rehab introduced her to stretching and back-strengthening exercises, which she still performs daily.

Pauline in her younger days, was only 88.

Despite some emotional and physical setbacks, she remained vital and interested in all that life has to offer, including intimacy, which continued for the couple into their late eighties/early nineties, far past "quittin time" for most.

"The last time we made love,  he was 90 and had not yet been diagnosed with cancer," she recalls. "Once he started treatment, life as we knew it was over. It was very sad. I think he should not have had radiation at his age. He would have died anyway, but he would have had a better quality of life."

He died in her arms in the house they'd occupied for 58 years, a home she vows not to leave.

"I'll probably die right here," she says. "My boys worry about me and want me to move closer to family, but I can't leave my home."

Not that she's thinking about dying anytime soon. "I know it's coming, but I do not dwell on it,' she says, dismissing death as if it's something you can stash in the cupboard and take out if you want to get philosophical.

What she focuses on is enjoying life and staying healthy. I vote for that! Here's what she does, and what she thinks, about elements believed to be important to longevity and living a vibrant life.

Good genes: She doesn't necessarily have them. Her father died in his 50s and her mother  her 70s. Her three siblings are also deceased. The last to depart was an older sister, who died at 88.

Cosmetic surgery: She hasn't had it. For years she used a dermatologist-prescribed skin cream that contained Retin-A. Now she uses an over-the-counter  Neutrogena product containing retin-A.

Diet: She's no purist, and says she's eaten the same way her entire life: meat, potatoes, a vegetable and salad for dinner in small portions. Now that she's alone, she doesn't cook much.  "I HATE to cook" she insists,  but she sometimes drives to a nearby Kentucky Fried Chicken franchise for takeout.

Medications:  She takes thyroid meds as her thyroid was removed. She takes one-a day vitamins and calcium.

The surprise in her medicine cabinet is something hardly anyone her age is prescribed ......are you ready.....ESTROGEN. She has been taking it daily for 45 years,  ever since her uterus was removed due to endometriosis in her mid-forties.

 "My doctor doesn't want to keep prescribing it, but I keep insisting!" she says.

Why don't all post-menopausal women clamor for estrogen? Is the hormone the underlying secret to her good health and her good looks? I'm not going to tackle trying to answer that question, but it is food for thought.

One thing I do know is that estrogen if taken alone causes thickening of the uterine walls and may trigger cancer.  That's why menopausal women are prescribed progesterone in combination with estrogen, to negate estrogen's effects on the uterus. But Pauline doesn't have a uterus. And in 45 years on estrogen, she's suffered no ill effects and perhaps enjoyed some highly beneficial ones.

Sleep: She gets 8-10 unmedicated hours a night, and rarely naps.

Exercise: Religious about it. She puts in a half-hour every morning before she has coffee or breakfast. She does stretching and strengthening exercises beginning by drawing her legs into her chest before she gets out of bed. She cleans her own house but hires a gardener for the lawn and landscaping.

She still walks a mile most days and recalls with fondness when she and her husband walked every day around two lakes near their home. She grew up dancing and still loves it.  She sometimes plays her favorite music, mostly 40s era big band tunes,  and dances around the house. Dances around the house.

I have to ask. When's the last time you danced around your house? When's the last time I danced around mine?  I'm with Pauline in believing that dancing is the best of all aerobic activities and that it elevates mood right along with heart rate.

It goes without saying that Pauline does not require a walker or a cane, let alone a wheelchair.

Soundness of mind: "A lot of my friends have, or had, dementia. (Remember, she doesn't have many peers left.) "There's no dementia in my head yet, and my husband didn't have it either."

Attitude: Pauline describes herself as outgoing and she enjoys time with friends, family and neighbors. Most importantly, she rolls with whatever happens. "I don't dwell on the negative," she says. Optimism outweighs pessimism.

Luck: Due to my own mother's lack of good fortune—she is nearly blind,  extremely hard of hearing, and confined to a wheelchair— I know that people in their  90s who can see and hear well are blessed. Pauline still drives, although she avoids being on the road after dark. Her hearing is sharp. She can read, watch TV, go shopping, take a walk, dance, talk on the phone......all activities my own mother can't enjoy.

Spirituality: Pauline doesn't attend church or identify with any religious group. That doesn't mean she isn't connected to the world beyond.

"I may not pray in the way others do, but every night I commune with all the people I've lost," she says. "It's comforting."

So what did I learn from Pauline? 

• Keep active and exercise no matter what. Increasing strength, balance,  and endurance is all good, all the time.
• If you have a resilient spirit,  guard it against negativity.
• Use a good skin cream containing Retin-A.
• Don't obsess about a particular diet. Moderation in all things.
• Stay close to your partner in every way. Nurture the relationship.
• Look on the bright side. Choose it. Don't let darkness, your own or others',  bring you down.
• Be grateful. 
• Be accepting.
• Dance more!

Take Charge of Aging with Yoga! Splits Are a Bonus.

Splits at 70? Not a big deal. Seriously. Not.
Good party trick? Yes.

I'm taking a quick diversion from Nepal stories to expound about something as near and dear to my heart as travel or gardening. That's yoga. I bring this up because of the hubbub created by a recent photo of me on Facebook doing the splits at my surprise 70th birthday party. (Even though I am 69 for another week!)

I fell into the splits at the mere suggestion that I could. And yes, I am having the time of my life, even with the "older than dirt" birthday hat and the blazing candle sunglasses. And even in full-throttle exhibitionism. I should be ashamed, but I'm not.

The reason I can do the splits, touch my toes, do a push-up, hold a plank position for two minutes, put my socks and jeans on standing up, squat to pick weeds, flush airport toilets with my toe, lift heavy casseroles from the oven,  etc. etc. is because I practice yoga. But my point is, I am nothing special!

I've been in a yoga class with many of the same people-of-my-approximate-age for nearly 15 years.  I've seen them become stronger, more flexible and more balanced, the opposite of what might be expected as the years "just roll by like a broken down van" as Bonnie Raitt sang.

Here's Irene, seventy-something, one of about 15 people who show up regularly for a yoga class in Rogue River, the tiny Oregon burg near where PK and I live. Irene is one of five in the class who easily does the splits.  Many others are close.  The oldest class member is 85, with others in their 50s, 60s or 70s.

Yoga is my fitness strategy, my conditioning regime, my mental health fix. If you've never practiced yoga, you may think it's easy, just a bit of stretching, quiet time with your dreamy thoughts and a bunch of  granola chompers ooommmiinng under dim lights. You would be wrong.

Yoga can be physically and mentally demanding. If taken to its edge, it can be the most challenging thing you've ever done. I'm on the front end of yoga even after practicing for close to 20 years, and am grateful to have discovered it, even as I recognize that I know so little. I'm still on the physical side of yoga practice, but I experience at times, a deeper reality. I'm thinking meditative practice may be in my future.

For now, here's how I see it. Yoga poses go from easy to challenging to seemingly impossible (as doing the splits appears to many people). The objective is to be able to hold poses, which may require significant strength, balance, and flexibility, and separate yourself from the discomfort to concentrate on ..... something else. I'm not there yet. But I am able to breathe and sink more deeply into poses. And it feels good and has made me stronger and more confident all around. The same has happened to people in this class of what could now be called Yoga for Seniors! Although the teacher would never call it that because really, it is yoga for all ages and conditions.

Here's Lori Armstrong, a mere 59, easily doing the splits. But then, she IS a former gymnast.

Kay, 70, is SO close! She'll be doing the full splits sometime soon. It took me about FIVE years! And that's something else about yoga. Regular practice is key to everything that requires mastery. It took me years to do the splits, so how long will it take me to open my hips? I need to work harder.

Lyn, 69, is an accomplished yogi and the splits are no prob!

Teacher Denise Elzea, who is about to turn 65, and former student Lucille Sava, 72, who moved away since this photo was taken, are both super flexible and strong. 

Donn-Glenn Harris, 85,  can't do the full splits, although he is close! But he can hold the plank position for a couple minutes and do many other yoga poses. Did I mention he's being treated for cancer and has other daunting health issues? He is also a former martial arts practitioner, which prepared him for yoga when he started practicing with Denise at age 70. What has yoga done for him? He says: It opens me. Aging makes us tight, closed, drawing inward. Yoga expands the joints, the muscles, the heart and the mind. It gives us room to breathe and to be.

This is a relatively simple pose with the idea being to keep a straight line from your back foot to your extended hand. It's more difficult than it looks. Not to name names, but people in this photo have had, within a few months or few years,  brain surgery, lung cancer surgery, and knee replacement surgery. Others in the class have had heart surgery, and/or are being treated for cancer. One man, not pictured, is deaf. Another is a polio survivor, struggling with its cruel aftermath. At our relatively advanced ages, class participants have chosen to defy their bodies regarding whether it's time to throw in the towel. No towels have been discarded!  These yoga practitioners have taken charge of their own aging. 

I've had many yoga teachers, and I love them all, but Denise is the only one whose classes regularly include the splits. I'm grateful to her for keeping this difficult pose in her repertoire because so many of her students have mastered it, or are coming close. It  isn't that doing the splits is the be-all, end-all yoga pose. Not at all. Many poses are far more difficult, in my opinion. And no single pose is the barometer. But she stuck with splits through the YEARS and hence has a bunch of senior citizens who can either do the splits or are on the verge.

The "boat pose" challenges the abdominal and thigh muscles.

Lori doesn't have a tight muscle in her body.

Kay, 70,  can almost do the splits, plus, she has recovered from a frozen shoulder to be able to do this pose and make it look easy! (It isn't.) 

Teacher Denise loves seeing her students progress.  She says: The amazing thing is, most are stronger, more balanced and flexible than they were many years ago.

Denise has a lot to smile about. She started offering yoga classes in Rogue River about 15 years ago. I was there, and remember many classes with just a few students. Sometimes, just me! She hung in there and now has about 25 people who regularly show up, averaging about 15 per class. Perseverance and stamina are yoga objectives, and she has demonstrated both traits physically and mentally.

A You Tube video about a 94-year-old yoga teacher has been making the rounds, and Denise, 65, fully expects to be teaching in 30 years. She announced this to the class, and said, "I expect you all to be here with me." Jim, whose wife is in her early 70s, said, "I'll be here! Rita will bring me in my urn." 

We all collapsed in laughter. That's part of yoga, too. Not taking yourself too seriously and never missing an opportunity to connect with humor.

Yoga for awesome seniors? Absolutely! Fifty or better? Get thee to a yoga class!
Student Donn-Glenn Harris and yoga instructor Denise Elzea.

Yoga opens me. Aging makes us tight, closed, drawing inward. Yoga expands the joints, the muscles, the heart and the mind. It gives us room to breathe and to be. Donn-Glenn Harris, 85.

Another post about aging avoidance: Is 90 the new 70? Ask Pauline.

Let's Not Split the Difference - Aging and Fitness Belong Together

A good friend, Sue Orris, is a hiking fanatic along with many of our mutual friends. Here she is in May 2018 trekking up a steep trail, with her knee braced, above our camp on Oregon's John Day River. To Sue, fitness is a lifestyle that a pesky knee is not going to wreck. She's committed to staying strong long. Me too. 

Yesterday was my 76th birthday. By now I'm accustomed to elder status. Hmmm. Not sure about status because regardless of my advanced age, I do not consider myself an "elder" in the sense of being a font of wisdom, doling out life lessons to seekers of such. 

I have, however, hammered out numerous posts about aging through the years, mostly kicking and screaming all the way to decrepitude.

2020, however, during quiet and contemplative moments hiding from Covid at home, inspired a different take. I have come around to accepting aging on my own terms, which is good because if I follow my family's longevity trajectory, I will be getting a lot older. I want to feel perky enough to dance along the way.

If I make it to my late 90s, as did my mother and her mother, I may look back on age 76 as my juicy youth when I began, in earnest, to prepare for the next two decades, Ruth Bader Ginsburg style. 

Ginsburg, who died of cancer at age 87, had a personal trainer who put her through challenging physical training twice weekly. I'll stick with intermediate yoga, strength-training, and-or charging up the neighborhood hills for 30 minutes most days. Gardening counts.

We'll see how it goes. I'll post a splits photo every year, as long as I can still do them. By the way, I practice the splits and a few push-ups most nights before bed. Five minutes max. Helps me sleep, I think.

I'm not making momentous life changes, but doubling down on commitment to stick with my current plan and, at the same time, rid myself of the foregone conclusion that age-related weakness is inevitable. Robust and rowdy until the end! Or as long as possible. 

December 15, 2020, age 76.

EARLIER POSTS ABOUT AGING

Do I Want to Die at 75? 

Not last year when I turned that age. Not this year, either.

Harold and Maude Revisited

One of my favorite posts about a quirky film starring a young man who kept pretending to do himself in and an older woman who had her end all figured out. 

Ditch the Hair Dye - plus an article about Working to Disarm Women's Anti-aging Demons 
I was into the Clairol bottle half of my adult life until PK persuaded me to stop. I'm glad I did. 

Camping with Gray-haired girlfriends - fun times outdoors  and moments of truth

Pauline - Is 90 the New 70?   In her early 90s when I met her, the first thing she wanted to tell me was how much men like sex. This is one of my favorite posts ever. 

Yoga - a Defense Against Aging - Yes, it is. Check it out. A post about a yoga class I've frequented for about 20 years. Lots of older people doing the splits and more!

Attitude and Aging - Lighten Up!  It matters how you think about getting older.

Sister's Aging Advice All Too True  I've changed my mind about what I wrote in this post a couple years ago. Rather than accepting my sister's aging angst and predictions, I'm attempting to persuade her to be more positive and proactive. 

Travel Tips for Geezers  Just go and don't worry about it.

Ditch the hair dye! Going gray into that good night

If you've lived long enough, you'll remember the Clairol ad with the tagline, Is it true blondes have more fun?  Notice that blondes is underlined in the ad. You say that word LOUDER.

I tested the verity of that line for, oh, about 50 years, and found that it was sorta true. Except maybe for the years when we were raising two boys, one of whom was born when I was 41. I had a few "not fun being blonde" years juggling work with sketchy childcare. But for the most part,  it's been all good. Did being blonde make a difference? For all those years? Probably not.  

High school and college graduation photos.

I had a lot of fun being a young blonde.

Then I just went on being blonde until I was gray,

and became gray with a golden tinge.
My sister points out these two photos make me look
better than I ever did in real life. True. 

Age 17 was my first year of blonde-from-a bottle. I was decades from denying gray, but I was in full assault against light brown. Mousey brown, as it was called. People asked me for years if it was true that "Blondes have more fun." My standard response was the shameless lie, "I don't know. I've never been anything else."

By the time age 17 turned into age 71, (how did that happen??!!) no one asked whether grays have more fun. In fact, female grays are largely ignored, except by surgeons pushing facelifts and companies preying on women's fears of aging. Magic wrinkle creams and other potions promising to turn back time are ubiquitous in our culture, which  despite the social and cultural changes that have occurred since Clairol ads, including the rise of feminism, remains skewed grotesquely toward youth and beauty., 

But somebody has to occupy the "elder" positions. Women who are only in their sixties, like most of my friends, may not quite be copping to the "elder" handle. 
  But at age almost 73, I'm acclimating to the higher elevation and at the same time being alarmed at physical transformations. What happened to my neck, for example. And my once-flattish stomach? I haven't gained weight, so what's with the rolls of blubber?

Then there's the wrinkles and sags - no cosmetic "work" has been done,  nor is any being planned. I've given up trying to make my gray (white) hair appear blond with a golden tinge, and I'm adjusting to my new and evolving position in the march from womb to worms.

In my early seventies, I am what I am.  I'm getting used to how old 70 sounds, and concentrating instead on how much I'm enjoying myself.  In the seasons of life, I'm mid-to-late fall, and so is the time during which I've been writing this post. I can't help but draw parallels. I look my age, but I don't feel old. I really don't. Not unlike the trees glowing with color being at their most proud before winter sets in.

A serene scene along the Upper Rogue River trail. In a month or so the trees will be bare and the trail thick with snow. Wintertime, folks. It's a-comin'.

A significant source of contentment and stimulation growing older is having ongoing friendships reaching back 30-40-some years. My girlfriends and I have seen one another through all kinds of crap, including ugly marriages, recalcitrant children, and life-threatening illnesses. But we've celebrated together more often than not our successes and luminous moments, many of which have occurred during shared outdoor adventures.

We're now embracing life as age continues to take its little nips. Mostly retired, each of my friends profiled briefly below demonstrates gusto for the freedom retirement offers and a life that wasn't possible during her naturally pigmented-hair-and-wrinkle-free work-centered days.

We've all suffered losses, but I know that these girlfriends, all in their sixties, accept the gathering of years, embrace their new-found freedoms, and are moving toward the great beyond with a spring in their steps. I hope to keep up! (Well, they can keep up with me; I'm the oldest.)

Apologies to wonderful friends not pictured. I included a handful of girlfriends who live in my community, go with the gusto, and who've demonstrated aging acceptance, in part,  by sticking with the gray hair, wrinkles and divets that ages delivers. No "work" to smooth the wrinkles, no nips and tucks elsewhere, and no hair dye. Just a calm going with the flow, like on the rivers we've rafted and trails we've walked so many times.

Sueji and I met when she was in her twenties and I was in my thirties. She was a white-water river guide and I was a journalist/photographer doing a story about a woman-owned rafting company with all female guides.What a trip! Our adventures continued through the decades as we were two of four women who rowed, for 17 years, on an annual all-women whitewater trip down the Wild and Scenic Rogue River. (The two others are Michele and Margaret, pictured below.) We continue to hike, socialize, confide, and enjoy our longtime friendships. Sueji is a retired community college counselor, and always has a listening ear and a shoulder to lean on.

Margaret is as sassy and fun as she looks in this photo
taken about 10 years ago when she was president
of her Rotary Club and Communications Director
at the local community college. We were both
journalists and worked at the local newspaper
when typewriters and actual cut-and-paste was
how editing was done. She says she's had more
compliments on her straight gray hair than she ever
did when she dyed and permed it.

I'm not sure when Jeanne and I met, but I'm sure we
   made a quick and lasting bond 30-some years ago. She's an avid
gardener and creative cook. She's also fierce,
principled, and quick to call bullshit on
racism, misogyny and the like. Jeanne
made her living first as a cabinet maker
then as a community college instructor teaching
everything from basic living skills to
carpentry. She's a champion for women in the
trades. When I asked her about being included
in this piece, she said, "If it's about not worrying
about appearance, I'm all in." 

Michele was the first friend I made after we
moved to Southern Oregon in 1973. We were both
substitute teachers looking for kindred spirits in
our little rural town. This photo is from a few years
back, but now at 68 she still has but a wisp of gray hair.
"It's my genes," she says, "which also gave me migraines
and breast cancer." She's a 19-year survivor. Michele joined
the Peace Corps in her early 60s and spent a couple
years in Swaziland. Wow. Recently, on a limited
budget in a super-tight housing market, she bought
a fixer-up with great promise. Guts and brains.
"I've learned to be comfortable in my own skin," she
says of moving into her later years. 

Denise, 68, is a yoga and art teacher, making her way in the world on her own terms. She taught me, and numerous others in her classes, that doing the splits, and many other outrageous moves, are possible no matter your age. She's my hero. I started doing yoga with her about 25 years ago, and we've gotten gray together. She never dyed her hair or even used make-up. Still, she glows and has tons of energy. She is not among those enjoying retirement, however, as her mother, age 104, remains healthy and lives with her. Denise says she's never been tempted to alter her appearance. "I am curious about how I'll look," she says. I predict she'll still be doing splits in her 100s. And her mother will break longevity records.

Me in July, au naturel. Grays really do have more fun!
Photo credit Rose Cassano.

Accepting aging

Working to Disarm Women’s Anti-Aging Demon  - A New York Times article persuading women to embrace rather than deny the inevitable. The inspiration for this post.

Camping with gray-haired girlfriends - my post about a quick get-away and some

quality bonding with longtime friends.

 - 

Pauline - another way to look at aging. Hair dye and estrogen all the way. At age 96, it 

still works for her.

Taking charge of aging with Yoga! See Denise, above. All about her yoga class and the 

people in it. Let's say it's an older demographic.

Who Wants to be 100?

Note to email readers: Things look better if you click on the blog title to get to the website.

January 2, 2016
My mom would have turned 100 on January 1, and I miss her. I always thought she'd make it to the century mark, but she died in early September 2013, almost exactly six months from when I wrote this post in March of that year, after she'd relocated to a foster care home.  She entered hospice care soon thereafter. Stumbling upon it today brought back bittersweet memories of her final months, and even though it is old news.....maybe you can relate. Especially if you have a parent or two in their 80s or 90s. Or, if you are personally staring down those ages, and, given how we know that time runs at a hot pace, those years are not that far away.

March 2013
This week I'm moving my mom from assisted living to adult foster care. She'll get more one-on-one attention—exactly what she needs. She hates to be alone, and believe me, regardless of a manic and motivated activity director and kind caregivers in a facility occupied by 40-some residents, she has been most often alone. If not in her apartment, which she avoids, then sitting in the lobby or dining area, or navigating the long hallways in her wheelchair. Most evenings, I'm told, she yells for help, when all she really wants is company.

I'm glad that she knows how to ask for what she wants. No one wants to be lonely. No one deserves it. The loneliness of our elders is described in a heartbreaking song by John Prine. If you haven't heard it, please listen. I cry every single time, because I have seen those "ancient hollow eyes."

Since 2008 when PK and I moved her to Oregon from Minnesota, my mom has been a large part of my ordinary life,  and I visit four or five times a week. Still, I feel terribly guilty that she's yelling for help while I'm home just a mile away. Children of aging parents might relate. You love them, but you have a life.

Waiting. Endless waiting. She's waiting for me, mostly, as I am her only nearby family. But also for something to break the monotony. She can't read, watch TV, do the needlework she loved most of her life, play cards, or chat with other residents Her isolation, due to losing her sight and hearing is heartbreaking and haunts me. (It haunts me still, in 2016)

How has she lived so long? As doctors often remark, genes have a lot to do with longevity. Although her father died of appendicitis during kitchen-table surgery in 1920, her mother prevailed until age 98, even surviving surgery for a blocked colon at age 96. Her name was Dorothea, and what a trooper. I don't think anybody was more surprised at getting old. Gardner, painter, ceramicist, mother, wife, fisherwoman, clam digger, cook, poker player, thigh slapper, life lover. When she died at 98, it was a miserable process that began with a stroke that made it impossible for her to swallow. Let's not go there.

I'm approaching 70, inching closer to 90 as the previous decades recede into photos and memories. Amongst assisted living residents, I see surprise, sorrow, and resolve about the aging spiral. These people are old, but they're still present and wondering what the hell happened. They too were dancers, singers, artists, soldiers, cooks, circus performers, parents, grandparents, writers, investors, academics, recyclers, thinkers, lovers. They were lovers. Now they're survivors, some daring to peek around the corner at death and others refusing to accept reality. Some are diminished by dementia, which is, in a way, a protection. Who wants to be fully aware of the losses? Dementia blunts the hard truths and the sharp edges of hurt and need.

Back to my mom, LaVone. She has a greedy sweet tooth, and always has. But eating an outlandish amount of sugar hasn't drilled any holes in her life boat. So much for the sugar-free theory of longevity. In fact, except for being nearly blind, almost deaf, confined to a wheelchair, and suffering from extreme osteoporosis, she is the picture of health. She takes one mild prescription drug, low-dose aspirin and not much else. When caregivers attempt to give her prescribed anti-anxiety pills on nights that she calls out for help, she tosses them over her shoulder! Gotta love that spirit.

A year ago her young doc pronounced her sound, and noted that "her blood work looks better than mine." Ten years ago she had a panic attack and ended up having a cardiac workup. The cardiologist said she had the "heart of a 26-year-old." As of New Years Eve 2013, when she fell and spent five hours in the ER and had a battery of tests, all of which cost $5,000, (!!!!), everything still looks good.

Except, of course, for the vision, hearing, and mobility, which constitute quality of life. But vision, hearing, and mobility are unnecessary, apparently, for living to 100+, which I predict she will achieve. Dementia? She's been diagnosed as "mild."

She is 98 years and 3 months old. What's with the months? She told me around the time she turned 90 that the ninth decade is like the first, except rather than reaching achievement milestones, she'll be in reverse. Losing ground rather than gaining.

Well, she didn't say "achievement milestones." But her meaning was clear, and she was correct. We all know this happens, but seeing a parent age at warp speed is horrible. Well, hello. Seeing your very own self age at what seems to be warp speed is also a delicate topic. Isn't it?

My sister, Monette, on the right, with her son Micheal, and daughter, Lisa. That's

me with the lavender shirt. My father and mother share a headstone at Fort Snelling,

a military cemetery in Minneapolis.  We visited their graves in June 2015.

Looking back at the photos and words about my mom's life in Oregon, which she began at age 92, I see the bigger picture and remember all the good times she had, especially the first few years. After age 96, not so much. Several months before she died, she told me she was "ready to go, any time."
I have not written yet about my wonderful father, Floyd Strube, who died at 93, from kidney failure? We're not sure. One day he was on hospice care. The next day, he was gone. My mother always thought they killed him with morphine at the nursing home where he spent his final weeks. The last time I saw him, on a visit to Minnesota from Oregon, he complained of severe shoulder pain. He couldn't walk. He could barely chew food, as his dental appliances no longer fit. But one of the last things I heard him say? I want to go home. He did go home. If there's a heaven, he's there.

Other posts about time passing:
Time is too long for those who wait....
Happier times at age 93
The end of life...
But let's not forget about Pauline! Is 90 the new 70?

Do I want to die at 75?

 A friend urged me to drop into the splits in
 Ecuador when I was a mere 71. She thought
 I should make the photo my profile picture. I 
 was afraid it was too show-offy. Now I don't
 care. I will show off and do the splits. Any 
 time, anywhere. Just ask me.
            

The answer is hell NO. 
Do you?

Unless something hideous develops between now and my 75th birthday, which is in about 10 minutes, geezer time, I have no desire to check out.

Why am I chewing on this? It started with an article published in The Atlantic in October 2014 - the year I turned 70 - and written by the guy pictured below. His name is Ezekiel J. Emanuel.  (Click for an exhaustive Wikipedia profile. Despite his delusions, he is an impressive dude.) 

His thesis? Once you reach 75, you've surpassed your physical and cognitive peaks and it's all downhill from there, baby. Might as well kick back and wait to kick the bucket.

My gaping jaw fell as I read Emanuel's article. He's a brilliant guy, of course, but sometimes the smartest and most successful people have blind spots. He is an oncologist and bioethicist who suggests that medical intervention, except for palliative measures, are pretty much wasted on people 75 and older. I wonder if he shares this view with his elder patients, most of whom, he can't help but notice, want desperately to live.

When he reaches 75, the age at which his inevitable decline can be expected to begin in earnest, he claims he will not seek or accept medical care. Good luck with that. The photo of him was likely taken the year he turned 57  when his Atlantic article was published. I know so many people in their 70s and 80s who exude as much radiance as he does.

HIS ARTICLE 

After Emanuel's piece was published, The Atlantic was flooded with responses. It's no surprise that multitudes were outraged or incredulous, although some were in agreement with the author that clinging to life with the certainty of inevitable decline and death is a waste of healthcare resources and a bad way to end a good life.

The doctor explained that after age 75 he intends to stop all medical visits,  including preventive primary care and cancer screenings. If he develops cancer, heart disease or whatever, he will refuse to be treated and live out his remaining months or years accepting only palliative care.

I'm close enough to 75 to know that I am not going to do that. I will reach the Emanuel-age-of-impending-doom in mid-December this year and I will continue with annual physical exams, flu shots, and dermatology checks, the later every six months.

I had an ugly melanoma diagnosis a few years ago which required surgery and lymph node biopsies and introduced me to the Cancer Club. Getting clean pathology results post-surgery was a huge relief, but I'm still on the six-month check-up plan. I've had several lesions removed, one of which was pre-malignant. I can't imagine stopping those preventive screenings. 

I'm guessing that Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg wouldn't think much of Emanuel's idea either. Ginsberg, at 86, is currently being treated for yet another cancer. But she has a high purpose to save us from a lopsided Supreme Court and damned if she'll quit fighting for her life. And her country. 

Her cognitive abilities don't appear to have diminished and her life force is apparently vigorous. You've seen her workout routine, right? Challenging exercise makes a huge difference, as I have also learned.

Odd that I think of Justice Ginzburg as "old" when she's only 11 years my senior. Eleven years! I now know, as do others who've lived this long, that 11 years is insignificant as the time ball ricochets through the years, wrecking all semblance of personal control over its passage.

The lesson: the only time we have is this moment. Right now. And even while thinking about it, the moment has passed, and on it goes until...it doesn't. Or until, as our bioethicist suggests, we turn 75 and accept the inevitable. Time's up.

But then there are people like me and maybe you. The thing is, even though I am officially a geezer, I don't feel like one. I sometimes forget my age. I'm no longer denying but accepting, even embracing, my status as a healthy active elder.

At a recent music festival, for example, I was drawn to the exuberant crowd in front of the band and participated in joyful dancing with total strangers. I was the elder dancer, which is often the case. 

Afterward, a young woman threw her arms around my neck and said, "Will you please be my grandma?" 

That got my attention, then my gratitude. It was a great moment. 

I feel strong, energetic, and fortunate, not at all how I envisioned this time of life 50 or even 25 years ago. I never saw myself as a dancing grandma, but hey. Things could be worse. 

Conventional wisdom says that healthy aging depends on a healthy diet, social connections, physical activity, and having a purpose.

Gardening provides lots of weightlifting opportunities. 

If I have a purpose, it is to be kind, grow and share flowers and tomatoes, and whatever lessons I've learned. It is to keep my mate happy, be inspired by - and work to preserve - the natural world, dance often, create essays and images, cultivate existing friendships and make new ones. And watch, with a full heart, as our grandchildren disappear into young adults. 

Hula hooping at a music festival
in March 2019. 

My parents lived into their 90s. Mom was almost 99 and Dad, 93. Both died of "old age." Their final months were difficult. 

My sister and I  consider our parents' numbers and realize we may be facing serious longevity. We have talked about creating our own ' final solutions.'

I am not at all resigned to give it up at a healthy happy 75. But 90? 95? 10o? I don't know. 

What do I know? Not much. Like most humans, I submit to the sun and the moon cycles, the time of bountiful gardens and the winter's dormant days. The time of raising children then stepping back to see the grown-up progeny cultivating their own offspring. It is all good. 

I was in my late sixties when this photo was taken. We were on a Blues Cruise, supposedly swimming with sea turtles in warm water as waiters carrying trays of rum punch made the rounds in their swimsuits. This sort of thing still makes me happy.

Ten years from now? At 85? I might still be writing an occasional blog post, practicing yoga, hiking, gardening, dancing, and feeling grateful every day.

If, however, I'm afflicted with a terminal condition, I may lean toward Dr. Emanuel's nothing-but-palliative approach. I totally agree with his stance that taking every possible measure with elderly patients is a waste of resources and is even cruel. Since I live in Oregon, a Death with Dignity state, that option would be on the table. 


For now? I'm going for it. Life is short!

I saw my primary care doc recently for a quick check-up and advice about how to prepare for an adventure we're taking in December/January. I will turn 75 in Cusco, Peru. 

That will be after five days in the Amazon slogging around the jungle on the lookout for everything from macaws to jaguars. Then on to the Sacred Valley and Machu Picchu, where we expect, weather permitting, to climb the Machu Picchu Mountain and tour, with a guide, the most-visited UNESCO World Heritage site.


After that, we'll be in Colombia where our activities include whitewater rafting, trekking to an indigenous village, and taking on a "strenuous"  hike in the Andes for a grand view of mountains and the Pacific Ocean. 

Caving into multiple negatives about aging, I got skittish about whether I'm too old for the adventures this trip presents.  

I told my doc that I've had tweaks in my knees and also a hip that is sometimes bothersome. Will I be able to do all this stuff?  Should I back off on jumping in Zumba? Should I baby my knees? Should I take it easy? Should I sit out the difficult hiking at high altitude?

She did a quick hip X-ray that verified I have some bursitis and arthritis. But she also advised me to continue jumping, dancing, walking, biking, squats, yoga, and Pilates. All the hard stuff. 

"Continue doing all you do and don't stop!" she advised. 
"Go climb the mountains."

Ok then, doc. That's all I need to know.


EARLIER POSTS ABOUT AGING

Ditch the Hair Dye - plus an article about Working to Disarm Women's Anti-aging Demons 
I was into the Clairol bottle most of my adult life until PK persuaded me to stop. I'm glad I did. I like my white hair.

Camping with Gray-haired girlfriends - fun times outdoors  and moments of truth

Pauline - Is 90 the New 70?   In her early 90s when I met her, the first thing she wanted to tell me was how much men like sex. This is one of my favorite posts ever. Pauline is now 96 or 97 and still going strong.

Yoga - a Defense Against Aging - Yes, it is. Check it out. A post about a yoga class I've frequented for about 20 years. Lots of older people doing the splits and more!

Attitude and Aging - Lighten Up!  It matters how you think about getting older.

Sister's Aging Advice All Too True  I've changed my mind about what I wrote in this post a couple years ago. Rather than accepting my sister's aging angst and predictions, I'm attempting to persuade her to be more positive and proactive. 

Travel Tips for Geezers  Just go and don't worry about it.