Healthy aging attitude not years
You know how kids think they have all the answers. Then they join us—their parents—in adulthood and everyone concludes that adults are adults and everyone is equal. (Not.) Parents are always at least one step ahead of their children, right?
My dad was born Oct. 30, 1926. He was the fourth of six children, the first son. Two sisters born before him did not survive childhood. He grew up in Sibling Position Number Two. He had health issues. The family doctor thought he would never live to adulthood. His parents tried to restrict his activities…he wasn’t allowed to play baseball with the other boys, or go to the movie theater because the stress to his heart might kill him. How many times did he slip out the window and beat feet to the ball field or to the movies?
During the years that he worked, how many hours of overtime did he rack up over the years? How many times did he take his vacation pay, but not the vacation?
In 1986 he had a hip joint replacement under local anesthetic. The doctors feared the anesthetic would end his life because of his existing lung condition. They told Mom he could die at any time. He was 60 years old. On his 80th birthday he walked around saying, “I can’t believe I’m 80 years old!” (Gosh, I can remember when my maternal grandmother said the same thing in 1979!)
There were times when we rushed him to the emergency room fearing the worst. His doctor prepared us, and him: “We need a living will that instructs us what to do if your heart stops. Do you want us to bring you back? Do you want on life support? What do you want us to do?”
Why, at age 80, is Dad still with us? He’s feisty. He’s not willing to sit down in his rocking chair (actually, he has a recliner) and wait to die. He’s not willing to easily be defeated. He still has plenty of reasons to get up every morning. He’s not ready to quit. He pushes himself, sometimes hard, to the point that someone will say, “Don’t you do that. You tell me and I’ll do it for you”; things like trimming branches from a tree or climbing a ladder to wash the picture window on the front of the house or clean the rain gutters.
Who needs to count age, that chronological number that barely (or not at all) relates to the attitude of mind over matter? (“If you don’t mind, it don’t matter.”) We do need to know our limitations,” Hazel once advised me. I was twenty or so years younger and didn’t have any idea what she meant by that. Now I see that the advice applies to everyone, so it isn’t age-related, either.
Age is a feeling. How young do you feel? Why?
My dad was born Oct. 30, 1926. He was the fourth of six children, the first son. Two sisters born before him did not survive childhood. He grew up in Sibling Position Number Two. He had health issues. The family doctor thought he would never live to adulthood. His parents tried to restrict his activities…he wasn’t allowed to play baseball with the other boys, or go to the movie theater because the stress to his heart might kill him. How many times did he slip out the window and beat feet to the ball field or to the movies?
During the years that he worked, how many hours of overtime did he rack up over the years? How many times did he take his vacation pay, but not the vacation?
In 1986 he had a hip joint replacement under local anesthetic. The doctors feared the anesthetic would end his life because of his existing lung condition. They told Mom he could die at any time. He was 60 years old. On his 80th birthday he walked around saying, “I can’t believe I’m 80 years old!” (Gosh, I can remember when my maternal grandmother said the same thing in 1979!)
There were times when we rushed him to the emergency room fearing the worst. His doctor prepared us, and him: “We need a living will that instructs us what to do if your heart stops. Do you want us to bring you back? Do you want on life support? What do you want us to do?”
Why, at age 80, is Dad still with us? He’s feisty. He’s not willing to sit down in his rocking chair (actually, he has a recliner) and wait to die. He’s not willing to easily be defeated. He still has plenty of reasons to get up every morning. He’s not ready to quit. He pushes himself, sometimes hard, to the point that someone will say, “Don’t you do that. You tell me and I’ll do it for you”; things like trimming branches from a tree or climbing a ladder to wash the picture window on the front of the house or clean the rain gutters.
Who needs to count age, that chronological number that barely (or not at all) relates to the attitude of mind over matter? (“If you don’t mind, it don’t matter.”) We do need to know our limitations,” Hazel once advised me. I was twenty or so years younger and didn’t have any idea what she meant by that. Now I see that the advice applies to everyone, so it isn’t age-related, either.
Age is a feeling. How young do you feel? Why?
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