some years ago,
I spent a sabbatical year as a fellow at Stanford’s
Center for Advanced Study in the Behavioral Sciences,
doing research and finishing a book. A group of psychologists
met each week at the center to discuss and (mostly)
argue about stigmas and stereotypes, seeking to understand
how the social responses to people with disabilities
influenced their self-images.
Much of the dialogue had to do with differentness and
what it means, particularly to those whose physical
and/or mental personas are noticeably “unusual.”
How do we view the freaks at the circus, and how do
they view themselves and us?
For me—and for those of us who are older and
hence “different”—a shifting self-image
is based not only on the changed person I see in the
mirror, but also on the behavior of those around me.
“Let me help you cross the street.” “Why
don’t you take my seat?” “Would you
like to take a nap?” The solicitude is always
heartfelt, but it reflects a stereotype.
We are characterized on the basis of a number of assumptions:
we’re fragile, our memory is spotty, our energy
is low, we’re anxious about the next DMV license
exam, we fall more often. And to some extent, all of
that is true.
I was 70 when I began to notice a change. My writing
slowed, my work was less efficient, my alertness diminished.
I was still skiing vigorously, playing tennis, exercising
my body and brain, but as evening approached, I tired.
I was no longer able to read until midnight or stay
late at social gatherings. What is my problem, I asked
myself? Ten years later, I’m still trying to assimilate
this passage into a new and different me.
Many of us at this stage of life have a new awareness
of fatigue, a state somewhere between good health and
illness. With it comes a realization that our independent
life of a few decades earlier was a radically different
period. Our self-image, formerly set at 35 or 36 (more
or less) and associated with our lifestyle at that time,
is transformed into that of an older person. The fatigue
of aging begins to merge with the aging from fatigue—the
psychological effects of the onset of a new and less
acceptable era. In short, we must adjust to “being
old.”
Our concept of what is aged changes almost from the
moment of birth. When I was a small child, my mother
and dad, then in their 20s, lived on a distant and remote
planet, separated from me by an infinity of time, presence,
size, voice and authority. Soon 40 became the realm
of the ancient; then 60; then 80. I can now say with
the authority of an octogenarian that this notion works
in the other direction, too—my grandson (whose
commitment to snowboarding and skateboarding is unshakable)
is very youthful; his 55-year-old father, my son, is
merely young.
Although the likelihood of serious illness increases
as we grow older, it may be casual infirmities that
fill our days with discomfort. Not long ago, my wife
and I had a wonderful time in Tucson, Ariz., shared
with old friends, and with good tennis each day, although
my elbow was somewhat uncomfortable. On our last day
there, I banged that same elbow on the arm of a chair.
The next morning, it had grown to the size of an orange,
a red, hot ball of fluid, and swelling and inflammation
ran down my arm to my wrist. My internist placed a needle
in my olecranon bursa, withdrew a syringe full of fluid
and counseled ice, Vioxx, elevation, compression and
an antibiotic. A few days later, the surgeon added an
extension cast to the list of remedies, and told me
five weeks in the cast would clarify whether surgery
was required.
Suddenly—with my right arm useless—I found
myself unable to tie my tie, shave, button my shirt,
use a knife and fork. I could no longer attend my 7:25
a.m. exercise classes and had to cancel my tennis matches.
The soreness interrupted my sleep, and the sleep deprivation
left me tired and spacy. Work? A few hours a day at
most, and then with little of my usual enthusiasm. Fatigue?
A constant.
Is the decline of aging and its accompanying fatigue
inevitable? It’s hard to avoid except by premature
death, a radical intervention. By 75, about 30 percent
of our cells have died. Large amounts of muscle and
bone have atrophied.
The good news is that life expectancy has increased
strikingly during the past century, and more seniors
are remaining in relatively good health longer than
ever. The quest to slow aging is a priority in biomedical
research, but the likelihood is small that any manipulation
soon will significantly extend the human life span.
Even if we could live longer, why would we want to?
Living on the Stanford campus, as my wife and I have
for many years, provides the sense of renewal that comes
from seeing bright young faces repopulate the University
each year. It strengthens my conviction that the cycle
of life has a profound inner logic to it. Why are we
so concerned about our grandchildren’s lives if
not because they are an extension of our own? Our DNA
lives on into future generations, so we must help preserve
the resources that ensure happy lives for them. Perhaps
our efforts at lengthening life should be supplanted
by a broad effort to better life in all its dimensions
for older persons.
Some of us belabor our existential condition: our 70
to 80 years of excited living become submerged in apprehension
that there are only 5 or 10 to come. Others savor the
taste of each awakening and spend the day as though
it may be the last, filling it with present satisfactions.
It is a time when work may become synonymous with play,
and play with work. Relationships with family and friends
lift the veil of fatigue and are rich with the joy and
emotional power of love and shared experience. The trick
is to place the demands and vexations of this stage
into a larger network of experience; one that allows
us to step outside our “old” selves and
renew the spirit that makes us truly “different.”
It takes some determination, especially when your back
is bothering you; but doing so engages, distracts and
connects. It keeps us living, not just alive.
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