Wednesday, September 7, 2016
The Things I'm Learning
September 25th will be the second anniversary of the day I moved to Cypress Cove Continuing Care Retirement Community. Although I occasionally find myself longing for my lanai and the easy accessibility to my swimming pool, I can honestly say that I have no regrets about my decision to make this move. This is my home now, in every sense of the word.
These first two years have been quite a learning experience! First and foremost, I've developed a new respect for the process of aging. At age 76, I am one of the younger residents here—the average age is 85—but I'm not the youngest. There are several residents, primarily women, who are still in their mid-to-late 60s and early 70s. Everyone born after December 31, 1939 is currently considered a "youngster"and, with the possible exception of some level of vision and hearing loss, we are a relatively healthy, active group. As such, we've had to learn some important, sometimes amusing lessons, about living successfully with people who may not be quite as physically able as we are.
The first thing I had to learn was to slow down when walking in the common areas. I have always been a fast walker, a habit I developed from my Mom, who, until she developed Parkinson's disease, always seemed to be in a hurry. Now that I'm living in a community where a fairly large percentage of people walk more slowly than I like—either just because of their age or because they are using a cane or walker—I've had to make some decisions about what the correct protocol is. If I get behind someone who is walking too slowly for me, is it rude to pass them by, or should I slow my pace to match theirs, even if I'm in hurry? Before I got to know many of my neighbors, I tended to slow my pace, rather than take a chance on offending someone. Then I injured my ankle (ironically, from my morning power walks) and that solved the problem. The several months it took me to recover taught me a valuable lesson in patience.
I've also learned not to be offended if someone doesn't recognize me the second, third, and even fourth time we meet, even though I am almost always wearing the name tag all residents are given when they move in. It took me awhile to noticed that a number of those residents had the letters VIP on their name tags. At first I thought, "What makes them so special? I'm a new resident. Shouldn't I be a VIP?" Then I learned that VIP stands for "visually impaired." Eventually the VIP people I see on a regular basis began to recognize the sound of my voice and remember my name.
Not surprisingly in this demographic, there are many residents with hearing issues, and that can be frustrating. No doubt, we've all read or heard jokes about aging and hearing loss. Three guys are out walking. The first one says, "Windy , isn't it?" The second one says, "No, it's Thursday." The third one says, "So am I. Let's go get a beer." Well, those kinds of conversations occur on a regular basis among my friends here. I have learned to take them in stride and willingly repeat what I've just said as many times as necessary. At a recent dinner with several of my friends, one of them—who had just finished telling us how much better she could hear since she cleaned her hearing aids—completely misheard a story one of the women was telling. Her response to what she thought she heard was so far off the mark that we couldn't help but laugh, and she joined right in with us.
On a more serious note, I've learned that it's not a good idea to speak to anyone unless you are absolutely sure they can see you, or at least hear you approaching. Several months ago, a friend of mine said "hello" to a mutual friend, who had her back turned as she unlocked her apartment door. The woman was startled and turned so quickly that she fell backward and fractured a bone in her back. Needless to say my friend felt responsible for the injury, although she certainly wasn't. Fortunately, after time in the hospital and weeks in rehab, our friend is back with us, moving a bit more slowly, with the help of a walker, but still engaged and active in community life.
I imagine there are many more lessons to learn, but I suspect I've already learned the most valuable lesson of all. There are times when aging can seem like a curse, unless you're willing to consider the alternative. After all, as one of my old golfing friends used to say, "At least we're on the right side of the grass." In the end, as in most of the challenges we face in life, it really is about what you make of it.
As I've watched my new neighbors joyfully participate in every aspect of community life here, despite their various, sometimes daunting, infirmities, I've gained a new appreciation for the relatively good health I currently enjoy—so what if I can't walk as fast as I used to? And I now know that it is possible to age gracefully.
These first two years have been quite a learning experience! First and foremost, I've developed a new respect for the process of aging. At age 76, I am one of the younger residents here—the average age is 85—but I'm not the youngest. There are several residents, primarily women, who are still in their mid-to-late 60s and early 70s. Everyone born after December 31, 1939 is currently considered a "youngster"and, with the possible exception of some level of vision and hearing loss, we are a relatively healthy, active group. As such, we've had to learn some important, sometimes amusing lessons, about living successfully with people who may not be quite as physically able as we are.
The first thing I had to learn was to slow down when walking in the common areas. I have always been a fast walker, a habit I developed from my Mom, who, until she developed Parkinson's disease, always seemed to be in a hurry. Now that I'm living in a community where a fairly large percentage of people walk more slowly than I like—either just because of their age or because they are using a cane or walker—I've had to make some decisions about what the correct protocol is. If I get behind someone who is walking too slowly for me, is it rude to pass them by, or should I slow my pace to match theirs, even if I'm in hurry? Before I got to know many of my neighbors, I tended to slow my pace, rather than take a chance on offending someone. Then I injured my ankle (ironically, from my morning power walks) and that solved the problem. The several months it took me to recover taught me a valuable lesson in patience.
I've also learned not to be offended if someone doesn't recognize me the second, third, and even fourth time we meet, even though I am almost always wearing the name tag all residents are given when they move in. It took me awhile to noticed that a number of those residents had the letters VIP on their name tags. At first I thought, "What makes them so special? I'm a new resident. Shouldn't I be a VIP?" Then I learned that VIP stands for "visually impaired." Eventually the VIP people I see on a regular basis began to recognize the sound of my voice and remember my name.
Not surprisingly in this demographic, there are many residents with hearing issues, and that can be frustrating. No doubt, we've all read or heard jokes about aging and hearing loss. Three guys are out walking. The first one says, "Windy , isn't it?" The second one says, "No, it's Thursday." The third one says, "So am I. Let's go get a beer." Well, those kinds of conversations occur on a regular basis among my friends here. I have learned to take them in stride and willingly repeat what I've just said as many times as necessary. At a recent dinner with several of my friends, one of them—who had just finished telling us how much better she could hear since she cleaned her hearing aids—completely misheard a story one of the women was telling. Her response to what she thought she heard was so far off the mark that we couldn't help but laugh, and she joined right in with us.
On a more serious note, I've learned that it's not a good idea to speak to anyone unless you are absolutely sure they can see you, or at least hear you approaching. Several months ago, a friend of mine said "hello" to a mutual friend, who had her back turned as she unlocked her apartment door. The woman was startled and turned so quickly that she fell backward and fractured a bone in her back. Needless to say my friend felt responsible for the injury, although she certainly wasn't. Fortunately, after time in the hospital and weeks in rehab, our friend is back with us, moving a bit more slowly, with the help of a walker, but still engaged and active in community life.
I imagine there are many more lessons to learn, but I suspect I've already learned the most valuable lesson of all. There are times when aging can seem like a curse, unless you're willing to consider the alternative. After all, as one of my old golfing friends used to say, "At least we're on the right side of the grass." In the end, as in most of the challenges we face in life, it really is about what you make of it.
As I've watched my new neighbors joyfully participate in every aspect of community life here, despite their various, sometimes daunting, infirmities, I've gained a new appreciation for the relatively good health I currently enjoy—so what if I can't walk as fast as I used to? And I now know that it is possible to age gracefully.
Wednesday, January 13, 2016
Discovering What's Left
A TV sitcom I watched a few weeks ago took an interesting look at the "empty nest syndrome" that mothers often experience when their last child heads off to school. In that scenario, it was the father who seemed to be experiencing the feeling of not being needed any longer. When his wife finally got him to reveal why he was depressed, he confessed, "I always knew what was next, but now I can't think of what's left… except death." That comment was meant to be funny, but it really struck a cord with me and, for some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about it. Now I think I've finally figured out why.
I always thought there was something wrong with me because I never experienced the empty nest syndrome—not when my last child went off to kindergarten; not when my last child went off to college; and not even when the last child finally moved out of the house for good. Of course, I missed them, but I didn't experience that sense of loss that so many mothers (and probably more fathers than one would think) seem to experience. What I felt was more a sense of freedom—an unburdening—and even a sense of pride in knowing that all four of our children were successfully launched into their own homes and were on their way to building careers, and making plans for their futures. Of course, I wasn't foolish enough to believe that my job as a mother was completely done—a mother never stops worrying about her children—but I was excited about the possibility of doing things I'd always wanted to do, without having to consider how it might impact my children.
Although our nest was empty, I never found myself wondering what was left. I just knew. There would be more time to continue building my career as a freelance writer, more time to read, have lunches and dinners with friends, and, most important, more time to travel with my husband, and just enjoy our time together, uninterrupted by the needs of others. Those empty nest years were all I hoped for, at least as long as they lasted.
When my husband died, I finally learned what it felt like to experience the empty nest syndrome. My nest was emptier than I ever would have imagined. I had never contemplated a life without Art, so for the first time that I can remember, I actually did find myself wondering what was next. However, as bereft as I felt, I didn't think the only thing left was death. I knew, instinctively, there would be something. Life does go on, and I still had my family and friends—and my career (if I still wanted it).
If you've stuck with me this long, you're probably wondering when I'm gong to get to the point, so here it is. In my moments of doubt after I finally made the decision to move to a CCRC, I couldn't help but think that choosing the CCRC was "the beginning of the end." Although I said it was what I wanted, I wondered if I was just looking for a place to "bide my time"—without all the worries associated with owning a home or condo—while waiting to die? Is that what most people who choose CCRCs are doing? Are they just waiting to die? It's easy to be fooled when you see some residents in the halls and common areas using walkers and canes, or riding motorized scooters; but it didn't take me long to discover that my neighbors at Cypress Cove didn't come here to die. They came here to live. And boy do they know how to live!
They are busy every day volunteering at the convenient store; managing our two libraries; tutoring employees for whom English is a second language; running a woodshop where they not only make beautiful wooden bowls and other pieces of art, but also build bookcases, entertainment units and other needed items for fellow residents. They serve on numerous committees. They attend, and even teach, a variety of exercise classes. They help organize a series of monthly lectures and other entertainment programs. They share all kinds of special talents (painting, sewing, photography…) with anyone who wants to learn a new skill; and they do so much more.
In their "spare" time they play bocce, shuffle board, bridge, Euchre, billiards, Mah Jongg, bingo, horseshoes… They go out to lunch together, attend concerts and theater presentations, and go on group cruises and sight-seeing trips. They compete in remote-controlled yacht races and host Monday afternoon happy hours at the "Yacht Club." The residents at Cypress Cove definitely know how to party, and they never miss an opportunity!
No one I've met in this community is sitting around wondering what's left. They've found what's left and they're enjoying every minute of it.
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