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.

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.

Making the Transition

Although most of my friends were supportive of my decision to move into a CCRC, I knew that, secretly, they thought I was making a big mistake; that I was too young to make such a drastic change in my life. But, I told myself, they all still had husbands, and didn't know what it was like to eat dinner alone every night, on a tray in front of the TV; to go to bed alone every night, and wake up alone every morning; and to wander through the dark house, on sleepless nights, remembering…

The hardest part of any move other than having to say "goodbye" to  wonderful neighbors, is going through all the accumulated "stuff" and deciding what to keep and what to sell, or give away, or donate. This time, fortunately, the people who bought my house also bought most of my furniture, and I was able to sell all my office furniture to friends, but there were still plenty of other decisions to make. I decided to start with the family pictures—boxes of them, drawers of them, envelopes of them—too many to begin to count. I had always had the good intention to make albums for each of my four children, but never quite got around to it, instead filling box after box with pictures and moving them from one new home to the next.

Now the time had come to pay the price for my procrastination. I got four large envelopes and after many hours, and more than a few tears, I had gone through them all, throwing away the ones that just had, seemingly random, scenery from long forgotten visits to parks, botanical gardens, and lesser known historical landmarks, and dividing the remaining pictures of family and close friends, sometimes arbitrarily, among the four envelopes. In the end, I needed a fifth envelope and a large box to hold some framed pictures and other mementoes that I couldn't quite decide about. Those went to my oldest daughter, giving her (probably unfairly) the responsibility of deciding what to do with them. I suppose that's the price one has to pay for being the first born. I was a middle child, with no discernible responsibility, except to learn from the mistakes my older sister made and try to avoid making those same mistakes. Of course, she thought I was being a "goody two shoes" in attempt to solidify a spot as the "favorite child," but it was really just about self-preservation.

There's no need to bore you with the rest of the sorting, packing, shopping for new furniture and seemingly endless trips to Goodwill. In the end, it all got done—with more than a little help from my daughters, and close friends—and I found myself in my new apartment, still alone, but, somehow, feeling less alone in this smaller, cozier space. Actually, adjusting to my new apartment was the easy part. It felt like "home" almost from the beginning. As for the rest of it, that took awhile. I'd be lying if I said there were no "what have I done" moments. Of course there were, but I'll save those for the next time.

My Next Act

"It's a terrible thing, I think, in life to wait until you're ready. I have this feeling now that actually no one is ever ready to do anything. There is almost no such thing as ready. There is only now. And you may as well do it now. Generally speaking, now is as good a time as any."
Hugh Laurie

It's been three years since I last wrote in this blog. It's not because I haven't wanted to, and it's not because I was suffering from "writers' block." I had just reached the point that I had run the gamut of topics on widowhood, and  I knew it was time to make some meaningful changes in my life. It has taken me awhile to figure out what they should be. I had been living alone in my 4-bedroom, 3-full-bathroom home since Art died in 2009,  and, although I didn't feel  lonely—my wonderful friends made sure of that—I often felt very much alone, especially at night. In addition, the house, which was built in 1999, was likely to start needing major improvements (new air condition unit, hot water heater,  roof…) and that worried me.

It was clearly time to downsize, but I wasn't quite sure how I should do that. Should I look for a smaller house; or would an apartment or condo be better? Or should I make the giant leap of moving to a Continuing Care Retirement Community (CCRC) like some friends of mine were considering, and others had actually done. I had visited one of the most popular CCRCs in my area several times and just couldn't see myself living there. It seemed too large—almost like a small city—and impersonal. Then one day I went with friends to visit a different, somewhat newer, CCRC, and the minute I walked into the lobby, I thought, "I think I could see myself living here, but it's too soon. I'm too young.  I'm just not ready yet."

For awhile, it seemed like a condo would be the best option, but I knew there might come a time that even that would be too much for me to handle. As my friends and family have now heard me explain, ad nauseam—perhaps in an effort to convince myself as much as them—I knew that, should I reach the point that I needed care, I didn’t want to move back up North to be near my kids, and I didn’t want them getting a call one day telling them they had to do something about their mother. They would then be in the position of having to find a place to put me. That would mean another move and, more importantly, that was a decision I wanted to make for myself, while I still had my wits about me. The more I looked into it, it made sense to make this decision when I’m still relatively young and healthy, and do away with any worries about future care. I found an apartment I really liked and put my name on a waiting list in February of 2014, fully expecting that it might take a year or more before the type of apartment I wanted would be available. 

Much to my surprise, one became available in just a three months. Of course, when they called me about the availability, I said, "I'm not ready." Obviously, the savvy marketing person I was working with had heard that more than once before, and knew just how to convince me to "at least come look at it." I did, and I liked it, but I still wasn't convinced I was ready. I had the weekend to decide, and, after much soul searching (and a few tears) I decided it was the right thing to do. I knew it was “meant to be” when I sold my home without having to list it. After several months of renovations, my new "home" was ready and I moved in on September 25, 2014.  

It has been a year now and, although I'm still making some adjustments to this new lifestyle, I can honestly say I’m very happy with my apartment and the new friends I've made here. Not surprisingly, I'm one of the youngest residents (I turned 75 this past July), but most of the people I've met are  certainly young at heart, and in spirit, and continue to be actively involved in life. I am still participating in all the same activities that I’ve always had (I just have to drive a little farther for some of them) and I see my former neighbors and friends on a regular basis. Living here at Cypress Cove (www.cypresscoveliving.org) is about as close to living in a resort hotel as one can get, and I am truly grateful that I was financially able to make this decision. Not everyone has this option.

…so my next act has begun, and there will be many more stories to tell.

Small Victories

Art and I had an"old fashioned" marriage—at least by today's standards. I took care of the kids; did the grocery shopping, cooking, laundry, and most of the cleaning; made doctor and dentist appointments; packed school lunches, drove car pool…all those things that were considered "woman's work" back then (and still are by many). Art took care of the "man's work"—home repair, lawn care, car care, taking out the garbage…and, most important, bringing home the paycheck. Still, we always thought of ourselves as a team. In fact, I can still close my eyes and hear him say, "We make a good team." And we did.

Although Art's job required him to travel quite a bit, when he was home, he never hesitated to help me with household chores. He would set the table for dinner and help clean up afterwords (until the kids were old enough to do it). If he heard the drier buzz, he'd be the first one to get the clothes out, fold them, and put them away. When the kids were babies, he was perfectly comfortable changing their diapers, bathing them, rocking them to sleep… With the possible exception of cooking, there wasn't much he wouldn't do around the house. He didn't like to cook; but I did, so I was perfectly happy to have that job to myself. Still, he did cook occasionally. Like most men, he was good at grilling, and he made good pancakes (the kids called them "panny cakes") and scrambled eggs with ham.

In contrast, other than taking out the garbage when Art was traveling, I rarely did any of those things traditionally called "man's work." I occasionally helped with some of the outside work, like planting flowers and raking some leaves in the fall, but I never mowed the lawn, trimmed the shrubs, or spread mulch; and, although I do know the difference between a regular screwdriver and a phillip's head screwdriver—and how to use a hammer—I never even tried to repair anything inside or outside the house. Of course, I never dreamed I would ever have to. Now I realize that I should have been paying more attention.

In the three years since Art died I have either hired someone or relied on family and friends to help me with the "man's work"—plumbing issues, car repair, and things that required climbing on ladders or running power washers…. Depending on others to help with the things Art routinely handled hasn't exactly bolstered a feeling of self-confidence. That's why I was so pleased with myself when I recently figured out why my dishwasher wasn't working and was able to solve the problem without calling a repairman. I also researched, purchased, and installed a new vacuum system for my pool, with just a little help from a friend.

Small victories, but victories nonetheless.

Best Laid Plans

The poet T. S. Eliot famously wrote that April is the "cruelest" month, but, for me, it's June. I used to look forward to June because it marks the beginning of summer. It is the month of warm days and cool nights, graduations, weddings, Father's Day, my youngest daughter's birthday… I was married in June and that was one of the happiest days of my life. But then Art died in June, just one day after our 47th wedding anniversary, and that was the saddest day of my life. So for me, the month of June now represents both the best and the worst times of my life.

This year June seems particularly cruel, because this is the year Art and I would have celebrated our 50th wedding anniversary. Foolishly, I had already made plans for celebrating our special day. Instead of throwing a big party I wanted to rent a place on Maui (our favorite spot) big enough for the whole family. I even alerted our four children to start saving their money for plane tickets. Looking back on it now, I realize that, even if Art had lived, it would have been a challenge to execute my plan. Maui isn't someplace you go for a long weekend, so, considering the demands of their various jobs and other obligations, it would be difficult to find a date when everyone could take enough time away to make the trip. After Art died, the kids and I talked about my plan and decided we still want to try to have a family gathering in Maui sometime; but it won't be this year, and it probably won't be in June.

Sadly, I won't be celebrating a golden wedding anniversary, but I won't be sitting home alone on June 23rd feeling sorry for myself. I'll be on a tour of Sicily with two of my daughters. Being there on the anniversaries of the best and worst days of my life will be bittersweet, but it seems somehow appropriate. Art's grandparents, on both sides, emigrated to the United States from Sicily and, although we often talked about taking a trip there, we never seemed to find the right time, for reasons that, in retrospect, seem pretty insignificant.

It still saddens me that Art and I never traveled to Sicily together, but I like to think he'll be there with us in spirit.