stages
Over the years the older women I sat with in church were cut and replaced - plucked from the pews by death or a serious illness that made it impossible for them to attend. I got to know and love many of them, sometimes painting nails or curling hair when arms could no longer be raised high enough to get those old fashioned brush rollers in. I spoke at some of their funerals. It wasn't a church calling or duty - these ladies were my friends. My church girls.
One Sunday, a replacement older woman sitting next to me was dozing during the sermon. Her nicely made up eyelids were closed, pink blushed wrinkled cheeks puffed in as her breath made a soft purring sound. Being a retired nurse I often did a quick scan - color, appearance, work of breathing - which gave me a clue into their health status and sometimes their age. I noted her makeup looked expensive and skillfully applied. A matte type of foundation recommended by many websites that claim to know what is best for women over 50. I put her age at early 80's.
As I took inventory of my sleeping pew buddy, she opened her eyes and said to me in a voice made gruff by maybe a lack of having someone to talk to, laryngitis or years of smoking cigarettes. I could imagine her as a young woman - gloved hand holding a cigarette on one of those holders, puffing away, and a cocktail in the other.
"Why do you sit with the old ladies all the time?" It sounded like an accusation.
"I am going to be old someday too", I said, sounding defensive. I didn't consider myself old even though I was in my 60's.
She sat up a little straighter and looked at me with eyes that seemed to look into my thoughts and know a truth that I did not.
"But you don't believe it, do you".
On nights when I couldn't sleep, I analyzed her comments. Maybe she was right. I don't believe it. It occurred to me that I was fighting my age - even raging against it. Aging seems to involve stages, much like the stages of grief or dying: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and finally acceptance. I was definitely in denial. And I was angry that my body wasn't in denial as much as my mind was. Maybe the reason I sat with the older ladies was because most of them were in their 90's. They made me feel young.
When I retired I was depressed. It seemed I had put in my time being useful to a society that values youth - especially youthful women. One coworker had anonymously written on my last evaluation "all her good ideas have dried up". That comment hung over me for a long time and contributed to my feelings of no longer being in service: "The woman you have dialed has gotten old and is no longer in service. Parts of her including her ideas, are drying up. If you think you have reached the correct woman, please hang up and try again.
Men are often described as distinguished as they age while women just seem to become, well, old and clumped together into one uninteresting, invisible white helmet-haired being who has served her purpose and should just enjoy being a grandma and talking about her bowel movements.
I was angry at the medical profession. I could find very little useful information on the health care needs, desires and wants of post menopausal women. We live too long and no one really knows how much estrogen is good or bad and certainly no one has found out how to stop our bladders from falling without the use of a barbaric thing called a pessary or an often unsuccessful surgery called "the sling". No one has found a successful Viagra equivalent for women, but then again, people seem to think that it's icky if women of a certain age talk about sex, let alone actually have it.
Sometimes people stop expecting things from us so we don't expect anything from ourselves either. We become way too apologetic which is why heart attacks kill a lot of women. We die with the words "I am sure it is just anxiety or indigestion" on our blue-sorry-for-being-such-a-bother lips.
There are times I want to shout "Ask me what I think or what I feel. I am still here. Please see me".
The truth that my older friend pointed out to me that Sunday helped me to arrive at acceptance. On the inside my church girls are still young, with the same wishes to look nice, to be listened to and to be of service. Everyone arrives at the same place eventually. Growing old is a gift. It doesn't have to be the end of usefulness. It's only a number in time and it is a time to reflect on inner beauty - the ageless person that exists in all of us.
Now I look at my 65 year old self and I see inside of me the young girl with the freckles and red hair. I see the white-nyloned and white-capped nurse who eagerly started her career, the first time mom, holding my blue eyed daughter, freshly born, staring into my own blue eyes. She would one day be where I am. I see myself as I was on the outside and realize I am the same on the inside. I am a good book that has been read a lot. My cover is getting worn but the contents inside are still worth reading.
One Sunday, a replacement older woman sitting next to me was dozing during the sermon. Her nicely made up eyelids were closed, pink blushed wrinkled cheeks puffed in as her breath made a soft purring sound. Being a retired nurse I often did a quick scan - color, appearance, work of breathing - which gave me a clue into their health status and sometimes their age. I noted her makeup looked expensive and skillfully applied. A matte type of foundation recommended by many websites that claim to know what is best for women over 50. I put her age at early 80's.
As I took inventory of my sleeping pew buddy, she opened her eyes and said to me in a voice made gruff by maybe a lack of having someone to talk to, laryngitis or years of smoking cigarettes. I could imagine her as a young woman - gloved hand holding a cigarette on one of those holders, puffing away, and a cocktail in the other.
"Why do you sit with the old ladies all the time?" It sounded like an accusation.
"I am going to be old someday too", I said, sounding defensive. I didn't consider myself old even though I was in my 60's.
She sat up a little straighter and looked at me with eyes that seemed to look into my thoughts and know a truth that I did not.
"But you don't believe it, do you".
On nights when I couldn't sleep, I analyzed her comments. Maybe she was right. I don't believe it. It occurred to me that I was fighting my age - even raging against it. Aging seems to involve stages, much like the stages of grief or dying: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and finally acceptance. I was definitely in denial. And I was angry that my body wasn't in denial as much as my mind was. Maybe the reason I sat with the older ladies was because most of them were in their 90's. They made me feel young.
When I retired I was depressed. It seemed I had put in my time being useful to a society that values youth - especially youthful women. One coworker had anonymously written on my last evaluation "all her good ideas have dried up". That comment hung over me for a long time and contributed to my feelings of no longer being in service: "The woman you have dialed has gotten old and is no longer in service. Parts of her including her ideas, are drying up. If you think you have reached the correct woman, please hang up and try again.
Men are often described as distinguished as they age while women just seem to become, well, old and clumped together into one uninteresting, invisible white helmet-haired being who has served her purpose and should just enjoy being a grandma and talking about her bowel movements.
I was angry at the medical profession. I could find very little useful information on the health care needs, desires and wants of post menopausal women. We live too long and no one really knows how much estrogen is good or bad and certainly no one has found out how to stop our bladders from falling without the use of a barbaric thing called a pessary or an often unsuccessful surgery called "the sling". No one has found a successful Viagra equivalent for women, but then again, people seem to think that it's icky if women of a certain age talk about sex, let alone actually have it.
Sometimes people stop expecting things from us so we don't expect anything from ourselves either. We become way too apologetic which is why heart attacks kill a lot of women. We die with the words "I am sure it is just anxiety or indigestion" on our blue-sorry-for-being-such-a-bother lips.
There are times I want to shout "Ask me what I think or what I feel. I am still here. Please see me".
The truth that my older friend pointed out to me that Sunday helped me to arrive at acceptance. On the inside my church girls are still young, with the same wishes to look nice, to be listened to and to be of service. Everyone arrives at the same place eventually. Growing old is a gift. It doesn't have to be the end of usefulness. It's only a number in time and it is a time to reflect on inner beauty - the ageless person that exists in all of us.
Now I look at my 65 year old self and I see inside of me the young girl with the freckles and red hair. I see the white-nyloned and white-capped nurse who eagerly started her career, the first time mom, holding my blue eyed daughter, freshly born, staring into my own blue eyes. She would one day be where I am. I see myself as I was on the outside and realize I am the same on the inside. I am a good book that has been read a lot. My cover is getting worn but the contents inside are still worth reading.
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