For Octogenarians and Thereabouts

When I reached fifty, then sixty, and even later seventy, I could not even come close to imagining that the decades beyond those years could possibly present radically new experiences. Why just within the last month or so, I muttered to myself while raking or something similar: “I’ve never ever read any honest description, by someone of my age or thereabouts, of what it’s like in this strange territory near the borderzone. Why?” The answer was obvious, of course. What happens in that peculiar temporal territory is not the sort of thing you run home and tell everyone about.

Then this morning Brigitte, the ultimate Finder of Treasures, handed me a paper by Anthony Daniels, better known by his pen name, Theodore Dalrymple. It’s titled “And Death Shall Have Its Dominion” and appears in New English Review dated December 2015. Dalrymple turned 66 in October of this year; thus he is quite young to have this experience of age already. But that he knows the trials and tribulations of advanced age—of that there is no doubt! None whatsoever. Lest there are others like me out there who’ve also wondered why such experiences are conspicuous by absence in the literary media, I hasten at once to give those interested a link to that article here.

I think that the article covers the whole territory in exquisite detail. Those interested will know what I mean. As for others, it might be well, perhaps, just to let it happen when, eventually for many, it will appear of its own accord.

Stuck in the Industrial Revolution

It isn’t surprising—indeed it is a positive sign, by and large—that the aging “just fade away.” One sign of that fading is failure to keep up with trends in all but a few areas that, once, were of great interest. The reason for this is that the final destination is drawing nearer; one becomes peculiarly aware of a separation from one’s aging body; and attention-capacity is limited. Hence I track events in the world of business in a kind of half-distracted way by scanning headlines, mostly, which tell me that the newest thing, never mind its actual importance in the scheme of life, is mobile communications, social networks, and the devices that make it possible. That’s where things are hot. Occasionally I’m forced to read a little more—because I don’t even recognize a hot new name. Zynga? What or who is Zynga? The headline, in today’s Wall Street Journal, says: “Zynga Reboots With Layoffs.”

My ignorance, today, made me read a few words more. They said: “Zynga Inc. is cutting to the bone. The online game maker, which struggled to build its mobile business…” That’s as far as I needed to read to be in the picture. My eye went on to the next headline. But a thought came as I did so. “You’re hopelessly stuck,” I thought, “hopelessly stuck in the Industrial Revolution.” That a mere game company should dominate a business paper’s business section (“Marketplace”) is part of the future I’m no longer interested in tracking. Industry, yes. I grew up with industry. Big, physical plants making all the things we need to have our kind of massive physical civilization. Materials and machines, rails and planes, chemicals and petrochems. The old world. I used to track it closely. Not that it is dying. But it is—fading away.

Youth—Age

The Hydrangea in its glory and (at least temporary) old age. Same being. All that’s changed is time. Picture Picture. I showed the glory last June 25. Now a couple of close-ups:

One of the observations I have made for many years now is that the old are not even seen—which causes me to have to exert special efforts even to comb my hair before I go shopping—and I might get past the sunroom door like that were it not for Brigitte’s eagle eyes; they still see me, alas. But our noble hydrangea even draws the eye in its wintry garb. It drew my eyes this morning as the rain began to dribble sullenly on our back yard.

More or Less Taboo

Aging. Therefore a story by novelist Louis Begley in today’s NYT Sunday Review caught my eye: “Age and Its Awful Discontents.” The inserted subhead says: “Is there anything good about getting old? No. Its gifts are bitter.”

This is modernity’s uncensored judgment; it rarely sees print. The ads instead show us busy, active seniors just getting ready, thanks to NevDyX-Plus (but do, by all means, ask your doctor), to go sky-diving with fetchingly silvery friends. Physical deterioration is certainly a challenge-plus. Mates, friends die, hence loneliness knocks on the door. The subject is taboo because in the official view, thus in the naked public square, a whole dimension of human life is missing—its meaning and ultimate direction.

Is there anything good about getting old? Yes, actually. We know a great deal more and, with age, the knowledge is more certain. The trip is almost over, and at its end a longed-for destination. This last leg, of course, is best shared. But even all alone a certain delight sometimes makes itself felt. Reunion with the dearly departed comes closer with every visit to the ER room.

Walking on My Own Floor

Retirement has benefits if you take advantage of it. From spring to late fall I wear simple sandals with firm rubber soles and Velcro straps—so that by now I have stripes of tanned and light skin on my feet where the straps expose or shield skin from the sun. Mine is an informal life so that wearing socks and shoes is an “occasion” usually tied to stress. It’s wonderfully simple to slip on sandals; Velcro provides a rapid, firm fastening. I love Velcro. We owe it to seeds of the kind that move from place to place by hooking on to living things—the burs. The Swiss electrical engineer Georges de Menstral, on a hunting trip in the Alps, noticed them clinging to his clothes and dogs and, curious, creative man, he looked at them under a magnifying glass. Inspiration came. In the 1950s. With the effort of putting on socks and shoes replaced by donning sandals almost without any effort at all—hey, these things become genuine issues with septuagenarians—I oddly lost the sensation of “wearing” shoes. The sensation has become another: “I prefer to walk on my own floor.”

Time Horizons

This may be cheerless reading—hence you may want to skip this. My subject is time horizons, but in a special sense. What’s usually meant is that some people customarily look far ahead in time whereas, at the other extreme, some people live day-to-day. Those who have long time horizons are usually more successful; they plan ahead and also draw their experience from the distant as well as the immediate past.

The sense in which I want to use this phrase today is to signify ample time to concentrate on necessary tasks (long or adequate horizon) and short bits of time bounded by interruptions that come at frequent but random intervals. To achieve longer-term goals, we must engage in a flow of effort we can sustain. Arbitrary interruptions chop this time into segments that are too small. If they cannot be avoided, they produce short, inadequate horizons.

My thesis is that people who’ve passed 70 will find that their time horizons, in my sense, are shortening, and this because medical conditions increasingly interrupt ordinary life or limit our use of bodies and of minds. To be sure, fewer years are left to live as well, but that’s not what I mean. In the usual sense I’ve always had a very long time horizon; indeed I still do. I’m not talking about the approaching end but something much more practical. Arbitrary and unwelcome events that must be minded chop time apart and suck up psychic energy. One consequence is that initiative weakens. You hesitate to start something anticipating another shock. You become gun-shy. After what we call a “medical week” around here, especially two in a row, it’s difficult even to remember the sustained effort we suspended while playing “patient”—much less picking it up again—if, as often happens, ten days out yet another anxiety-producing “procedure” looms ahead. Ten days? Seems like a long time. But it has both a backward and a forward shadow of at least three days in each direction. The tendency in cases like this is to live more in the moment, to enjoy the momentary freedom from “all that.” Time and time again I hear myself saying: “Well, at least I have about three days.” Rarely am I tempted to use those three days in ways that may require effort and may produce stress—even though the goal is of my own choosing. I use the days to build up energy for getting past “the next one,” whatever it is, with the stiff upper lip and a sort of chipper humor trying to convince myself and others that I can handle it. I’m all right, Jack!

Pondering this sourly during a walk on Monday—sourly because two medical events, both very unpleasant, one for B., one for me, were scheduled for Tuesday and Wednesday—it occurred to me that poor people, living on the edge of economic disaster, have short time horizons in both senses because they too are subject to harsh interruptions that cannot be anticipated or dealt with summarily: failing brakes, a sick child, a breakdown in plumbing, a tooth ache, the arrest of a teenage child, a bus strike, a hike in rent—small things and large are magnified by poverty. The human being copes as best he or she is able. The slow breakdown of bodies or insufficient economic nourishment reaching a family both have the same effect. The highest arts of medicine in one case, or of government in the other fail to do much more than mitigate. Then if you combine the two, aging and poverty, “vale of tears” is not a bad description. Mine, fortunately, is just a complaint. I can’t get things done as once I used to. Botheration. And another procedure is ahead. “In about two weeks,” the doctor said. “We’ll arrange it. We’ll call you.”