The following exchange took place between a colleague and
me in her car, en route to a
“teacher” get together a couple of summers ago. The gathering itself, a
bunch of middle-aged ladies sitting around in the big backyard of one of my
colleague’s beautiful home for a “chat and chew” session-luncheon was pretty
uneventful but man, I’ll never forget these few painful words that reminded me
I am so not a kid anymore.
“What are you now, 48?”
“Forty-eight? Are you kidding me?”
“Forty-six?”
I am forty-four f***ing years old, Raina. Do I really look that old to you? Yes, 44 f***ing years old is old to
me. I have been on this planet for
44 years. It sucks getting older. Aches and pains start to set in and one
starts to think about dropping dead. Well, I do not really think about dying,
just about getting some dreadful disease, suffering in pain and slowly
deteriorating, like my mother. She died a slow death for nearly ten years as
she battled Parkinson’s, emphysema, arthritis, incontinence and dementia,
losing control of her body and mind, needing constant care and constantly going
in and out of lucid states as well as hospitals and rehab facilities. Was
I going to end up like her? For nearly ten
years, I watched her body and mind corrode and how for the final few years, she
lay in bed where she needed help feeding herself and even sitting up. She
sometimes needed an oxygen tank and even the mere utter of a few words caused great
discomfort and difficulty.
My dad is there now. Although the doctor insists there is
not much physically wrong with my 82 year old father, a Holocaust survivor, it
is so depressing to watch him lay in bed, day after day, a victim of severe
depression and dementia. Even though he has hearing aids, he chooses to “tune
out” from the world and usually just sleeps or stares mindlessly at NY1 or CNN
on the television screen. I try to get him out once in a while to the diner or
to sit outside in the park. Nowadays, he barely even speaks beyond thanking me
for coming to visit and to reassure me, “I’m okay.” No, you’re not dad. But
I am just glad you are still here.
I already feel like I am wearing down as I have constant
discomfort in my lower back and a dull ache in my left inner thigh that only
gets worse after a run on the treadmill. Is that related to the fibroid? Or
could it be worse? Ovarian cancer? My stomach tends to get bloated (should I
just blame it on the cream cheese?) And I have found myself running more often
to the bathroom than ever before. Sometimes I find myself in the bedroom,
wondering why I made the trek from the other room or forgot what I had for
lunch yesterday. Am I, too, becoming senile and suffering from early dementia?
Why can’t I stop obsessing and live in the moment?
 |
| At one point, I thought I'd be a hip writer like Sarah Jessica Parker's Carrie Bradshaw from Sex & the City. Now what? |
It's not even possible on those beautiful, sunny days when I find myself
sitting in Ft. Totten Park, by the Throgs Neck Bridge in Bayside, Queens. Fort Totten is a local army base but the adjacent park is a peaceful place to park under a tree or sit in the sun, read a book or just watch the cars transition between Queens and the Bronx, over Litltle Neck Bay. I remember one
particular early August day a couple of years ago, I was looking at the calm
water with sailboats in the background, enjoying sweet summer breeze under the
tree and forcing myself to write something on this damn computer. If only I
had a laptop. Then I could do the Carrie Bradshaw-Sex in the City thing, I think to myself. Go anywhere and write
all of these incredibly funny stories of my life. Dating adventures.
Observations of the absurdities and neurosis of New Yorkers and the entire
human race in general. If only…Well, here
it is. A marvelous Macbook that I have had for nearly a month. What have I got
to show for it? Not much. Brain freeze and the same lame excuse, “writer’s
block.”
Even now I wonder, is it old (or at least) middle age that
causes me to often just sit on the couch, petting cats and not aspiring to do
much besides fiddle with my Iphone, play Scrabble or check in on Facebook for
the zillionth time in the day to see how hardly anyone bothers responding to my
posts that I think are so incredibly thoughtful? I say I won’t bother putting
up anymore because nobody bothers acknowledging them or my existence—except of
course, the following post, “Mission
accomplished. Heard the Mr. Softee music from my window and actually made it
downstairs in time for a vanilla soft serve with chocolate sprinkles. WINNING!”That
gets 19 likes and several folks chiming in
with their two cents like, “No Mr. Softee in my
neighborhood these days. I can't say I miss the Mr. Softee music, but I miss the
ice cream!” Puh-leeze! Meanwhile, when I share and comment on others’ blog posts
about how the education system needs to teach kids about creativity, critical
thinking and most importantly compassion for all living creatures, that gets just a couple of “likes.” Well, I guess more
folks are interested in satisfying their sweet cravings than thinking about our
responsibility to shaping the minds’ of young people. Hope they’re at least noticing these shares even if they’re choosing not to
respond.
Cut to more recent drama at the supermarket. Here I am at
the checkout line in Pathmark one morning when the cashier asks me, “Do you
have a 55 plus card?” Are you kidding me? This
did not make my day.
It totally sucks getting older and it sucks even more when
someone (in this case, a lady who was obviously no spring chicken
herself) points it out to you. It’s not just vanity. Of course, when you’re 45,
it is flattering to hear that you look like you’re 38 or 40. It’s just more of
a reality check. “Like, oh s**t, I am so not a kid anymore” and knocking on
heaven’s door is not just a song. It’s
something that could be beckoning at anytime. Wasn’t it the Stones that sang,
“What a drag it is getting old?” Never got it. Til now. But what’s the
alternative?
And then the next day after the Pathmark scene, for a
fleeting moment, I thought I might actually be a goner and about to come face to face with "the alternative." But at first, I felt like humming the old Carpenters tune, On the Top of the World! Following my weekly volunteer
cat shift in Hell’s Kitchen on a Tuesday morning, I stopped for coffee with my "kitty" partner (who helps me feed, clean & scoop litter boxes), and I had a voice lesson with
my singing teacher practicing my favorite Amy Winehouse tune, You Know I’m
No Good (in preparation for my very first nightclub appearance with my husband's band). I'm feeling like Julie Andrews at the beginning of the Sound of Music--very alive and not middle-aged at all! After all, I am a teacher on sabbatical--hear me roar! But then I decided to grab a quick bite
before heading over to the New York Sports Club for a run on the treadmill.
(I try to head to the gym at least three times a week and no excuses now that I
am still not teaching). I was a bit hungry so I stopped for a slice
of pizza—which I am not even supposed to be eating since my acupuncturist put
me on a dairy, soy and sugar free diet last summer along with some Chinese
herbs to try to combat my fibroids.
That’s a whole other saga, as well. I had been following it pretty well up until
about a month ago when I began an iced coffee with milk, Mr. Softee and black and white cookie binge that
is still out of control. Pizza before a workout is never a great idea. In fact,
I remember getting very nauseous a couple of times before when I ate pizza and
then headed directly to the gym. However, this was a whole new experience.
 |
| I LOVE Amy Winehouse, listening to and singing her tunes. How much longer before I end up like her and all of my dead heroes? |
I got on the treadmill as I normally do, punched in 60
minutes, plug into the Monkees on my Iphone’s I-pod and start running at the
pace I normally begin with—6.2 for the first 15-20 minutes. Had to slow it down
after only about ten minutes. Began sweating more than usual and started
getting extremely nauseous, crampy, fatigued with a pain in my neck. I am
usually able to plug through my workouts, even when I get tired. But this was
different. I was a little shot of breath, felt light-headed and even had a pain
in my ncck. Yikes, I am I about to join my beloved Davy Jones and complete
the life cycle? Somehow, I managed to keep
walking quickly until after 45 minutes and 4.25 miles, I keeled over and
collapsed on the treadmill. Sat there for about 20 minutes while gym patrons
got on treadmills and ellipticals besides me and did not even ask if I was
okay—neither did any of the gym personnel. It wasn’t until I finally got up
about half an hour later and made my way
to a chair, did one of the girls ask, “Oh, do you need some water?” No,
bitch, I thought to myself. Didn’t
you see me nearly passed out on the treadmill? Where were you a few minutes ago
when my guts felt like they might come out of me from both ends? “Oh, I’m think I’m okay now,” I respond meekly. “Oh, we could call an ambulance if
necessary.” “No, I’ll be fine.” Thankfully, my heart rate slowed down and the
cramping began to subside. I thought I might have been sick all over the
treadmill. Had to call my husband to come and meet me. He suspected a blood
sugar drop triggered this episode and I did feel a lot better after drinking some apple juice. A trip to the doctor that included an
echo-cardiogram and complete physical seemed to show my heart was okay. For
now.
Robin Gibb died a few weeks ago. Donna Summer passed away two
days before that. Gary Carter earlier this year. These were all icons from my
generation, masterful performing artists and a great athlete—stricken with
cancer and who suffered greatly during the last few months of their lives
(although friends of Ms. Summer said they did not have a clue she was so ill).
Then of course, my beloved Davy Jones! Was he the lucky since he suffered a
massive heart attack and apparently died quickly? Perhaps, but imagine the
shock it caused his friends and family and not to mention, his millions of
fans. Granted, Robin, Donna, Gary and Davy were all several years older than me
at the time of their deaths but certainly not old. And yes of course, there
were two iconic pop stars Whitney Houston and Michael Jackson whose time on this
planet was cut short in the past couple of years due to substance abuse issues.
I grew up with these folks! I remember Michael and his brothers performing Dancing
Machine on American Bandstand like it was yesterday. Then what about Sheryl Crow,
the singer who keeps herself in top physical shape and has already successfully
battled breast cancer and now finds herself with a benign brain tumor? She’s
just a few years older than me.
In about ten years, I will be 55 and a member of that
dreaded 55 plus club. It seems just like yesterday, I was obsessing about
turning 30. Once, I hit 40, I started realizing that I am not going to be on
this miraculous place called “earth” forever. It was about then that I started
to have a couple of health issues—a herniated disc and I was diagnosed with
fibroids and needed minor surgery to remove an ovarian cyst. Following the
surgery, there were a few minor complications—well, I guess not being able to
pee is not that minor. But after
a few days of being catheterized and walking around with a bag to store my
urine, I was so happy when I went to the doctor, he removed the catheter and I
was able to go to the bathroom on my own. We take so many things for granted
including being in charge of and able to control our bodily functions. Hey, I
saw how with my own mom that even being able to sit up and feed oneself is not
something you can take for
granted.
When you’re 25, you don’t think about dying. You are just so
focused on you, your own insecurities and trying to get ahead in the world. You
think you’re invincible. Well, I don’t think I ever really thought I would live
forever. It’s funny. There’s a book my fifth graders read called Tuck
Everlasting where the main character is
immortal. The kids have interesting discussions on whether or not they would want
to live forever, if they could.
Interestingly, the average lifespan in the US is just over 78 years old (up
from 70 in 1960). We are living longer but still. It sucks watching your youth
and decent looks begin to fade. Now when I look in the mirror (or in the camera
on my I-phone), I am shocked at the lady with the dark circles and wrinkles
under her eyes that stares back. I recognize the smile but the creases are
getting deeper. Is that really me?
Even if we could, would we choose to be immortal like Elizabeth Montgomery's Samantha on Bewitched?
I sit at a local Korean coffee shop, typing away on my
computer, next to a few elderly Asian folks who seem perfectly content to sip
their teas and enjoy their red bean cake, mochi and almond cookies. They are
completely covered in wrinkles. The man and
one of the ladies who has a straw hat on top of her head walk with canes and
exit the shop, smiling and laughing on their way out the door. They don’t seem
to mind being old or at least they seem to be satisfied in the moment
of consuming their hot beverages and snacks while conversing with each other.
If these elders can live in the moment, why can’t I?
Always afraid of what could happen rather than just live in the moment.
Even the day I got married, on our walk from City Hall to lunch at the
South Street Seaport, I got a call from the radiologist’s office where I had my
mammogram that I needed to come back in for more pictures. Oh great,
now that I have finally gotten married after more than 40 years of being by
myself, I probably have stage four of terminal breast cancer and won’t live to
see my first anniversary. Tried not to
think about it for the next few days during our honeymoon upstate but it was
still difficult to stay in the moment and not worry about what could happen. Thankfully, I was still seeing my old gynecologist and his
assistant called to reassure me that it is routine for many women to go back
for more pictures and thankfully after a follow-up sonogram, I was told
everything was in fact, okay. In
fact, I am so thankful after enduring that quick yet painful booby procedure
every year, to not receive a phone call and rather just get the paper mailed to
you that says, “Current findings are normal. Come back next year for your
routine exam.” Great, I’m fine now but who knows what news the next
mammo will deliver?
As far as aging goes, I just never really thought about it.
I used to be told how great I looked. Mirror, mirror, on the wall…When I was 15, it was actually a compliment to hear
that I could be 18. “You look so mature!” I was often told. Trust me, that is
no longer the case. Well, yes, I have been asked if I was older than I am but
you do not feel proud at this stage when you look mature. You feel like an aging piece of meat left out to
rot or a building that is falling apart—antiquated, dilapidated and decayed.
I am no longer 25 and frankly, I would not want to be. Too
much angst, soul searching and trying to “find myself.” Now, wait a minute,
that’s still me! Will I ever
get to write a book? Will I be able to continue
teaching my gifted and talented students for the next few years? Will I be able
to keep up with the rigorous demands of my teaching profession once I go back
to work in the fall? If not, what will I do with my life? The only thing is when you’re 25, there’s always
hope. There’s always tomorrow. Tomorrow, you will get that perfect job.
Tomorrow, you will meet your knight in a business suit and ride off into the
sunset in a Lexus with those 2.2 kids of yours strapped to the kids’ seats in
the back. Seems that’s every woman’s dream—to be a wife, mother and settle into
the perfect home with the backyard in the ‘burbs. Never was really my dream,
really. And now in my mid-forties while I am thankful to have found a wonderful
life partner but besieged with fibroids and other “female issues,” mommy-hood
is no longer an option. Not that it ever was my life’s driving passion.
Growing up in clutter and total dysfunction, my dream was merely to get out of my parents’ apartment. Felt
trapped but for 32 years, I just did not have the mental strength to fly the
proverbial coop which often came close to suffocating me. Never felt very good
about myself. Lonely. A social misfit.
Never had more than one or two friends at a time. Never went
to the high school prom or even to my high school graduation. Never had a group
of girlfriends to travel with or hit the Hamptons-Fire Island party scene with.
For one or two moments, made a new friend but it never lasted. Would become too
dependent on that person and everyone knows how those kind of relationships go. They don’t last. Break
out the violins and strum up the orchestra. Here I go feeling sorry for myself
again! So many people stayed in touch with
friends they had from childhood, high school or college. Not me. It’s been
lonely for most of my life. I’d often retreat into a fantasy world. At first,
I’d create scenarios where I am the anchor of the Today show or Eyewitness News and living some jet-setting life where I get to
travel all over, covering stories for the media. Then, when I did the sports
writing thing in my early 20’s, I imagined I’d be off visiting some minor
league baseball team and meet a real-life Crash Davis who would fall in love
with me. He’d get called to the big leagues and I’d join him in all of his big
league adventures. Wake
up, girl!
At one point, I thought that would be me instead of Katie Couric co-anchoring the Today Show.
No I was not 200 pounds with oversized, thick-framed
glasses. I was usually in reasonably good shape with a decent smile and when my
overly processed hair was blow-dried at the salon, I looked kind of cute. Again, just never felt great about myself. I grew up in a household filled with constant bickering and putdowns. I never
developed any coping mechanisms or how to properly interact with people. In
social situations, I would generally retreat and feel overwhelmed. I’d be the
one off in the corner with my hands folded, kind of expecting that some cool
guy would come up to me. Certainly did not realize that my omni-present
budha-like pose was intimidating. I also had trouble making eye contact. If
someone even half-way decent would look my way, I’d look away, afraid to show
interest. What? You looking at me? I
was so scared. In fact, I have always lived in some kind of fear. The fear used
to be of being alone yet never doing anything about it. Now it’s mostly a fear
about getting old, decrepit and dying.
Feel very blessed that for the past year, I have been on a
teacher sabbatical and had the chance to study, reflect, sleep late, work out
more often, take college classes and do a lot of reading and writing. I have
also begun volunteering with a couple of animal rescue groups (pets are a
passion of mine and it breaks my heart how many lovable, adoptable pets are
euthanized each year at city shelters) and work one day a week at the Paley
Center (a very special place where one can actually still watch old episodes of
the Courtship of Eddie’s Father with
Geofrey Holder’s old 7-Up, the “Uncola” ad still intact). Hope I can continue
to do these things once I get back to school but I will most likely be unable to
peel my butt off the couch following a day of dealing with data, teaching and
the “occasional” encounter with a difficult colleague.
And thankfully, in the past fourteen years (since I moved
out of my parents’ house), I have developed a few close friendships for which I
am entirely (and eternally) grateful.
I remember when I first got married, I was in contact on
Facebook with a friend from elementary school, with whom in fifth grade I used
to play Charlie’s Angels. (I even wrote
a couple of original “episodes” that she, my classmates and I acted out in
school). Apparently, she had a twenty-year old daughter who recently gave birth
to her grandson so she says to me, ““Isn’t it funny? You’re a newlywed and I’m
a grandma!”
Uh, no. Not exactly laughing, especially since the wrinkles
around my eyes might get even deeper. I
am now 46, the age of people’s moms and in some cases, grandmoms! Past the
halfway point to 50. In just four short years, I will receive my AARP card,
have to schedule my first routine colonoscopy and probably be in the midst of
another dreaded life chapter called menopause. What a drag it is getting old! It totally sucks but
please give me the courage and strength to enjoy the remaining time I have left
here.
