The Pain (and Blessings) of Growing Old

My dad summed up aging beautifully at his 75th birthday party, 35 years ago. He always spoke with measured authority and eloquence—a true proper Bostonian. At the end of dinner, he clinked his glass and rose slowly in his elegant suit and tie. He paused, and then said, “I can’t remember whether it was Aristotle or Plato who said, “Old age sucks!”

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then, he raised his glass. “Cheers!” he said with a big smile.

Despite having watched our grandparents and parents go through it, getting old can be a surprise to many of us who thought we understood the vicissitudes of aging. As I’ve gotten old myself, it’s felt like living in another country, one with a distinctly different culture and climate and language. I feel like a stranger in a strange land. I remember all those years of looking forward to things, like learning to ride a bike, my first kiss, driving a car, getting married, maybe having children. But how many of us look forward to getting old, and sick, and dying?

In this new stage of life, we wonder whether memory lapses are normal, or a sign of a serious medical condition. The most common items in our calendar are doctor’s visits. Favorite activities like hiking, sports, and travel become too hard, too risky. Putting on shoes can be an adventure and putting on stockings a near impossibility. Everything sags, brains as well as breasts. And really, how often do we open the refrigerator door without knowing what we’re looking for? Or even why we’re in the kitchen in the first place?

I remember an elderly client saying that before he started shaving, he’d peer at the old guy in the mirror, and say, “I don’t know who the hell you are, but I guess I’ll shave you anyway.” Sometimes, aging feels like reverse puberty. At 14, everything is blossoming, and at 74, everything is breaking down. It’s a lot.

In this strange new territory, we’re making the inexorable shift from looking forward to the future to living in its shadow. Often, it feels like a gut punch that we didn’t really see coming. We all know we live on borrowed time, but now the knowing can cut like a blade.

So what the heck did my dad mean by “Cheers”?

The challenge of aging is this: how do we both accept the harsh realities of growing old, what I call the 4 D’s—diminishment, debilitation, discomfort, and sometimes even despair—while trying to live in the gift of each day? As another one of my clients put it, “Remember, Doc, any day above ground is a good day.” So what do we do? In addition to the obvious importance of exercising, here are some tips to consider.

First, mindfulness can be a powerful antidote to life’s challenges. But many people try being mindful and find it difficult. Perhaps because this being-fully-present-in-the-moment thing doesn’t always feel very good. When I’m racing through life, I don’t have to fully experience my painful feelings. I’m effectively distracted, maybe even in denial. But sometimes, when I sit down for a supposedly calming meditation, I’m flooded with sadness, worry, regret, and annoyance. That doesn’t feel very helpful. However, if I do stay focused on each breath, even though my heart is aching or brain racing, I feel intensely alive and present in the miracle of this moment, this moment that has never existed before in the history of the universe and never will again. I feel present to the gift of my one wild and precious life. I truly believe that the only thing to do about having less time on this planet is to be more fully present with the time we have left, breath by breath, until the last.

Second, focus on giving to others every day—random acts of kindness, going the extra mile, checking in on a friend, doing favors, you name it. Being generous with our love and time isn’t only for others, it nurtures us. Doesn’t it fill your heart when you go out of your way to do a kindness? If you tend to be too much of a caregiver, then focus on taking good care of yourself, like you would a friend.

Third, maintain a beginner’s mind. Don’t just do what you’ve always done; discover new things, like a kid riding a two-wheeler for the first time all over again. Learn bridge, pickleball, and new recipes. Take a course on the fall of the Roman Empire (pretty relevant these days). Take piano lessons. Study a foreign language. Learning new stuff can make us feel young at heart.

Finally, practice gratitude. When I get up in the morning, or sit down to a meal, or before starting the car, I take three deep breaths and think of something I feel grateful for, big or small. My gratitude shifts my attention from the worries of the day to the blessings of my life, or to simply appreciating what I can do rather than focusing on what I can’t. There’s always something to feel grateful for. Pause for a moment. Take a deep, calm breath and think of something you feel grateful for. Big or small.

***

I first composed these thoughts a couple years ago. And since then, the proverbial shit has truly hit the fan. Eighteen months ago, my beloved wife Kate was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. Suddenly, the shortness of time wasn’t an abstract musing anymore, it was about losing Kate in the not-too-distant future, in a really dreadful way. Kate is already quite limited by the illness. Many people with Parkinson’s do well for years with medication, but unfortunately, the meds aren’t working as well for Kate. Every day is a huge struggle.

Aging isn’t simply about getting old, it’s about the impact of disease. Suddenly, Kate and I were living in the desperation of Dylan Thomas’s famous exhortation, “Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Do not go gentle into that good night.” We held each other tenderly, doing our best to actually “go gentle” into that good night with as much grit, gratitude. and grace as we could muster.

But then, I got a large cancer sarcoma in my leg, and all of a sudden I was facing radiation, surgery, and, if the cancer metastasizes, chemo until death. Now, I’m living from scan to scan to see if the cancer has returned, while Kate’s Parkinson’s is getting worse. We felt like we were being assaulted by the four D’s. This idea of getting old, sick, and dying with some grace and equanimity felt like bullshit. I was completely failing to go gently into anything, and I expressed my rage with self-indulgences—eating like a pig, drinking like a fish, and watching inappropriate videos like a teenage boy (something Kate thought was pretty undignified for an old man). I agreed with her assessment, but I had settled myself fully on the pity pot with my seatbelt fastened.

How did I manage to be so surprised by the getting sick part? We think we’re prepared for serious illness, but we’re kidding ourselves. Frankly, we’re not prepared for dying either. I am so not ready for losing Kate, or my own death, for that matter. We’re not likely to see our grandchildren graduate from high school, and so much more.

I felt scared and deeply sad, so I decided it would be a good idea to visit with one of my former Buddhist teachers who’s still seeing students occasionally, despite having terminal cancer. I needed to talk to someone already on the path that I seemed to be starting down.

Anna welcomed me with a cup of tea. Despite looking ill, she had a luminescent smile, and listened to my story with kindness and empathy. I asked her how she was doing.

“Well, David, my cancer has been a nightmare,” she replied, “but sometimes when I sit with the breath and just being-ness, my raging storm of fear and pain and grief settles down. Sometimes my tears come. Sometimes I smile.” I was deeply moved. Inspired.

“That’s on a good day,” she continued. “On a bad day, I can’t even get to my cushion to make myself meditate, because honestly, who gives a rat’s ass? I’m just an old lady, living alone, and dying soon. On those days, I watch junk TV and eat a ton of chocolate. Sometimes I just stare out the window feeling sorry for myself. That’s the best I can do.”

After we meditated together, she rang the meditation bell. “You know what, David, you’re my only scheduled visitor today, and talking about all this awful stuff is helping me while I’m supposed to be helping you. I’m a big believer in the line, ‘Grieving alone lasts forever. Grieving together heals. So we grieved together today. Thanks for coming, David.”

We hugged and wept. It helped. There will be good days and there will be bad days. That’s the deal. And through it all, I’ve had Kate, who I can’t thank enough for supporting me and listening to me as I talk about these painful things. My dearest Kate, who puts up with me being me. The love of my life, for 60 years and always.

It’s true that we’re all going to get old, sick, and die. Many of us handle this harsh truth in stoic silence or denial. Some of us make jokes, like my 87-year-old stepmother. When I asked Peggy how her social life was going, she replied blithely with a bright smile, “Oh, mostly funerals.” She and my dad were actually a good match.

Sometimes laughter is still the best medicine. But many of us tuck away our deepest fears and tears. We’re simply unable to open our hearts to family, friends, and even ourselves. Our most difficult and raw feelings visit us stealthily when we’re alone in the middle of the night.

Frankly, I can’t imagine going through all this alone. We all need the 4 C’s: caring, closeness, connection, and communication. Research shows that close relationships not only help people with aging, but also contribute to a longer lifespan. Do you have people in your life who can hold you and be held by you? Loved ones who can grieve with you about these relentless challenges? Sharing our profound vulnerabilities, saying the scary stuff out loud, grieving together, and weeping together can actually make this dark passage much more bearable.

There are only three tips about aging that are absolutely essential: first, be prepared for not being prepared for the debilitating effects of serious illness and the loss of loved ones. We all know it’s coming, but it can still be a helluva shock, intensely humbling and frightening. Second, cultivate a profound acceptance that every living thing always dies. Whether you believe in heaven or not, part of the ephemeral tenderness and beauty that informs all of our time on this planet is that it ends.

Finally, with another bow to Dylan Thomas, I say to you this: Do not go alone into that good night. Cheers!

Want to hear David Tell this story in his own voice? Watch his TEDx Talk.