PRIVILEGE
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“Val, old age is a privilege,” a counsellor told me recently. “Yes, it’s hard at times, and it can be frustrating and sad, but old age not only beats the alternative: it is the alternative.”
Those powerful words keep reverberating in my head. Especially the other night as I tossed and turned in bed, trying to maneuver my 80+ senescent body into a comfortable position. I snuggled a small pillow under my arthritic right knee, then turned on my side, hoping to avoid putting pressure on my achy shoulder. That sure didn’t feel like a privilege.
And then the next morning I dropped a credit card on the kitchen floor. I bent my creaky knees and leaned down to pick it up, but couldn’t grasp the slippery piece of plastic. I realized the only way to retrieve my Visa was to get down on the floor. That took some doing, but getting vertical again nearly required a fork lift. Privilege, huh?
The perks of being a Senior Citizen are many. We work up a sweat doing squats at Medicare-free SilverSneakers. We enjoy complimentary passes to state parks and meal discounts at Applebees. We hang handicap placards on our rearview mirrors and blissfully park directly in front of the door at Billy’s Chowder House. And how can I not smile and nod when the Hannaford checkout clerk eyeballs my heavy shopping bags and asks, “Would you like someone to help put all this in your car.”
Many of us assumed we’d arrive in ElderVille and have “all this free time” to play bridge, canasta, golf, pickleball. Or to finally master French and maybe take up water color. But much of that free time disappears with countless cardiology appointments, physical therapy workouts, the “last” colonoscopy, radiation or chemo sessions, and weekly lab work.
It’s easy to default to the negative. I frequently find myself questioning the veracity of the term “golden years.” What’s so golden about doing hours of cardiac rehab exercises, working on balance at the kitchen island (with right arm in the air and left leg thrust back), buying five pairs of cheater glasses and placing them strategically throughout the house because I can’t recall where any one pair is, and emailing myself (Subject: VAL: MUST DO) so I remember to order a ticket for the library lecture in three weeks.
These are privileges? They sure are. And they beat “the alternative.”
I often wonder how those pioneer women coped as they bounced along through the bleak Nebraska prairie in a 16-foot-long Conestoga wagon. What happened when they developed bursitis? Or twisted an ankle? Or suffered blurred vision because of cataracts? Or felt a lump in their breast? And let’s be honest: sadly, few of them lived past the age of 50.
Privilege is defined as “a special advantage or right possessed by an individual.” That doesn’t mean there’s no pain or stress in life. (Because there is.) It’s okay to say that “Life sucks.” (Because some days it does.) And it’s fine to whine when the smoke detector screeches and you need a handyman to change the battery. (No ladders for me).
But I’m damn glad I’m still here. And for heaven’s sake, Val, you can certainly handle a twitchy-tossy night’s sleep. (Just please don’t take ever away my “Find iPhone” app on my iWatch!)
