Don’t You Dare Tell Me I’m Too Old
Especially since I’m seventy-five
I went to Europe for the first time in October this year. My last overseas trip was in 1978 to China before normalization of political relations with the United States. It was an amazing experience for this history girl, as was Europe. Coming slowly out of the fog of my husband’s death after 45 years of marriage, I suddenly found myself wanting to DO STUFF. I know my mother’s first words to me would be (as they always had been), “You’re too old.” Ah, no. And bah humbug to those telling me that during this year when they heard my plans to travel and take on other long-term projects, like publishing a book and planning for a gallery show.
I will never be too old to follow dreams and ideas.
I investigated, and on October 6 I boarded the first of three flights to get to Porto, Portugal. I was overweight, using a hiking pole, taking advantage of airport assistance, and taking my time to absorb everything I could when not looking at the ground to ensure I wouldn’t trip on something. So I am “old” in a bunch of respects: actual age, heart meds every day, basic daily walking for exercise, forgetting why I am in a particular room, searching for the “right” word, and other idiosyncrasies that are my life now.
But I am — and was — always ready for a challenge, even more so now. I heard a story from a friend who was in a professional development session for educators — I am definitely beyond those — and the exercise was to take a 100-centimeter strip of paper, take off the first 21 centimeters as our “before work” years, then cut off the centimeters to our current age, and what was left was number of centimeters we had to live life.
My friend was pretty horrified at what remained for her, and I am reminded of that story frequently these days. Technically I have 25 centimeters left to live till the end of the strip.
My reality says I’m aiming for 90 years old, but 85 is probably more realistic, which is why these 10 years are my “bucket list decade.” I will do all those things I know I want to do that are important enough to me to take whatever risks and preparations I need to.
When I left for Europe, I was in the best shape mentally and physically that I had been in decades, which was a very good thing since what had been billed as a “moderate walking” tour was anything but. By my third day I was focused on stairs and steep sidewalks and stairs and long walks and stairs…I became extremely adept at using my walking pole to navigate, especially since everyone of my tour mates emphasized how impressed they were at my ability to maintain the pace.
Did I slow down? Yup, and I did take more breaks from late-night activities…until Barcelona, when I got off the train and said to the tour leader I thought I should see the hotel doctor for my cough.
I spent the remaining three days of my trip in isolation in a hospital in Barcelona with covid.
Then there was the 9-hour flight across the Atlantic in the middle seat of the last row of the plane, unable to move to even open the airline blanket to put over myself. That’s when I wanted to cry.
But, as we say politically, I persisted. Just over three months have passed, and I still have remaining blood pressure problems from Covid, but I am full speed ahead into the New Year.
Things to do, places to go. My bucket list includes publishing my book on hospice (done), traveling all over (in progress, with a trip to Tucson/ Prescott/Sedona/San Diego this spring, and paying for a trip to Amsterdam in 2025), having a solo art show (in progress), increasing my income through additional writing (thank you), two more art-related books, visiting a lot more national historic parts, seeing shows in NYC, visiting art museums, and continuing to learn a new language (or two). I’m sure more will be added to the list: an autumn trip, more writing, an invitation to speak at a hospice event, and art classes.
These goals have prompted a lot of “you’re too old” comments from folks. But why not? My hospice social worker talked about finding an activity that would fully engage my brain and keep me from thinking about care-giving and end-of-life with my husband. I studied French in high school and college, and I picked it up again during our time in hospice because I wanted to go to France, as well as talk to my sister-by-choice in French. Plus, it was a challenge for me, and I love challenges.
Every morning for 45 minutes I work on my French through the Duolingo program (no affiliate income, just really love the program). Every week I get my stats, and I will say, as someone to whom grades were very important, I love seeing my progress from week to week.
A side-note — in preparation for my trip to Portugal and Spain, I spent 80 days working on Spanish — which really helped during my time in isolation with basic needs.
Here’s where the competitive piece of me still rears her head: my Duolingo stats for each week.
I love doing this! Forty-five minutes every morning. Where will you use it, people ask. I really don’t care. I walk around the apartment muttering to myself in French, pointing to items and searching for the French word, and listening to French movies. My sœur de la cœur (heart-sister)travel in Tucson speaks fluent French, so I’ll be conversing with her in a month in person, as well as on regular zoom chats.
My neurologist laughed at me when I said I was aiming to reach 90. I merely looked at him with my teacher-stink-eye and said two words in my head. He needs a course in treating mature women with much more respect. A huge portion of a certain population in this country has no idea what women can and want to accomplish, regardless of our age.
Watch out.
My original “Do NOT Tell Me I Am Too Old”
