old: adj. dating from the remote past; advanced in years or age

age: n. one of the stages of life

Getting old is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do–except for, maybe, being born. I have no memory of my birth, a strong case for the masking of its difficulty. Mom told me the doctor said I had shoulders like a football player. She might have said my birth was one of the hardest things she ever had to do.

At any rate, getting old is not the same as aging. The process of aging takes place throughout life. The state of getting old and being old happens at the end. The end of one’s life.

Don’t get me wrong. Death holds no bondage over me. I do not fear it nor the next step into eternity. In fact, I welcome it. My struggle entails the day in, day out experiences of being old. Much of the time I’m not sure if I will win the battle and be able to live my life out in peace.

Do you remember being told about a next stage of life by someone older than you? . . .  “You’ll find out someday.” Perhaps you heard a warning that “growing up” meant you’d have to pay the household bills, including taxes and insurance. And you’d even be required to buy your own food! Or maybe an empty-nester told you how much you would miss the busy life of children with their demands and activities.

I remember Bob Billings, a neighbor from years ago. He was quite a bit older than me and had serious health issues. More than once he commented, “Getting old isn’t for sissies.” He was a bit of a curmudgeon, and I didn’t take him seriously. Now, as someone in my eighties, I find it ironic–that is the main thing I remember about him. But now I can relate. Now I understand.

They say, “You’re only as old as you feel.” That has worked well for me for decades–until now. I feel old. Not all that long ago, I was surprised when a clerk offered me a Senior citizen discount at a local store or restaurant. Something has changed.

Getting old didn’t happen in a short period of time. It took many days, weeks, months, and years to get to this point. I guess I could view that as an accomplishment in and of itself. As I see it, though, I need to be careful not to make it my identity and, perhaps, even a crutch.

Why is it so hard? In a word—loss. What was is no more. By its very nature and existence, being old brings with it loss and decline, on almost every single level. Naps are becoming a necessity, not a luxury. The body, with all of its members and parts, moving and otherwise, exudes a sense of unpredictability. Signs and symptoms of my age and mortality pop up at random moments. A look in the mirror reveals the undeniable fact of gravity; a “walk through the park” has become a “slow and steady undertaking” in order to avoid a fall; exercise now centers around balance instead of muscle tone, which is non-existent. In addition, the word “strained” has shown up in my vocabulary, and I’m referring to my eyes, not a muscle. After an eye exam recently, the ophthalmologist informed me, “You aren’t ready for cataract surgery—yet.” However, my vision is changing, and I’m unsure how to address it. Is the demise of my hearing lurking around the next corner?

Just like my Ford Ranger pickup of the long ago, with 260,000 miles on its odometer, it’s a matter of not only what–but when—a breakdown will take place. A young person doesn’t carry that same awareness, one that has become a part of me, the one I unwittingly picked up along the way.

Then, as if the physical body in decline isn’t enough, the mind takes center stage—Am I forgetting more than I used to? Why couldn’t I remember that simple word? While talking to my brother, the term “medical group” escaped me—as he stood, waiting for it to appear. It never did.

Good health has come along with me thus far. I’ve not had to deal with any known maladies. However, all of the shifts and changes have brought about an uncertainty, a reluctance to step forth into the unknown. I carry it on my shoulder like a bird perched on a wire.

I have no compulsion to try to extend my life—God holds that measure in His hands.

So, how do I deal with this irreversible state and its final destination? I have turned to God. He has promised to walk with me to the end. In my eighty-one years, He has never failed me. It is in my hands to trust Him.

A possibility exists, though it feels like a slim one at this point, that I might wear my age as a mantle of glory instead of viewing it as a curse. Now, that would be a miracle!