I have a relatively small working vocabulary, and this is probably the first time in my seventy years that I’ve used the word “penultimate.” Google helped me spell it. But I couldn’t think of a better way to describe what’s occasionally been on my mind lately as I’ve contemplated my remaining years and pondered not death, but the preceding chapter, wondering what “old age” will be like, and when it will arrive—knowing that it could gradually sneak up or come suddenly. And I wonder, too, whether I’m just a neurotic outlier, or if others passing through this twilight stage of life are also pondering what will become of us in the not-to-distant future.
There was a parade at my fifth Tufts college reunion in 1979 that has forever stuck in my mind. My graduating class of 1974 was lined up at the back of the procession, preceded by each class celebrating a multiple of its fifth graduation—each class holding aloft a flag displaying its class year. My friends and I were busy partying some distance away, wanting no part of the corny parade. But I watched briefly as the marchers trudged along a path at the top of the hill alongside Goddard Chapel. For the most part, there was nothing remarkable about the procession. From my vantage point, there were no striking differences as I scanned from the youngest troop at the rear to each of the next eldest classes—until, that is, my eyes passed from the class of 1929 to the class of 1924 at the front of the parade, celebrating its 50th reunion. I was stunned to see that in the space of five years these alums had seemingly fallen off a cliff and become a bunch of old people, many hunched over and traipsing slowly.
Our own 50th Tufts reunion is a mere eighteen months away. Although I certainly don’t love what I see when I look in a mirror, I don’t see an old man. But I wonder whether I’m just deluding myself: Do the young lawyers I work with, and other millennials and Gen Z’s I come across, see what I saw when I gazed upon the class of 1924 in 1979?
In important respects, I know that many of the surviving members of our class of 1974 are healthier than our 1924 counterparts. They didn’t have the same gyms, yoga and Pilates classes our generation frequents; most of them didn’t have the healthy diets that so many today do; and they certainly didn’t have Fitbits and Apple watches to monitor their exercise and sleep patterns. Not to mention the remarkable developments in medicine.
In that respect I’ve been especially lucky. Having survived cancer, open heart surgery, and several spinal surgeries, I’m playing tennis, biking in Central Park, dragging myself to the gym a few days a week, rowing at a snail’s pace on a Maine lake in the summer, walking a few miles a day, and taking jazz piano lessons. Although I constantly bitch to my wife that my younger counterparts cruise by me pedaling up the hills in the park or bounding up subway stairs, making everything I struggle to do look easy, I am living a rich, active life. I know well from experience, however, that that life can be turned on its head without warning. As I’ve watched friends have fluke falls that become debilitating or, in one case, fatal, while others lose their memory, I sometimes feel a little fragile these days. Like I’m just one slip away from falling off a cliff into the class of 1924 from which full recovery could be uncertain—especially because what was once my unusually good sense of balance is now anything but. Long past my days playing shortstop or full court basketball, my athleticism is now too often employed to avert disaster. And none of us can know when senility will rear its scary head.
So I wonder when my “old age” will arrive, what it—I—will look and feel like, and whether it has already begun. As I walk along the city streets I occasionally look at my reflection in store windows to check my posture—to see if I look at all hunched over like the old men in the Tufts parade. I make a special effort to straighten up, walk more briskly—and look “vital.” When a young man or women effortlessly walks by me I occasionally try to match their pace for a bit before deciding it’s pointless.
One reason I ponder old age with more than a little trepidation is because having watched older people—including my mother before she passed—I’ve seen that for many, old age is no fun. Physical woes mount, they lose a sense of purpose and an ability to do what they want, enjoy what they’ve loved, and go where they want. There are, of course, exceptions. A friend’s mother at 100 enjoying concerts and doing cross word puzzles; the former head of my law firm still sharp at 96. But so many seem miserable.
I try to envision what old age will hold for our currently healthier, active generation as we traverse our eighth decade. Will we sunset happily and ward-off the disintegration and unhappiness that so many coming before us have suffered? We’re certainly giving it our best shot: trying to stay in some semblance of physical shape and looking for ways to stay relevant, engaged, and mentally sharp, whether by continuing to work, volunteering, taking classes or music lessons, doing projects, or just getting out and having fun. Individual members of my class of 1974 will certainly experience their penultimate chapters differently depending on their personalities, health, relationships, and other individual circumstances. But on the whole, I like to think there’s hope that we can dodge the bullet of old age at least for a while. What has me contemplating my penultimate chapter is the unknown–the uncertainty of what is to come, and when.
I suppose you could say I’m having a “twilight crisis.” But, in truth, my navel-gazing exercise is hardly a crisis. Nine years ago I was emerging from the Dana Farber Cancer Institute with a significant chance of dying within one year of the bone marrow transplant I’d had in September 2013. With no assurance that I’d live 10 years, much less lead the active life I’ve been lucky to have since then, the last thing I would have dreamed of was being 70 and perseverating about what a penultimate chapter would look like 10 years hence. Like so many survivors, a lesson I learned from my medical experience was to appreciate life and make the most of every day. But as the distance since my transplant has grown, on too many days I lose sight of that lesson. If I’m smart, I’ll let the uncertainty regarding when my full-blown dotage will arrive serve as a reminder, a wake-up call to get over the fact that I’m slowing down, and make the most out of every relatively compos mentis day. We’ll see how that goes and, in the meantime, I suspect I’ll continue to contemplate my penultimate chapter every now and then.
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I think we all feel the same way Richard, I will be 70 in January and wonder how did this happen so fast. As always I enjoyed your writing . Thank you for taking the time to share.
Been thinking about this a lot lately. We lost a bunch of friends this past year, two of our closest just last week. We were with friends as they were dying. While it can be a very calm, inspiring transition, some of them were suffering and we just prayed they’d go (as much as we’d miss them). It’s been incredibly sobering, a pretty constant reminder to live each day as it’s your last and someday you’ll be right. Thanks for sharing your thoughts, glad you’re still with us!
You hit the nail on the head. I look at old people and wonder if we’re the same age or if they’re really older than me. In my head I’m 41 years old. That’s how my mind’s eye looks out on the world, not bad of a 72-year-old. There’s a scene in The Thorn Birds where Barbara stamex character is telling Richard Chamberlain’s character, who’s a priest, that inside the shell of a an old woman is the vibrant mind soul and heart of a 25-year-old. That is how we all feel.
I often think, at age 63, that FDR was 63 when he died, If you look at pictures of him in 1945, he looked like he was 90! So I agree that our lifestyles reflect both a physical and mental energy which is very materially different from 1974. And you also might be right that we are kidding ourselves about how youthful we are — perhaps that is exactly the same feelings 63 year-olds had in 1974. And I used to think it was weird that 60-year olds in the 1970s were still listening to big band music from the 30s. But of course I still listen to Clash albums that came out in the late 70s. They still sound fresh to me!
Thanks for synthesizing these feelings for us.
Old age is when you have to buy an Apple Watch to monitor your falls and check if your heart is still beating!!!
Thanks Leslie—At least by that measure I haven’t yet hit the old age mark.
Dance A Little
There is so much I want to say Richard, my ‘ old friend’ so I will try to get to a view about aging somewhat different than yours, that has been expressed so eloquently in your writing.
‘Old age’ yes it’s frightening but without pontificating on a point well known by most, it’s a lot about attitude & outlook.
Aging is more about living than dying. Having worked in the field of gerontology for more than 30 years…I have seen a lot of aging & learned a lot about living simultaneously.
This is what I saw. The people who I came to cherish the most and remember best were the most vibrant among them. The singers, the volunteers and most especially the dancers who took me around the floor while in their 80s with a waltz or a polka had smiles on from ear to ear. I could feel the strength of their bodies, arms and sheer will to keep on dancing…keep on trucking, keep on keeping on.
This always lit me up. Ignited a spark in my life, I did not experience this ‘spark’ only from the lively group, I also felt it from those who were not so well. Those who were wheel chair bound, or confined to their rooms with whom I shared conversations, most frequently did not focus inward, but outward.
I always thought that my happiest years would be my later years. My intentions and my circumstances allow me to think that my 70s will be filled with travel. That is certainly my intention. I intend to live the best years ahead.
Up till now, it’s been very hard. Different than the serious health struggles you endured, I have had a life filled with a daily struggle, suffering and stress. But I endured, I prevailed and I am stronger for all of it.
Now is ‘me time’. Spirituality has played an important part in my rising to the occasion of later life in this ice…an amazing daily light for the fires of the day. Additionally, a return to Judiasm that keeps me connected to my heritage, my rock and roots. It is for me a remembrance of my parents…who are now both lost to me, such as yours.
Now returning to my original point…Aging is about living more, not less. American culture constantly reminds us about our aging minds, aging skin, aging bones…and how we can purchase the remedy to most of it. For me aging requires no remedy. It isn’t really a cause for concern. I don’t concern myself with how my later years will look. I do ofcourse notice changes but I don’t fret about it.
I just try ro live happy.
If I live happy, notice nature, offer kindness, cherish my beloved partner Vera ( my doggie)and stay engaged, listen well, worry less and live with awareness my later years will be full of all of that.
The crux of the matter Richard, dear Richard my “old friend’ is it’s okay to sit. You don’t have to be self critical if you are not running or walking as fast as the younger idiots with their phones in front of their eyes… and don’t even look up when they are walking.
Look up. Look ahead. Live well, What ever will come will arrive in due time. Sit down, take a load off. You’ve earned a seat at your own table. Take a walk…slow or fast it’s all good
Keep your mind with your breath and away from mental stress.
We are all lucky enough to live long so let’s be hopeful for the promise of tomorrow and enjoy our every day.With some good fortune, fortitude and mental fitness, we will find the daily spark inside ourselves. To continue the journey, awaken to the possibility of adventure. If we can dance a little, look forward…and keep that spark going we can find beauty, gratitude, grace & love in all our tomorrows.
Great blog, Richie. Thank you.
Some thoughts. One, I choose to describe us as “pre elderly.” Two, when people ask how I am, I often reply, “Still upright!” Three, a major part of exercise for me is hoping to remain vital into the ninth decade. Four, we are no longer young, and I, for the first time, take note of athletes/personalities who pass in their 70s. Five, definitely I feel a tension between enjoying our golden years, and also wondering how I can contribute more to positive change or societal well being. Feel free to tell me it is OK to fully embrace the hedonistic styles of our youth.
For now, our pre elderly group is doing well, and I am hoping for a fully active eighth decade. Ninth might be a bit more challenging.
Best in staying healthy!
Not surprisingly, you have a terrific, positive approach to our 8th inning Bruce. I predict extras for you.
Thanks Rich for sharing this. I choose to focus on being grateful for the good health I am enjoying and investing energy in staying active. I know Rich that you do the same and are a great example to all of us.
Thank you Rich for a wonderful post.
I do the best I can and hope for the best.
I try to constantly learn new things including studying Buddhist philosophy and psychology.
Let’s keep keeping on.
Ritchie, you describe so well the slow realization of how we personally are, finally, aging. Even though we all kid each other about it, it’s existentially serious stuff. As you say, we all must confront the uncertainty – of our physical and mental health (our own and our dear partner’s) and how it can fail us at any moment despite our best efforts – as you know better than anybody. My response to this uncertainty is a nearly frantic effort to keep producing, participating, living fully – while I still can. Maybe that’s crazy, but I don’t want to look back later and think: why didn’t I do more while I still could? But maybe that’s nuts and I am squandering the freedom of these later years. Maybe as we become old, we should be hedonistic and do only what we want. Or maybe, as in most aspects of life,probably a little of both is best.