NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #1

The first installment of essays on the mixed blessing of ageing.

Introduction

Change has always been relatively easy for me, which is very fortunate, since I have made more than my share of major changes over the years. In fact change may have been the most consistent element in my life. With one exception, all of them have been of my own volition, and have given me little reason for regrets. But I am now facing a change that may prove to be the most challenging of them all…ageing.

I first began paying attention to this inevitable process as I was approaching my 70^th birthday. Somehow being 70 was so very different from being sixty-anything. As an avid journal writer I began the dutiful task of recording the results of my ruminations, which I have gathered together in this folio I’m calling Notes from the Eighth Decade. Each is presented as an independent narrative in the chronological order in which they were written, so there is occasional repetition.  As might be expected, the deeper I got into the 8^th decade, the more I felt the need to write about it.

SEVEN -O

August, 200ß

It took awhile, but I finally figured it out. This mental funk of the past few months can be trace back to my 69th birthday in May.

There have been several significant birthdays in my life; my 17th which allowed me to apply for a drivers license, a milestone for any teenage boy, and of course my 21st, making it legal for me to drink and make a fool of myself. It would be 44 years until the next milestone arrived, my 65th birthday, accompanied by a Medicare card! My parents had Medicare cards for heaven's sake, and now I was looking at one with MY name on it. This might have caused problems for a lesser man than me, but possessed of a strong heart and mind - well, at least a strong heart - I dealt with it and got on with my life, knowing it would be 5 years before I would be facing another significant milestone. Sixty plus is one thing, but SEVENTY, that’s clearly something else.

Imagine my surprise and dismay when 4 years later, after my 69th birthday, I find myself struggling to deal with the idea that I am less than a year away from being 70 years old. It doesn’t matter that I’m only 69. Sixty-nine doesn’t really exist. It is only there to tell me that in a very short time I WILL BE SEVENTY! At this point I should explain that I am what the psychologist Carl Jung would call an intuitive, meaning I tend to always focus on the future, living ahead of myself; sometimes I feel like I’ve already lived 2 lifetimes. I realize it may be premature to deal with all of this now, but maybe by doing so my 70th birthday will be a breeze. 

I know, getting old is relative and it is mental, not physical. When I look in the mirror, do I see someone who is SEVENTY years old? Of course not. Just because I can’t get up from kneeling without holding on to something doesn’t mean anything. And so I make a little noise when I get up from a chair, it’s just a little ooomph, and that doesn’t count. There are of course a few other problems, which are too delicate to discuss here, but they too are basically all mental, aren’t they?

So, what is my problem with 70? I guess it is the realization that all of the “some days that I have always counted on may no longer be there, and for a Jungian intuitive that can be rather threatening. But that is another story.