Old Age is a Privilege Denied to Most
One of the sins of youth is to act as if we were the first ones to truly experience something. I can remember the first time I’d truly, madly, deeply fallen in love and knew with every fiber of my being that I was the first person in history to ever feel like this. If not the first, then certainly not something that my parents had ever known, or their parents. Then I came across a photo in one of my grandmother’s albums that shook my reality. What was this dark family secret brought out into the light? Nothing much, just a group of good-looking, fit, young people in bathing suits at the beach. The men had formed one of those human pyramids — standing, not the easy crouch — and you could almost smell the sea air and youthful exuberance full of pride and promise.
My grandparents were in the picture, which was taken right around 1922. I have a similar picture of my own taken 65 years later, which my own boys may discover at some date in the future. For the first time I could imagine my long-passed grandparents as people with lives of their own.
I remember the birth of our first son — the joy, relief, and utter terror at being responsible for raising a young person. There are few experiences more shared, but just feel so unique.
My mother has been gone almost 4 years and my dad is 86 — it’s not an exclusive club. I do have a younger brother, but oftentimes it feels like I’m the charter member as I watch my father age, living alone with a long-haired white cat. (Never in a million years would have seen him alone with a cat by choice)
I liked being 12. My dad could do anything and he was going to live forever.
Nothing broken was ever thrown away. He would spend an entire weekend fixing a 50 cent part on a $5 toaster. It was the only one they ever owned — two houses and more than 50 years later it only disappeared when he finally moved into a retirement community two years ago.
It goes without saying that he never paid anyone to work on his cars. Those times in the garage were special ones and gave me the courage to try unfamiliar, potentially expensive things (if they went wrong), not just to save a buck I didn’t have, but also to understand the satisfaction of doing something with my own hands.
The garage was also the first time I realized he was mortal. I was 17 and wrestling with a bolt from some part of my car and it wouldn’t budge. As a child, I took comfort in the fact that my dad was always strong enough to accomplish any task. He came over, gave it a tug, then put everything he had into it. No luck. He looked at me and shrugged.
“I’m not strong enough”
I felt the earth shift a bit under my feet as realization flooded over me that if that damn bolt was coming off — I was the only one who could do it. A moment that felt so profound and unique, that shaped a part of my life, and yet so common.
Like watching a father get old.
No longer capable of making good decisions.
No longer able to follow a discussion of current events.
No longer able to just go for a walk longer than 5 minutes.
Trying desperately to understand his 2 teenage grandsons and the world they inhabit, but failing to make the connections.
Trying desperately to make peace with his own youth by reinterpreting pivotal moments almost 70 years in the past, without concern for how they might affect others.
Due to multiple surgeries and the passing of my mother, we’ve spent more time together in the last 4 years than the previous 30. I’m trying to reconnect with a man I may have never known, while reconciling with the man he is today. He must have gone through this with his own father 35 years ago, right?
And yet, I’m beyond grateful for the time we have, uncertain though it may be. His story is still being written, where most have already ended with far fewer pages. I will celebrate this last chapter and endeavor to make it meaningful. I will see his tale come to an end someday, much sooner rather than later, as I hope my boys will one day experience with mine.
I count it as a privilege
