What? Say that again!

I just completed a milestone in the aging saga. I got hearing aids.

And I’m surprised. For some reason I didn’t think this would happen to me. In fact, I was proud of the fact that I didn’t need them. But I was beginning to notice how often I was saying, “What?” And not just to Hal, who is soft-spoken anyway. But in any conversation of more than three people. In meetings where people did not want to use a mic. Especially in the dinning room. It was getting embarrassing.

The whole problem crept up on me gradually. I finally had to admit I needed help. And now here I am. One of them.

“What?” is a word we hear a lot around here. It gets funny. In fact there are a lot of deaf-old-people jokes out there in the world.

Two friends:
#1: Maybe you should think about getting a hearing test.
#2: Why would I want a hairy chest?

What do you call an old man who has his hearing aids turned off?
Anything you want.

Sorry. Those are truly moan-worthy.

I guess there’s a lot to laugh about. Except when it happens to you and then it’s not so funny anymore. Hal began to lose his hearing years ago and his attempts to adapt to hearing aids haven’t worked. He has skin allergies that make the aids painful. It’s hard to participate in conversations, other than one-on-one. Lectures, sermons, announcements, even with a mic, are blurred. We only watch movies with subtitles.

It especially bothers him as a musician. Hal plays the French horn in the community band. In practices he can’t hear the conductor’s directions and has to depend on the person sitting next to him. Fortunately, that person is kind and understanding. And of course, as the hearing loss progresses—well, you can guess what that does to a musician.

It’s not only hard on the person. It’s hard on the other people in his or her life. I’m sympathetic and usually kind, but there are times I just get downright irritated. Hal gets tired of asking me to repeat and I get irritated at having to do it. And that’s not fair to him. I end up feeling guilty. If we’re both tired, we often just give in and don’t talk at all. (Fortunately, that never lasts long.)

From conversations with others, I know that we’re not alone in facing these challenges. One in every three adults between the ages of 61 and 70 has hearing loss. Above 85, the number rises to 80% (American Academy of Family Physicians). In addition, studies show a relationship between hearing loss and depression. Deafness or partial deafness are also said to play a role in dementia. Hearing aids help reduce the risks of these conditions.

So, here I am. It’s not been a week yet and I’m still adapting. I’ve still very aware that these things are in my ears. Fortunately the models these days are discrete and so far no one can tell I’m wearing them (except when I can’t keep it back and say, “Guess what?........”). I’m still a bit uneasy. I’m not sure I’m putting them in correctly or if they’re far enough into the ear. Am I cleaning them well enough? My follow-up visit is in two weeks. My list of questions is growing.

I have no doubt that I’m hearing better. Sitting around the table in Sunday school, I could hear the people across from me without cupping my ear and leaning forward. I can hear my soft-spoken husband (even if he can’t hear me).

And I can hear a lot more than that. I never realized what a noisy world we live in. Just in our apartment, everything is loud—the clock on the wall, paper crinkling, the door closing, our loud-mouthed refrigerator that hums the same tune over and over. The sound the toothbrush makes scrapping my teeth.

And me! I can hear myself talking; it’s like being in an echo chamber, and it doesn’t sound like me. Or what I thought I sounded like. A little tinnier. In fact, everything seems tinny, like people are speaking through tin cans connected by wires. I’m told this will moderate in time, that I’ll learn how to adjust the sounds and volume. I hope so.

Overall, I’m pleased. I know I’ll grow used to my hearing aids, begin to forget they’re in there, and just hear people talking, birds singing in the distance, the creek bubbling over rocks, and all that other good stuff. 

I’ll probably still get angry at jokes about old people saying “What?” all the time. Compassion is called for and understanding. 

But you can smile. 

For as long as I live--I will sing

Memory plays strange tricks on us as we age. Not only are the edges of the past blurred, our priorities get mixed. Take music, for example. Songs. What songs do we remember from the past? What has slipped away?

I remember the silly songs from childhood—Old MacDonald and his farm, the alphabet song, “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” of course, and the irritating “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” It helps memory that we taught these songs to our kids (except for the beer song).

But I also remember some totally inane rock-n-roll songs from early adolescence. I can sing all the verses of “Splish, Splash, I was takin’ a bath,” “Wake up, little Susy, wake up,” “The Purple-People Eater,” and of course the incomparable Elvis—“Jailhouse Rock” and “You Ain’t Nothin’ but a Hound Dog, yapping all the time.” These songs often come back to me at inappropriate times, like when I’m taking a prayer walk or sitting in church. What does that say about me?

I wrote in a December blog about this past Christmas season when Hal played his harmonica, joining two ukulele players, preforming in the memory care unit of our retirement community. When the trio broke into “Here Comes Santa Claus,” “Frosty the Snowman,” and “Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” the residents began tapping their feet, grinning, and singing along, memory loss and all.

This community recognizes the value of music to the elderly and offers all kinds of opportunities. A music committee oversees activities such as a mixed choir that gave a marvelous Christmas concert and is already planning for Easter. Music plays an important part of the on-campus worship services—chiefly Sunday morning worship and Wednesday evening prayer meetings. Informal hymn sing-alongs and piano concerts regularly take place in the lobby. From time to time, guest musicians give special presentations. There’s lots of music going on around here.

Hal and I have our tickets for the Portland Symphony concert next door in the university auditorium. Every year this famous orchestra gives a concert in Newberg, offering 35 tickets to our retirement community (first-come-first-served). I made sure to get ours early. This year it will be a pops concert featuring the music of Gershwin. Can’t wait!

Our wider local community also offers opportunities. Hal plays his French horn in the Cheleham Valley Community Band. Its membership includes all ages, from high school on up to the elderly. Its intergenerational nature makes it more fun. Hal struggles with wondering whether or not it’s time to give it up. He says he’s not as good as he used to be when younger; plus the once a week night rehearsals and the need to practice every night (a goal not always met) challenge his stamina. I’m telling him, “Not yet, please.” That time will come soon enough.

Unlike Hal, I don’t have the musical gene. My voice range is one octave that squeaks at the top. As far as instruments go, consistently keeping the right rhythm is more than I can manage. And yet I love the idea of playing an instrument. I’ve strummed the guitar since high school days, never reaching any level of proficiency. But I’m not giving up. Last year I purchased a Great Courses series called, “How To Play the Guitar.” It promises that if I persist through all 24 lessons, I will “master” all that is taught in one college semester.

Sounds good. I’m finding it a lot of fun and especially feel good about finally learning how to read music. But this will take more than a semester. I’m slowly working my way through the DVD and Hal tells me I’m sounding better. But a sneak-peak at the advanced lessons gives me grave doubt. I might stop while I’m still having fun. At any rate, it’s stimulating my aging brain, or so the experts tell me.

It’s without doubt that music ministers to the elderly in ways we can’t always understand. Hal and I used to visit my dear friend Harriet before she died at 104-years-old. She loved it when Hal brought his harmonica and played old hymns. Some times she sang along. When it came time for us to leave, she would always say, “No! Play more songs!” Usually we stayed a while longer.

Hal’s parents spent their last months of life in a care home. Both were suffering from dementia. Conversation was difficult as both memory and logical thought processes had decayed. Yet when we sang together, all the words of the old hymns were there, accessible, and they sang with joy. All the verses.

Hal’s mom had been an accomplished pianist; most of her skill had left her, but she could still play simple tunes in the key of C. But when Hal sat with her at the old piano in the care home, he would play his harmonica and she would follow along on the keyboard, her fingers remembering more than she thought she knew. A big smile would light up her face.

On the last few days before her death, family members would gather around the bed, talking in low voices, praying, and singing. Mom remained unconscious. On the day before her death, while we were singing, I happened to look at her feet, and they were moving back and forth, keeping perfect time to the music. She was responding on a deep inner level.

I love it when the psalmist proclaims: “I will sing to the Lord all my life; I will sing praise to my God as long as I live” (Psalm104:33). That sounds like a healthy intention—mentally, emotionally, even physically. Music makes a different. It’s a life-giving component of the aging process.

I intend to go on singing, maybe accompanying myself on the guitar, for as long as I am able. I may even enter into heaven singing.

It probably won’t be “Jailhouse Rock.”

 

 

[For those of you who responded to last week’s blog about the branches falling on my daughter’s house, here’s an update. While the damage is extensive, the structure is sound and insurance will cover the repairs. These will be extensive—replacing the roof and several walls, as well as the deck. They are staying with friends now, divided among three households, looking far a temporary rental where they can be together. The story continues, but the family’s spirits are good.]

Always a mom

 Life seems to be a series of stages, one after another, characterized by changing relationships. One pattern, the one I’m most familiar with, starts out with a single baby in intimate dependence on its mother, a gradual growth out of dependency, followed by blessed independence (!), and then marriage (an interdependence at best), motherhood (reversed dependence), up through the empty nest and a new freedom as persons in our own right. Then we end up again dependent on others for the slow journey to the end of life.

Only that’s a little too neat and orderly. My own life seems more mixed and messy, without a clear transition from one stage to the next.

Take motherhood, for example. Now that my kids are grown and with grown children of their own (and soon to be grandparents, amazingly enough), my raising/nurturing/disciplining tasks should be long over. And, indeed, they are, thank God. But it doesn’t always feel that way. While no one calls me “Mommy” any more (again, thank God), I still sometimes feel a keen sense of responsibility and a need to protect. I still have a compulsion to stand between my daughter or son and any real or imagined monster that would threaten them. I want to exchange my safety for their peril. My health for their illness.

I sometimes still wake up in the night with a nightmare of some threat to their well-being. I find it harder to pray with faith when one of them faces danger than I do to pray with faith for peace in Ukraine. And that’s ridiculous!

Today, in mid-January, the houses, trees and hills outside my window are covered in white. The first snow of the season always amazes me with its beauty. But beauty isn’t the first word people use to describe the snow this year. It’s slippery and dangerous outside. And more so in the mountains where my daughter and her family live.

On Saturday it wasn’t snow; it was freezing rain that fell all day and stuck to the trees surrounding their house on the McKenzie River Road. Electricity went off in the morning and a downed tree blocked their long driveway up the hill. That night as the temperature dipped and the winds blew, Kristin, her husband Jon, and their son Peter huddled all night in the living room, listening to the sound of tree branches cracking and falling.

By morning, branches had broken through the ceilings in a bathroom, the hall, and their dining room. The front porch and back deck were damaged and the yard a tangle of fallen trees and branches. The largest tree on their property, a giant Douglas fir, had completely toppled.

They were blocked in most of Sunday by the downed tree. Some friends met them at the bottom of their driveway and took them home for showers and a hot meal. Jon and Kristin elected to go back to their house to spend last night, partly for the sake of their animals (two large dogs, three cats, and a tortoise), and partly to take care of their house and keep the water system working. Hal and I were awake, off and on, all night praying and worrying (which did a lot of good, I’m sure).

This morning they informed us they had made it through the night with no adventures. Even the cats came out of hiding and slept on top of Kristin. Today it’s still a world of ice outside and extremely cold, although sunny. Electricity is still off. The danger has not passed. Quite a few trees around the property could still fall, and tomorrow the forecast predicts more freezing rain.

The tree company just informed them that the cost of removing the trees that have already fallen on their roof and property comes to $13,000. They were planning on staying another night but Kristin just texted, “We are really needing to consider getting out of here as we were told by the tree company that it may get worse. It’s just so complicated with the animals. Jon may be realizing the trailer, boat, water system, and house just may not be worth keeping.”

Even if nothing else happens to the house, it will take several months at least to repair the damage. They’ll have to work out the details with their insurance company and find a place to rent in the meantime.

So why am I going into all this detail? It’s because it feels like it’s happening to me. If it’s happening to one of my kids, it’s happening to me. I don’t know if every “old” mother feels like this, but I suspect many of you do. I don’t even know if I should feel like this. Maybe it’s a sign that I haven’t matured enough to pass on to the next life stage. But I need to recognize that this is where I am so that I can face it.

Once a mother, always a mother, I guess. At least in the sense of deep empathy and a sharing in bearing the emotional burden. Maybe that’s not so bad.

Meanwhile, tomorrow is another day, with its own dangers, blessings, and answers to prayer.

(I’ll let you know how this story plays out in a future installation.)

The Marketing of Old Age

 I’ve been reading a provocative book called Never Say Die: The Myth and Marketing of the New Old Age by Susan Jacoby (2011). Jacoby calls attention to an anti-aging media blitz that has been going on since the 1990s, a marketing of longevity that gives the idea that with good nutrition, exercise, etc., we can control how we age. Successful aging describes someone who has no complaints, no experience of prolonged grief, no need for nostalgia, and no loneliness, depression or fear of dependency. The author calls this the “new old age” and critiques what she calls “the cult of longevity” for its lack of realism and refusal to face eventual diminishment and death.

Jacoby identifies several cultural “myths” that make up the “cult of longevity”: 1) the claims of the health industry that the old can live “forever” if they live right and think positively; 2) the implications of the biomedical business that they are rapidly approaching a cure for old age; 3) the nostalgic idea that in the past Americans honored the elderly; and 4) the idea that older is necessarily wiser. The author spends most of the book busting these myths.

I recognize much of what Jacoby is talking about as I see TV advertisements featuring the elderly (and directing their marketing to this sizeable public). The people in the ads represent the “new old,” people in their 60s, 70s, and into their mid-80s. They are beautiful, well-groomed and clothed, going on cruises, playing catch with their grandkids (also beautiful), and behaving romantically with their beautiful elderly consorts. I remember one ad several years ago—for impotence, I think—that ended with an older couple seated in matching bathtubs placed in a meadow, with romantic music matching the glorious sunset. I wondered what those tubs were doing out in the field and how they managed to fill them with water. Bucket by bucket?

Here’s how Jacoby describes the actual state of the elderly as they transition out of the “young old” stage:

“Maintaining a sense of dignity and a sense of purpose in the final stages of life is, however, much more complicated than simply picking the right place to live and hoping for good health—or good enough health—to be of use in society. For too many Americans like my grandmother, old age—especially advanced old age—means a sharp and unwanted transition from a sense of themselves as people valued by family and community to a diminished sense of themselves as burdens who serve no purpose. It is a shift from active to passive, from being a caretaker to being a care recipient, from independence to dependence, and it is experienced as a personal loss at the deepest internal level, regardless of outer circumstances.”

Jacoby claims that the “cult of longevity” is dangerous because it interferes with the reality that as the old keep growing older, the difficulties increase. The two real problems of old age in the United States are health, which will inevitably worsen over time, and economics—all but the richest will grow poorer as they grow older. A rosy view of aging interferes with the need to “deal pragmatically with…the issues.” She critiques the Christian hope of heaven as interference with reality. Jacoby self-identifies as a “serious atheist.”

I think this is an important book and I learned a lot about contemporary American attitudes toward aging. Much of her critique is spot-on. And yet….

When we moved into this retirement community, someone gave us a copy of the book, The Gift of Years: Growing Older Gracefully by Joan Chittister (2008). Susan Jacoby would probably class Sister Chittister among the unrealistic who claim that old age is “the last of life for which the first was made” (to quote Robert Browning). It certainly gives a positive take on the purpose and satisfaction one can find in the final stages of life. While I find good information and thought-provoking ideas in Never Say Die, I discover wisdom in The Gift of Years.

So, I ask—Is it possible to approach the retirement years with a sense of optimism, determined to seek appropriate adventures, learn new things, cultivate relationships, experiment with our creativity, and affirm life while, at the same time, facing the challenges old age inevitably brings? Can we bravely admit that each year the adventures will grow fewer, our minds work more slowly, loved ones die, and body parts begin to fail? Can we say the word, death?

Yes, I think so. The verse I’ve placed at the top of my blog site is from Psalm 92: “Those who follow God will flourish like a palm tree; they will grow like a cedar of Lebanon…. They will still bear fruit in old age; they will stay fresh and green.” It takes faith to affirm this, and that’s what I choose to do. Our belief that this life is not the final word makes a huge difference in how we face any hardships that come. Advanced old age will not be easy, but palm trees and cedars flourish in harsh climates.

I chose not to identify with the beautiful “new old” whose image is being sold to us, along with the products that claim to make it possible. I have no immediate plans to talk Hal into joining me in matching bathtubs out in some farmer’s field. Even so, I can still accept this time of life as a gift from God, to be both stewarded and enjoyed. And I can face the future with courage, knowing nothing can separate me from the love of God

I’d love to read a critique of American cultural views of aging written from the standpoint of faith. Maybe there is such a book out there somewhere. Let me know.

Favorite books of 2023

It’s New Year’s Day as I write this. Although it’s really just an ordinary day, following yesterday in a continuous line of 24-hour periods of time, it always feels special to me, as though new beginnings and better behaviors are ahead of me.

If I were making a list of New Year’s Resolutions, which I’m not, I would put this one on the list: to read lots of good books in 2024. But I don’t need a resolution because I already know I’ll follow through. If 2023 is any indication, 2024 will be a good reading year.

My annual list of favorites follows. It doesn’t cover all the books read in 2023, just the ones I’d recommend above others. A good number of these are the ones chosen by my book club whose meetings I look forward to every month. We always read good books which we choose ourselves once a year through a hilarious process of recommendations and decision-by-consensus. Having a good book club helps in making good choices. Plus, it’s tremendous fun.

With apologies for the length of the list, here it is:

Fiction

Colleen Oakley, The Invisible Husband of Frick Island (2021): Unusual and creative plot that kept me guessing until the end. It’s the story of a young widow who pretends her husband is still alive and the islanders who go along with it. 

Louise Penny, A World of Curiosities (2022): I always look for the latest Penny mystery. This one is about a notorious serial-killer, loose from prison and on a quest to kill Inspector Gamache. Gamache figures it out before we do, of course, and barely escapes with his life.

Abi Dare, The Girl with the Louding Voice (2020): The author is Nigerian and writes of a 14-year-old girl from a rural town who runs away to escape an arranged marriage and ends up in Lagos. The story is written from the perspective of the girl who speaks Nigerian English, and her language is one of the best features of the book. A powerful story of women in Africa and the importance of education. Loved this book. 

Louise Erdrich, The Night Watchman (2020): Pulitzer prize winner. I love anything by Erdrich, a Native American writer. This story is based on Erdrich’s grandfather and the work he did against the Congressional resolution to abrogate treaties made with American Indians. Insightful on both NA history and intercultural relations. Powerful.

Anne Tyler, Noah’s Compass (2009): Tyler is another favorite author. This novel deals with an old man who is “downsized” from his teaching job, forced into an unwilling retirement, and has a strange romance with a quirky young woman, throwing his daughters into a chaos of emotions, mostly frustration and anger. Insightful on the struggles of aging and hopeful at the same time.

Charles Williams, Descent into Hell (1937): This was a re-reading of my favorite of Williams’ theological thrillers. The story of people so ego-obsessed they find themselves damned. But also a story of conversion and substitutionary love whereby one person literally bears the burden of another. This was transformative for me the first time I read it and continues to influence my thinking and my ministry.

Marie Benedict, The Only Woman in the Room (2019): Revealing and surprising novel based on the life of iconic actress Heddy Lamar. I had no idea (nor did her contemporaries) she was such a brilliant scientist and so influential behind the scenes of World War 2. 

 

Luis Alberto Urrea, The Hummingbird’s Daughter (2005): This is definitely one of the best books I read during the year. It’s based on the true story of a young Mexican woman, Teresita Urrea, who had unusual mystical gifts of healing and became a living saint and an inspiration to indigenous peoples during the Mexican revolution of the early 1900s. Urrea writes beautifully and this book is riveting.

Jodi Picoult and Jennifer Finney Boylan, Mad Honey (2022): About the murder of a young man and told alternately by his mother and his girl-friend who is accused of the murder. It addresses difficult themes: spouse abuse, child abuse, and, especially, the struggles of transgender people. Presents a compassionate view.

Shelby Van Pelt, Remarkably Bright Creatures (2022): Loved it! About the relationship between an octopus (in an aquarium) and the cleaning lady who admires him. The octopus is intelligent (“remarkably bright”), good at solving conundrums and at escaping his tank every night to forage for better food, etc. It’s a story of friendship, loyalty, and self-giving love. A modern fairy-tale actually.  

Ann Patchett, The Patron Saint of Liars (1992): Story of a disgruntled young wife who finds herself pregnant and escapes to a rural Catholic home in Kentucky for unwed mothers (even though she is married). She plans to give her baby up for adoption but falls in love with her infant daughter and ends up staying long-term in the home. The plot develops as she deals with her past and learns to accept who she is becoming. I like everything Ann Patchett writes.

Ann Garvin, There’s No Coming Back from This (2023): A clever and quirky story of a single mother about to be imprisoned by the IRS for back taxes. She flees across the US to Hollywood and a job in the costume department of Universal Studios. Her unspoken candor and unglamorous ways clash with the movie-making culture and make for fascinating, sometimes hilarious, reading.

Non-Fiction

Hyeonseo Lee, The Girl with Seven Names: Escape from North Korea (2015): Incredible memoir of the author’s life in North Korea and her complicated escape.

Prince Harry, Spare (2023): Fascinating to hear Harry’s side of his controversial decision, made with his wife Meghan, to retire from the duties of royalty and move to North America. Good insider view of the challenges of life among the British royalty.

Emily Pennington, Feral: Losing Myself and Finding My Way in America’s National Parks (2023): Memoir of the author’s cross-country trip in a decked-out van, while she works through a romantic break-up and searches for her identity. All this is against the backdrop of America’s spectacular national parks; the author describes each one, with some of its history. 

 

Daniel Bowman Jr., On the Spectrum: Autism, Faith & the Gifts of Neurodiversity. (2021): Insightful essays by the author who didn’t realize he was autistic until becoming an adult.

Louise Aronson, Elderhood: Refining Aging, Transforming Medicine, Reimagining Life (2019): One of the most important books I read this year. The author is a geriatrician and advocate for change in the way society views aging and treats the elderly. Especially insightful when it comes to the “health industry.”

Eli Saslow, Rising out of Hatred: The Awakening of a Former White Nationalist (2018): Pulitzer Prize winner. Biography of Dereck Black, a man indoctrinated in white nationalism since childhood. Gives a scary picture of the lives, beliefs, and passions of this extreme branch of North American conservatism. Shows Black’s slow process of coming to doubt the tenets of the movement and backing away. Insightful and hopeful. An important book today.

Poetry

Andrea Cohen, Everything (2021): A delight discovery, Cohen majors in short poems that give surprise takes on cultural cliches.

Carl Phillips, My Trade is Mystery (2022): Pulitzer Prize winner in poetry, this book is a collection of essays on poetry. I found it inspiring and insightful. I also bought his prize-winning book of poems, Then the War, but I couldn’t get into it. I guess I need to read it several times and see if it connects with my spirit. Or not.

Ed Higgins, Near Truth Only (2022): I’m delighted with this collection of poems from my good friend, who is also a good poet. His images and insights often surprise me.

I read lots of other poets, mostly collections that I consider keepers, even in this stage of downsizing: ee cummings, Robert Siegel, Theodore Roethke, Luci Shaw, Mary Oliver, and many others.

I’d love to hear about your favorite books in 2023. I’m sure I’d find many to add to my to-read list. Happy reading!