Old souls or dead fish?

 I was planning on writing this blog as a reflection on a book I just read, The Making of an Old Soul: Aging as the Fulfillment of Life’s Promise. The book itself sounded promising. As I got into it, I grew enthusiastic and began highlighting many sentences and even paragraphs. “This is good stuff,” I told myself, with my usual intellectual insight.

But before I finished, I was having second thoughts about the book. I was going to write the blog last night, but these pesky second thoughts were battling in my brain, so I decided to postpone the writing and sleep on it. A good night’s sleep often clarifies matters.

But I woke up early this morning with a crazy dream. I believe in the importance of dreams, the dreams you remember. Most of my dreams I forget the moment I wake up. They entice me and I want to hold onto them, but it’s like grabbing a fistful of mist. Nothing stays. But if a dream remains in my mind, I know it’s important. It might be a message from God. Seriously. Sometimes that happens. Mostly, though, my dreams tell me something about myself, something it would be good for me to attend to.

Dream analysis can be tricky and I’m no psychologist. Writing a dream usually helps me make sense of it. And, of course, if I don’t write it down immediately, I’ll forget it by the end of the morning. Even remembered dreams are elusive. They can slip away like a wet fish in the hand.

Speaking of fish, that’s what last night’s dream was about. And since I have not yet reached any conclusion about the old-souls book, I’m going to write my dream here in this blog and let you help me interpret it.

Okay. Here goes.

I was on a road trip with someone (who? the details are already slipping away), and we were parked in a small, run-down town out in nowhere. We got a meal in a local café and then were about to leave when we were apprehended by the law. With no explanations, the sheriff grabbed us and took us to the local jail. I was pleading for mercy. The sheriff impounded my car, put my companion in jail, and said he would go easy on me if I would do him the favor of delivering a load of fish to some restaurant in Los Angeles.

I agreed. The sheriff and his men then loaded a bunch of fish, including a huge tuna, into the back seat of a gold-painted station wagon, gave me the keys, and waved good-bye.

I drove off quickly, wanting to get away from the whole scene. Apparently, I didn’t give a thought to my companion back in the town jail. He just disappears from the dream. I also didn’t give a thought to the fact that these fish had not been packed in ice and placed in a container. They were just lying on the floor and back seat. 

It wasn’t too long before I did give that a thought.

I was driving through the desert. It looked like Death Valley (through which I have actually driven, in real life). As the day progressed and the sun got higher in the sky, I thought about those fish. My nose thought about them. Although the car had air-conditioning, it was so hot outside, the fish were beginning to stink. And it dawned on me just how mean and nasty that sheriff was. This fish delivery thing was merely revenge.

Soon I had to stop the car and do something about the whole mess. I had no idea how far it was to Los Angeles.  I got out. The desert sun beat down with such intensity it gave me a headache. I opened the back door and began tossing fish to the side of the road. It was hard when I got the huge tuna, but with lots of tugging and sweating and panting and cursing the sheriff, I managed to drag the thing out of the car. Only to discover that underneath all the fish lay a corpse.

On that note I woke up.

Can you see why I need help in interpretation?

I don’t think this dream was a message from God.

So, what is it trying to tell me about myself? Why was this dream important enough to be remembered? 

(At this point, you’re probably wishing I had stuck with a reflection on old souls.)

Interpretation begins with observations and questions. Who was my companion and why did he just disappear? Who was the sheriff? It seems obvious that he did not represent the law since justice never entered the dream. And the fish? The gold station-wagon? The desert? Who was the dead man?

Does this have anything to do with growing older?

Or is it something else?

A little while ago Hal came in from his early morning walk and I shared the dream with him. He’s the best dream-interpreter I know. He immediately connected the dream to the current political situation in our country and told me it could be a reflection of my fears. He might be right.

Last night I watched the evening news with Hal. I had previously decided I wouldn’t do that anymore as it can be too upsetting, but something seems to draw me to the TV. Partly it’s because it’s been our routine for years, to watch the evening news together and then discuss the issues. But because of the tension and chaos in our national life, I’d decided to take a break and get my news through other sources. Last night I gave in and joined Hal in front of the TV. It was, of course, upsetting.

Then we went to bed, but I couldn’t get to sleep, which is not surprising. So I got up and went out to the living room to pray. I prayed for our national leaders. I prayed for Congress and the Supreme Court. I prayed for all the people in other countries who are paying the consequences of the abrupt cutting off of aid. I prayed for the thousands of federal workers now without a job. I prayed for my Hispanic friends here in town who live with increased levels of fear and insecurity. I lamented and called out for mercy. Then I went back to bed and slept.

And early this morning—the dream.

Does the dream symbolically reflect reality? Or my perception of reality? It’s undoubtedly a projection of my fears.

And I need to face the fears.

I don’t think I’ll want to eat fish in the near future. That’s a problem since the retirement community serves lots of fish. I usually like it.

Next week’s blog—no fish or corpses. I promise. Old souls.

PS: Please let me know your take on the dream.

A strategy for hope

 I’m writing this on Monday morning, January 20, 2025, and the USA has a new president. I wasn’t going to watch the events on TV, but my curiosity got the better of me and I tuned in for the last part of his speech, a very utopian vision of our future. I heard him make a reference to “manifest destiny” and the planting of the US flag on Mars. 

I know this blog is supposed to be about facing the challenges of aging with humor and courage, but all of a sudden, I’m feeling older than I have in a long time. Maybe it’s because I woke up at 3:00 this morning and couldn’t get back to sleep. Maybe it’s more than that. I got up and prayed. And cried. And then cried out in prayer for God’s mercy to be on us all.

I also know that we (you, me, and whoever else is reading this) have very different perspectives of the current political reality. I don’t want to offend anyone, but my words may make someone not like me anymore. (That statement sounds like my insecure ten-year-old self.) But it’s important that we trust each other enough to express our differences and still affirm our relationships.

Hal and I are taking this day to fast and pray: prayers of lament, prayers for mercy, prayers of protection for our Hispanic friends, and some radical prayers that come against evil in any form. We are also trying to come up with a strategy of hope and affirmation for the coming four years, a list of concrete ways to bring light into the chaos I sense all around me. Here’s the preliminary list:

1. I will limit my watching of the news on TV as it will probably be more upsetting than informative. I will keep up with the news via the most objective online sources I can find, including the analysis of Tangle. But I need to keep away from the sensational stuff.

2. I will not trash-talk about the present administration, although honest conversation can be helpful. I will avoid angry arguments.

3. I will daily join with Hal and others to pray for our country, including the president. These times call for much intercession.

4. I will daily seek evidence that goodness and beauty exist in our world, in our nation, and in much of our government. I will focus on the good and the beautiful when the darkness and chaos threaten to overwhelm.

5. I will seek for kingdom ways to make a difference, even if my contributions be small.

6. I will find some small way to work toward justice and mercy for marginalized and oppressed people.

7. I will keep my faith in the sovereignty of God over history. I will affirm hope.

I will probably modify this list in the coming months—refining it and adding to it as we live into this new reality. I admit I’m frightened. And feeling old.

May God have mercy on us all.

The trauma of fire

 I had intended to write about something else this week, but the fires in Los Angeles have grabbed my heart and I need to reflect. The news today has the combined fires covering an area as big as Washington, DC. That’s huge. More than eight million people are under critical fire risks and around 105,000 people are under mandatory evacuation order, with another 89,000 under evacuation warnings. More than 12,000 structures have been destroyed.

These are the statistics and numbers, but they don’t bear the weight of the trauma people are experiencing.

I grew up in San Diego County and the Santa Ana winds were a yearly part of our experience. I remember being frightened at the sound of the wind, with tree limbs falling near the house. I especially remember the year when the wild fires burned in the hills close to our town. In bed at night, I could actually see the reflection of fire pulsing on the walls. The smell of smoke filled the house, not enough to cause evacuation, but just enough to terrify one nine-year-old girl. The fires always skipped our town, thanks be to God.

During those years, my grandparents and a favorite aunt and uncle lived in Altadena, and I loved spending time in their home. They always made me feel special, especially Grandma. Several other aunts, uncles, and cousins lived in the area; Altadena was a Forsythe family gathering place. The grandparents, aunts and uncles all died years ago, but the memories are strong. I don’t know what area of Altadena they lived in—being a kid, that wasn’t important—but it’s likely that it has been affected by this fire.

Years later, Hal and I attended Fuller Theological Seminary in Pasadena. Many of our friends and professors lived in Altadena, just up the hill from the seminary. Every summer we house-sat for Professor Colin Brown and his wife Olive. Dr. Brown was British and they went home to England for three weeks each summer to be with family. So we got to live in their lovely house, enjoy their pool, and, especially, care for their large rose gardens. In addition to New Testament theology, Dr. Brown was passionate about his roses, and we took our responsibility very seriously, watering according to a precise pattern he had set up and carefully documented for us. It was a pleasure to be so immersed in the beauty of the roses. It has been years since the Browns retired and moved back to England.

Just down the street from the Browns, our friend and colleague in the doctoral program, Stuart Dauermann, lived. Stuart is a Jewish Messianic rabbi. We spent some time in his home and even attended his synagogue one Saturday morning.

And a few blocks over, my doctoral mentor, Dan Shaw, lived with his wife and a houseful of books and mementos from his service as a Wycliffe Bible translator. Family photos covered the walls. Dan and his second wife, Georgia, have since sold their house and moved to a smaller home.

I have warm memories of time spent in Altadena homes.

Stuart and his wife, Naomi, moved to New York City last year. He now serves as rabbi to a Messianic synagogue in that city. Needless to say, news of the fires has devastated him. He found out from a friend that the entire block where they lived was destroyed by the fire. That means the home where they lived for many years, Dr. Brown’s home, and Dr. Shaw’s home. I think of those roses burning.

Recently Stuart wrote the following in Facebook (I’ve asked permission to quote him):

“In July 2023, I went for a walk in Altadena and prayed. I told God that my wife is a California girl and loves her gardening and hiking, and I’m a New York guy and I love New York, and we have three children and a grandson there. I said I don’t even know what to want. I know I can’t afford to live in New York! I told God, “I don’t even know how long I’ll live. But what I do know is my times are in your hands.” Then I told him, “all I can really say is that I want whatever time that remains to be fruitful.” And when I said that, I had a sense of profound confirmation as though I had touched the most foundational of concerns. 

“A short time after that, I got a phone call about this position in New York. Because I thought that God was in that prayer, Naomi and I said yes to moving across country within six weeks. 

“If I had not prayed, and if God had not spoken, and if [several other events had not happened] today Naomi and I would be picking among the embers for the remnants of our shattered lives. 

“It is extremely sobering, and I feel a hushed and chastened awe.”

                                                        Altadena, 2025

I share this because it gives a personal connection to the fires. Of course it’s far worse for the people directly affected, for those who’ve lost their homes and photos and family treasures, not to mention furniture, clothes, and all the other stuff necessary to live a normal life. Their lives have passed beyond normal and will be forever changed.

Which leaves me asking what more I can do besides watch the news, lament, pray, and give to help meet the needs of the new homeless. We live in a dangerous world and I know I can’t take my personal safety for granted, even here in this lovely and protected retirement community.

I take comfort in the heart-felt prayers in the Psalms:

I love the Lord for he heard my voice;
he heard my cry for mercy….
The cords of death entangled me,
the anguish of the grave came upon me;
I was overtaken by trouble and sorrow.
Then I called on the name of the Lord:
“O Lord, save me!”
The Lord is gracious and righteous;
our God is full of compassion.
The Lord protects the simplehearted;
when I was in great need, he saved me.
Be at rest once more, O my soul,
for the Lord has been good to you.
(Psalm 116:1-7) 

While I thank God for his goodness, I ponder how he can use me in responding in this present time of trauma.

On being old and poor in spirit

 Our church is doing a sermon series on the Beatitudes. Several Sunday ago, the sermon on the first Beatitude impacted me. “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 5:3). The preacher, a university religion professor, described the person who is poor in spirit as a humble person, often desperate, who recognizes her need, who knows she is absolutely dependent on God to help her. It’s a person who understands his own smallness as compared to God’s grandeur. I think of people in situations of poverty and homelessness, of refugees and victims of war. I also think of persons suffering depression or mental illness. Maybe at times we all go through experiences that make us poor in spirit.

But it was after the sermon, in our time of silence and open worship, that the impact came home. My friend Jo stood and talked about those of us who are growing older as frequently being poor in spirit, especially as we deal with the fear of loosing competency. This fear is based on one of the realities of the aging process, and the fact that it may be normal doesn’t make it easier for the person experiencing it.

A friend who has been a successful life-long pastor recently shared that preaching and teaching are getting difficult and are now something he doesn’t enjoy so much. It takes much longer to prepare a message and he is now unsure of himself in his delivery. Another friend who was for years the superintendent of his denomination talked about how scattered, forgetful, and unorganized he now feels. Getting stuff done is a challenge he doesn’t feel up to anymore. In both cases, facing the loss of professional (and personal) competency has been hard.

During one period in my life, I worked as faculty secretary in a large seminary. Assigned to four professors, I prepared syllabi, obtained copyright permissions, typed letters, prepared visual aids, ran errands, helped students with their dissertations, and wrote the school newsletter, all at the same time I was beginning my own doctoral degree program. I feel exhausted just remembering, but at the time I thrived. I discovered I was good at multitasking and at getting things done efficiently. I excelled at time management, and managed to contain my job to the eight hours a day I was paid for. (The doctoral work happened in the early mornings and evenings.)

Not anymore. If I try to do two or three things at once, I get confused and end up doing nothing well. I can walk from one room to another and forget on the way what I was intending to do in the next room. I’m learning that it’s OK to focus on one thing at a time. For all the rest, I depend on the lists I make when I’m in my right mind. One big problem is that I often forget to read my list. At the end of the day, I can complain, “Oh no! I missed that meeting!” and then see that it was on the list all along. It seems I’ve lost administrative competency.

Even in prayer. I’ve felt for years that God called me as an intercessor and I used to spend a good amount of time in this endeavor. But any more when I sit down to pray, a half-an-hour later I wake up. There are times when I am energized to listen well and pray. But the other times are happening more frequently, the times when it’s almost too much effort. Is there such a thing as competency in prayer? (That sounds very unspiritual.) If there is, I think I’m losing it.

I used to spend hours, even whole days, investigating and writing, being creative. Now if I can get in two hours of creative writing a day, I thank God. But I wonder if and when that will disappear. 

We all face different areas in which the fear of losing competency makes us poor in spirit. So how does this transform into a blessing? How does it somehow put us in greater possession of the kingdom of heaven?

The preacher encouraged us to meditate on the Scriptures, seeing both the truth of our smallness and dependency, as well as of the grandeur of God. I would add that we could soak in the truths about who God says we are, no matter our age (for example, dearly beloved by our Father, friends of Jesus, chosen to bear fruit, etc. etc.)

We struggle to let go and accept age as a new phase of life, not a diminishment. Maybe not so much being less competent as being otherly-competent. (Pardon my freedom with the English language.) I have days when I accept this and feel contentment. But I’m not totally there yet. Times of discouragement still come when I compare what I used to do to what I can (or cannot) do now. When some well-meaning person asks me what I’ve accomplished today, I often can’t think of a good answer. I have to do battle with my feelings and remind myself of who God tells me I am and what I am worth to him.

Somehow the struggle itself is part of the blessing. As we admit our feelings and work through them in the light of God’s truth about us, we actually move towards a blessed dependency. That’s a kingdom task where eventually we find our place in God’s scheme of things.

 Actually, I’m working through this as I write, trying to figure it out. If multi-tasking is not in my future, I’m OK with that. I may be coming into a new way of praying. Maybe the two hours I write in the mornings will result in something beautiful and useful to others, more so than if I labored all day. I remember John Milton’s poem that ends with the line, “They also serve who only stand and wait.” (For me, it would be sit and wait.)

In any case, in God’s up-side-down kingdom, we who are aging, and who are often poor in spirit, are blessed.

I can live with that, even if I don’t understand it.

Vaccinations and second childhood

Older people are said to experience a “second childhood.” The stereotype is that of a silly old man or woman acting childish, often on the verge of dementia. I resist that image, although sadly it does describe some people. Those people deserve compassion, not sarcasm.

But it is true that many childhood memories and emotional experiences are alive and active in our inner persons, maybe more so the older we get. They influence how we feel and act.

Take getting shots. Maybe this is a trivial example, but in this regard I’m still a child. I hate getting shots. My gut begins twisting and tightening as the time approaches, like when I was a little girl and my parents told me this was better than getting measles. And it was. But, still….

It’s really not as bad as it used to be. I’ve spent much of my adult life living abroad and that meant typhoid, hepatitis, yellow fever, and other gruesome shots. While I never liked them, I learned to tolerate the experience.

But I still feel that jab of fear. I have a coping strategy. I sit in the chair, my arm bared and waiting, and I pretend I’m a grown-up, even as that frightened inner child shakes. My face doesn’t let anything but indifference show. Afterwards I inevitably say to myself, “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Maybe that makes me mature, not childish. I’m committed to getting that annual flu shot, and now the latest Covid vaccine, no matter what. So, stop crying, inner child.

(An aside: When I looked for vaccination images on the Internet, most of the offerings were cheerful--people sitting in the chair, needle in arm, smiling smugly. Even children. Even babies. I remember bringing my babies in for their shots. They may have been smiling beforehand, but that was quickly followed by a look of pure shock, and then the wails.)

Currently I have six red spots on my face. No one has said anything about them to me, so maybe they aren’t conspicuous. But in the mirror, I look like I have some infectious childhood disease.

Last week on a routine checkup, my dermatologist told me I had six pre-cancerous spots on my face. She followed this information by saying, “But it’s nothing to worry about.” Right. She then took out her slender silver gun, aimed it at my face, pulled the trigger, and froze each spot. Each shot stung for a brief moment.

Looking back, I realize that I experienced no fear. And I’ll do it again next year if necessary. I have no qualms although this procedure stings more than a flu shot or the dreaded drawing of blood.

I wonder why. Maybe it’s because I have no frozen-face childhood memories. Maybe it’s because anything that reduces the possibility of cancer is worth the pain involved. I don’t know why I’m so calm about this. I’m just standing back and observing these things about myself.

It’s intriguing how some childhood fears linger, even into old age. We change, of course, and hopefully find ways of facing these fears. Something that helps me do this is humor. I look at myself and chuckle. I write silly blogs. And I show up at the doctor’s office no matter what I’m feeling.

You can laugh at me, too.

Or, better yet, laugh at yourself.

                            Examples of Happy Campers:

Coming unglued

It was a simple exercise in a poetry writing seminar. The idea intrigued me. The facilitator had told us to choose a common cultural idiom, a figure of speech everyone knows and uses. The exercise was to take that idiom literally and write a poem.

I chose the phrase “coming unglued.” I was hearing that a lot, occasionally applying it to myself when a too busy schedule was making me grumpy and disorganized. Similar to not “having it all together,” or not “having your ducks in a row.”  

As I engaged my imagination, the image of body parts slowly coming unattached from the trunk made me grin. I know, it’s gruesome, but I tend to find weird things funny (except when they’re not). I began writing as the pictures formed, basically just playing with words. Nothing serious in mind. But, as sometimes happens in creative endeavors, the poem itself took over and led me where I didn’t want to go. Hansel and Gretel walked into the story and the whole thing ended up with us entering a darkening forest. Not knowing where we were going or what would happen next.

Sometimes, when a person asks me what one of my poems means, I have to confess that I don’t know. It was that way with this poem, until I figured it out. Apparently my unconscious self wanted to bring something up to the surface where I could deal with it. Poems can act like dreams, telling us stuff we need to know.

But first, here’s the poem. (You’ll notice I don’t even use the phrase “coming unglued.” No need.)

Coming of Age

It's all right, he assured me
as his ear slid
slowly
down the side
of his face.
His right index finger dropped
off
next.
He had always
known this would happen
someday.
His hairline had begun
to recede
years before.
We walked out of
the room
single
file.
I stumbled on
his left
foot.
He hobbled ahead,
scattering appendages
like
bread
crumbs.
About twilight
we entered the forest.

At the time I wrote this poem Hal and I were in our early 50s, still young and somewhat vital (as I know from my current vantage point). But we were noticing subtle bodily changes, things like lower energy level, less visual acuity, aches in places that had never ached before, and, of course, those wrinkles and grey hairs. Hal especially faced some serious issues involving operations.

I always knew I’d grow old someday, but it wasn’t of great concern. I couldn’t actually picture myself with white hair, using a walker, or living in an “old folks’ home.” And I didn’t pay too much attention to the tales my aunts and uncles told about doctor visits and body parts wearing out. Boring.

But while I wasn’t consciously worried, something else was going on deep inside where monsters and dragons dwell. The poem told me that I was afraid of growing old and especially of what might happen to my body and mind. My mother had died in her 50s and my father at age 63, both from debilitating illnesses. I was approaching that age. Would I be like them? It was unknown territory.

It was good to get the fear out into the open and look it in the face. Hal and I could then talk about it, pray, and make plans for when we’d actually enter the forest.

I’m over 20 years from the writing of that poem and I’m actually living in a retirement community (which I would never refer to as an “old folks’ home”). It’s turned out to be a lovely old growth forest where the sun slants through the trees, although there are days when path ahead still looks dark.

But I must confess that the image of body parts coming unglued is no joke. This forest is full of decay; ironically, that’s part of what makes it healthy. We try to laugh about it, and most days we do.

There’s a joke about how that when older people get together to talk, it always turns into a musical event—an organ recital!

I hope I’m not about to give an organ recital here, but in order to illustrate the idea of slowly coming unglued, I will say that my main concern is something called vestibular migraines, but that my marvelous doctor is helping me control the symptoms. Other than that, I have a bit of osteoarthritis in my hands and neuropathy in my feet. (There’s some other stuff that I won’t mention. Be thankful.) All in all, not too bad.

Hal is another story. (Hal is always another story, but that’s what makes him so interesting.) He’s looking at three possible operations this year—lower back, prostrate, and left hand. Plus he continually fights diverticulosis, assorted skin rashes, and leg cramps. And both of us find ourselves saying WHAT? more than any other word in our vocabulary. Wonder why? I guess we’ll have to look into that.

On the other hand, we have good hearts, lungs, kidneys, brains and other organs that are growing older but still doing their good work. Since cataract removal surgery, we see the distant hills as well as the words in our books. We have much to be thankful for.

Now that I’ve written that, I am determined not to give you another organ recital. Ever. Please hold me to it.

We need to face the rebellion of body parts as a reality of aging. We have no guarantee that we will not get cancer, break a hip, or suffer dementia. I read the description in Psalm 92 of the upright person who “will still bear fruit in old age, who still stay fresh and green” like a cherry tree or a cedar. A beautiful image—and one I hold on to. But I will still grow older and one day I will die. What does this fruit in old age look like? What does it mean to stay fresh and green, even as some of my limbs break off and fruit drops to the ground? As I become unglued?

I don’t know exactly. I just know that, on most days, I’m no longer afraid.

Hansel, Gretel, and I enter the forest

 I was seven years old when I discovered I was a poet. My dad was a writer, so I knew words were good. One evening I was playing around with a tablet and a pencil, trying to do what my dad did. Writing. I began a poem with the words, “This is a story by Nancy Forsythe.” Then, knowing that poems had to rhyme, I tried to think of a word that rhymed with Forsythe. Very few words do. I finally came up with “knife,” and the second line seemed to flow from the first: “about a boy and his dangerous knife.” The rest of the words came quickly as I focused on bouncing and rhyming, with little thought about content. The end result was a poem about a serial killer. That bounced and rhymed.

I showed the poem to my dad and he seemed thrilled with it. (I would have sent my kid to a counselor.) I saw that I was on to something good and decided then and there that I was a poet.

That was 70 years ago. Poetry remains my vocation. Not that I was actively writing all those years. I spent a lot of time learning how to grow up, how to be married, how to get along in the world, and other stuff like that. I wrote off and on, and as time passed, I was more on than off. Even published a few books of poetry. Now that I’m older, writing—poetry in particular—has become more important as a way of being in this world. It’s helping me find my path through this old growth forest we call aging.

Around 15 years ago at a writers workshop, the leader gave a prompt to choose a contemporary figure of speech and write a poem, taking the metaphor literally. I chose the metaphor, “coming unglued,” imagining a person with body parts literally sliding off. It was gruesome, but I do have that side to my personality.

I began the poem in a spirit of play, finding the idea funny. But once into it, the poem turned serious. Sort of dark and scary. I recognized that it had morphed into the old fairy story of Hansel and Gretel, and they were about to enter the dark forest. Then I realized that this story was really about Hal and me. And it was, indeed, scary.

At the time I was in my early sixties, starting to notice the ebbing of energy, the loss of flexibility, and the slow malfunction of body parts. Old age had always described other people—grandparents and elders and wrinkled relatives. It was never something that applied to me, although of course I realized that I would, someday, get old and die.

But someday was coming closer. What the poem was really about was the fear of growing old, with all the possible physical and mental deterioration implied. Fear for myself and fear of what might happen to Hal.

Here’s the poem: 

Coming of Age

"It's all right," he assured me
as his ear slid
slowly
down the side
of his face.
His right index finger dropped
off
next.
He had always
known this would happen
someday.
His hairline had begun
to recede
years before.
We walked out of
the room
single
file.
I stumbled on
his left
foot.
He hobbled ahead,
scattering appendages
like
bread
crumbs.
About twilight
we entered the forest.

The poem was actually helpful in that it made me recognize my fear and try to face it. And now that I’m in the middle of this old growth forest, I don’t find it all that spooky. Light streams through the trees, brooks make their musical sounds, and unexpected meadows surprise. There are shadows, too, and beasts that don’t seem friendly. That’s only to be expected.

All this to say that I’ve come to peace with being older (on most days). Living in this retirement center helps, not only because of the activities and entertainments it offers, but more because of my neighbors, courageous women and men who still find life an adventure, no matter the challenges. And I maintain close contact with my younger family and friends. This is not a monastery or convent, but a place to live out the reminder of our time as best we can. Before the next great adventure begins.

PS: I still have all my limbs.

The dark path in the forest

 The three words were picture, captain, and garden. I was instructed to remember these words as the nurse would ask me to repeat them again in a few minutes. So I formed a mental image of a framed picture where a sea-captain was walking in a garden. I know my limitations. If I can’t picture it, I forget it.

She then gave me the clock-test, a blank sheet of paper with instructions to draw the face of a clock and mark 10 minutes after 11. I had no problem drawing the clock with evenly spaced numbers. But it took me a few seconds to get the hands to the right time. The little hand on eleven. Right. But 10 after? Using my logic I counted ten digits after the 11, which actually set the clock for 11:05. I handed in the paper. She quietly walked out the room.

In a few minutes The Nurse came in and asked me the three words. I had to first bring up the image, see the captain smelling the roses; then I gave the Right Answer. The Nurse smiled. Then she frowned. She told me I had messed up the clock test and she showed me my drawing. I instantly recognized what I had gotten wrong and proceeded to explain my logic, flawed as it was. I suppose I was a bit defensive. But The Nurse was definitely defensive and cut me off by stating, “No! You failed the test! This is a strong indication of cognitive impairment.”

Well. That shut me up. For a few seconds. Then I protested. How could such a flimsy silly little test lead to such a serious diagnosis? She wasn’t even a doctor! Fortunately, I had the sense not to spout my academic degrees, professional accomplishments, and other such nonsense. But I did protest and she came back insisting I go to a specialist for further testing. All on the basis of the clock test.

That was my annual wellness exam, just a few days ago. I left the clinic less well than when I went in.

I’ve been stewing about it ever since. Hal assures me, “No, Nancy. You are not cognitively impaired.” But off and on, those nasty words, cognitive impairment,­ run through my brain, turning somersaults around my common sense, ricocheting off the walls of reason.

In short, I’m mad. And when I get mad, it’s not pretty. I’m mad at The Nurse. I resent the presumption and the stereotyping. I hate the memory of the pity in her eyes as this demented old lady left her office. I hate it when medical professionals see bodies and cases, not people.

Reflecting on the incident in a calmer frame of mind, three things are coming clear. The first is my need to forgive The Nurse. That doesn’t mean excusing her behavior. Less presumption and defensiveness, more sensitivity and a bit of common sense are good qualities in nurses and doctors. But she’s only human. Like me. So I’m saying the words of forgiveness and trusting that eventually the emotions will follow.

The second thing I’m realizing is that of course I’m cognitively impaired. I’ve been cognitively impaired all my life, and it has little to do with growing older. Some people call the condition dyslexia. And while I have only a mild case, it’s always made it difficult for me to do certain things. The alphabet, for instance. I can’t for the life of me get the letters in the right order unless I sing the silly little ABC song I learned as a child. I have to do that when filing documents, which can be embarrassing if other people are around.

I have trouble telling right from left. When asked to turn to the right, I have to literally focus on my writing hand and make the translation from write to right. (Fortunately, I’m right-handed.) The other thing I have trouble with is telling time. I have little exercises that compensate and get me to appointments on time. The before and after parts always confuse me (e.g., “10 after 11”). The Nurse didn’t know that. Would it have made a difference? Possibly not.

The other thing I’m realizing is that all this anger is really a cover-up for fear. The real emotion.

Cognitive impairment, memory loss, Alzheimer’s, dementia—all of this is the dark path in the forest of growing older. Will it happen to me? Will it happen to Hal? Will it be gradual? Will I know it’s happening? How old will I be? What will I be like? Will I be a burden, or worse, an embarrassment to my family? Is the clock test really a sign on the trail?

Or maybe it won’t happen to me. After all, it’s not inevitable.

I can’t picture myself as demented, but I have to ask, “Why not me?” It has happened to many of my friends and loved ones. Intelligent people. Strong people who made significant contributions. People who had adopted admirable life-styles, ate nutritious food, exercised their brains as well as their bodies, and enjoyed reasonable good health. “Why them?” is a question without an answer. As is, “Why not me?”

I had the blessing of not seen my parents go through any kind of cognitive impairment. That would have been an agony to witness. But the blessing is mixed. They missed this experience because they both died young. On the other hand, both Hal and I suffered alongside his parents as they lived into their 90s and had a very difficult last few years. We trust they are whole now, enjoying all their God-given capacities.

But we’re still here, facing an uncertain future. So, we juggle fear and faith. Even as we trust God, we face the nagging possibilities that loom in front of us on the path.

I’m not certain how to handle all this. I will affirm the Scriptures that talk about the righteous living long and fruitful lives. I will remind myself to make the most of the present time, to love my family well, to read good books, to pray, to attend to the needs of others as I am able. And to have fun. Fun is good and laughter heals the body as well as the mind.

As someone has said, “Wherever you are, be there.” I try to do that.

Plus, it really helps to hear Hal say, “Nancy! You are not cognitively impaired!”