Growing Old Gracefully

When I turned 23, I bemoaned the fact that I was getting old. 

I don't really want to get old. It's not that I am afraid of getting wrinkles, or my boobs sagging.

I'm afraid of being helpless.

Much as I often have self-doubt, I would still consider myself a strong woman. I want to live my life my way,  have dream and hopes and I won't let anybody try and crush them.

But what happens to after I achieve those dreams? Or if I don't, and times passes me by? How will I feel the day I wake up and realise that I'm "old"?

I clean for an elderly gentleman in my neighbourhood who has dementia. I don't know the full extent of the disease, but it is evident when he doesn't remember where his wallet is, or whether he has even posted his Christmas cards. Perhaps these are simple things that any elderly person might forget. But I suspect not.
When I went round yesterday he told me that he had gone towards the front door several times already that day thinking he needed to go out and get something, but that he couldn't remember what he needed to get.

I have never had a fantastic memory. I can do, when I'm working, but often I forget conversations and shared experiences. It's frustrating, and I look foolish. It looks as though I don't care about the memory. And when I am reminded of it or it is recounted for me, I wonder why I didn't remember it, because there is no real reason for me to have relegated it to the back and beyond of my mind.

I am worried about losing my memory. Not the shared experiences, not that time when we walked along and we all burst into song at the same time. Not those memories. The vital ones, like how to spell words, count numbers, people's names. How to function, essentially.

I am also worried about losing my health. Now, let's be honest, if you read my other blog, you'll know all about my head, neck and back problems. Whenever a new practitioner says how my back and shoulders are more like a 40-year-old's than a 20-something's, I worry about what the hell kind of shape I'll be in by the time I do hit 40. In Croydon on Thursday I spotted an elderly woman walking along, bent over double, pulling along a trolley. Walking towards Sutton earlier that day, I saw an older man walking on the other side of the road, head bowed against the cold, shoulders slightly hunched. I want to be able to stand up straight. I certainly don't want to be bent over double, barely being able to see where I'm going.

And the new Government reforms on retirement and pensions worries me too. Increasing retirement ages and rolling out flat state-pensions may mean that older people will work longer in order to be comfortable for that inevitable 20-year-long retirement. In times gone by, people would retire, and then keel over within 5 years because of a shorter life expectancy. But now, with better healthcare and medical services, we can keep going, despite any illnesses or diseases. I have seen so many older people out delivering leaflets in the cold over the last month or so, and in a way it breaks my heart. They shouldn't have to still work, surely? They've paid their dues, clocked up the hours. They should be at home, watching Morse and Bargain Hunt. I accept that perhaps they want to continue doing something because otherwise they'd go out of their mind. But maybe they don't have a choice.

My sister and I watched The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel the other night, and in it the characters are all accepting the challenges that old age and retirement bring. And it tackled all the problems that I fear about getting old - not being comfortable and having to continue to work, loss of loved ones and lack of communication or intimacy with family members or partners, and quite simply, being alone.

Cleaning for Peter, who turned 80 last year and lives alone with a rather moth-eaten cat, makes me think that I ought to get married and have kids simply for the fact that I'd have someone to keep me company, and then a younger generation who could look after me. The bloke I'm seeing readily admitted to me that this was one of his main reasons for wanting to settle down. I don't think there's anything wrong with that necessarily, but it just doesn't sit right with me. I don't think getting married and producing offspring should be a means to an end. It should be what you live for, what you want out of life.

But who will care for me, if I break a hip? If I'm alone, and I have a fall, who will get me back up, or do their own back in trying to do so?

I think these are bridges I will cross when I get to them. As it is, I am intent on focusing on the present and the near-future, not the far-flung, hip-replacement, foot-shuffling, beige-coat wearing future.
I'm content with being young. I'm 24 this year, and I whilst I accept I am approaching my mid-twenties, I am still young. I am in no way getting old. My body might feel old, but my mind, burning bright with enthusiasm and wonder, certainly isn't. And I won't be ashamed when I do get old. I will be like Jodie Foster, and declare my age loudly and proudly.

And I'm sorry if I can't remember the time that we... well, er, that time we... nope, forgotten it again.