The bodies are everywhere, well, figuratively speaking. For those of us privileged to experience old age, like pall bearers, we carry our share of losses. We mourn, and . . . we celebrate. For while death is inevitable, so is life in all its wild and willful glory.
Recently, I’ve had to meditate on loss because of a visual impairment that makes unsafe activities I used to relish. After moving to Ontario from Vermont, I discovered a theatre lab that holds readings once a month. These are at night, making it necessary for me to figure out how to attend without my usual sense of independence. This is a safety issue, mine and all those who might be on the road with me when darkness falls.
In the daylight, I have twenty-twenty vision in my left eye, but at night, the aftermath of a retinal branch vein occlusion in my right eye makes driving terrifying. Distortions abound. What is apparently near is some distance away. And what appears some distance away is at my front bumper. No, I can no longer drive at night.
If I had to, because of an emergency, I would make the attempt. But I am not the Prince of Denmark caught in the toils of a corrupt court and its power-mongering king and minions. I am merely a writer embarking on my next adventure. I want to see it through to the end without maiming or killing anyone, including myself.
As unlikely as it sounds for a Canadian woman born in the mid twentieth century, Shakespeare has been my primary guide through my previous four acts. I like his emphasis on restoration after the worst has happened. Are we not living in the worst and best of times? So I am not surprised that the Bard is with me now, as losses pile up like those bodies in Prince Hamlet’s final act. I have found this poet/playwright/actor the juciest of my imaginary, inky brothers.
In our vast global Elder Community, our numbers dwindle and swell simultaneously. More and more of us are arriving at the narrowing end of life’s funnel. Our ageist experience is distinctive because of the predatory reframing of academic researchers and medical professionals; we have become valuable lab rats as our lives are seen as indispensable contributors to social and medical science research.
We are the new bandwagon on which the young jump and in great numbers: “Oh, yes,” says Mary to Peter and Paul, “I’m set for life. I’m studying Aging and Society. Work is a sure thing. For decades.” These newcomer social scientists are joining the technology-oriented, life-extension mad scientists who are studying folks with perfect health their entire lives. Good luck to these rare birds. The pros would be better served by studying those who recover, live long, and prosper after brushes with the Grim and Laughing Reaper.
I say push back at the scientific objectification of our lives. Render unto Caesar, yes, during annual appointments and any specialist treatment that actually improves the quality of our lives. At the same time, let us never forget: We have, as well as losses, joy and energy that cannot be measured by a sphygmomanometer.
Let us make a pact.
Let us ask for help when we need it and let us refuse it graciously when we do not. Let us smile at the seasonal changes as we slide into our personal winters. Even from this craggy perch, spring will come, at least for some of us. As Hamlet says – the rest is silence.
That is my kind of benediction.
Until next time
Jane