My Graceful Aging

 By: Kelly McDonald

. . .And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

                                Dylan Thomas

This morning, I gazed into the bathroom mirror, then suddenly recognized the old man who was staring back at me. Nothing unusual happened in the middle of the night. The evening before, I had googled the latest medical advances in overcoming aging, so surely those thoughts fueled this morning's sensitivity to my mortality. Like the 20th century’s war on cancer and heart disease, the next medical battle promises to help many of us live well into our 2nd century. I’ve been counting on that. So why am I feeling so old? If a long-life is probably my lot, why am I not becoming more comfortable with my geriatric future?

 As I have reflected on my past few decades, I’ve recognized that I'm already following a preventative war on my aging. When I was 50, my doctor detected high levels of cholesterol in my blood. "Take a daily tablet, and you'll escape the ravages of heart disease", he told me. His diagnosis when I was 60 was high blood pressure. My mother had passed away suddenly from a stroke caused by her hypertension. "Add another pill to your evening medications, and you'll escape the fate of your maternal ancestry", my doctor counseled. Now in my early 70s, that same doctor, also elderly, looked at my blood test results and declared, “You’re in the beginning of renal failure.” When I asked if I should be concerned, he shrugged. “I’m also in that same stage of kidney challenges. Drink more fluids, and lose some weight”, he advised. I’ve also added a daily vitamin to my handful of pills and a natural remedy for the knee pain that plagues me during my morning walks. It’s little wonder with this nightly regimen of medication that I don't sleep as well as I once did when I was oblivious to my mortality.

During my evening reading, I also stumbled across an October 2014 essay in the Atlantic, “Why I Hope to Die at 75” by Ezekiel Emanuel, a medical doctor and chair of the University of Pennsylvania's department of medical ethics and health policy. He argued that "older Americans live too long in a diminished state," vowing that he would refuse all medical treatment once he turned 75. I'm only three years away from that discriminating age threshold he suggested. How should I react to this medical revelation? Do I stop my nightly handful of medications on my 75th birthday? Yet another mental unsettlement to keep me from a blissful slumber. Dr. Emanuel stated, “Living too long. . . renders many of us, if not disabled, then faltering and declining, a state that may not be worse than death but is nonetheless deprived. It robs us of our creativity, and ability to contribute to work, society, and the world.” 

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When I began my retirement a decade ago, I felt like I needed to begin a physical exercise to keep me active, so I enlisted the help of a former work colleague, an accomplished runner, to teach me correct principles. I developed the habit of regularly running, following the same riverside path every day, enjoying the changing cycle of weather while listening to an audiobook along the way. I eventually worked myself up to 5K, then 10K runs, several times per week. I ran in races with others to share and celebrate my new self. It was invigorating. I looked forward to the journey.  But now, facing my physical degradation has become my norm. At the end of a morning 5K walk, I limp and hobble around the house for a few hours. But like my nightly regimen of pills, I continue walking, knowing it's good for me. What's the next issue I’ll face in that list of physical degradations we all eventually follow?

I remember the term once used by my elders to describe me as a youth was ‘the rising generation’—growing physically, mentally, and more independent. If I continue that description, the next forty years of adulthood, with my university education, career, marriage and parenting, marked me in the ‘stable generation’. But I suppose this past decade since my retirement, now marks me as a part of the ‘sinking generation.’ I hope that I'm sinking with grace.

Some of my elderly concern comes from not being able to fully predict the direction for my extended life's efforts. When I was in my teens, I learned I could do a reasonable job of planning my life in 5-year increments. I would say to myself, "In the next five years I'll start college life, serve a mission, find someone and get married." And it happened. Then it was, "I'll finish my degree, father one or two children, make progress in my career." These goals happened too. My 5-year planning cycles became habitual. But what are my five-year goals now, in the twilight of my life?

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 ‘Lifelong Learning’ has become an overused term. However, its aspects of formal education have always attracted me. So, a decade ago as a new retiree, I spent significant effort to continue my learning by taking classes in creative writing and the humanities at a nearby university.

Although my returning to the classroom was a self-improvement activity focused on growing my understanding of the world around me, I met others on their own educational paths, many who became good friends. My learning sojourners were typically young adults working to improve their own future. I would begin a class as that aging grey-haired student, sometimes mistaken for the professor when I first entered the classroom. But soon, as I interacted with the other students in workshops and discussions, our age differences disappeared, and I simply took part in writing groups and class projects, giving honest feedback and helping others to succeed.

Not seeking a traditional degree, and without employment demands, I did not need to impress anyone. Yet I still considered myself a contributor, actively taking part in the classes instead of casually listening. Thus I've labeled these formal academic adventures as 'citizen-scholarship', pushing back at least my own horizons of knowledge and understanding, while hopefully helping to better the lives of my classmates, trying somehow to make a difference for them.

Several years ago, I enrolled in an English class to study artful writing style, enjoying a refreshing classroom experience with 25 other students, many expecting their upcoming graduation. Near the end of the semester, I asked a young woman sitting next to me what she was planning to do after her graduation. She responded to me with a quavering voice, "I have absolutely no idea!"

My years in executive leadership suddenly kicked into gear. I answered her, "We need to do something about that." We scheduled several hours per week at the university’s library for the next month, where we worked on defining her future life's purpose, developing her résumé, and searching for job opportunities that could leverage her newly gained BA in English. A month after she graduated, I received the following text message from her: "I started my writing job, and it's been really fun! There's a lot of room to move in the company, so I think it'll be a good place to grow. Thank you so much for all the time you've put into meeting with me and being a great friend and thought partner."

I think this is where I diverge from Dr. Emanuel’s thesis on aging. These types of experiences I had, helping or influencing others, may not show up on Dr. Emmanuel’s radar as work, society, or world contributions. But it certainly made a difference for my student colleague, and the subtle principle of helpfulness, and reaching out, seems like a definitive discriminator for me, when I evaluate whether my life is worth living. Emmanuel’s statement, “no longer makes a difference for others,” seems like it should be a measurement of final mental decline rather than an arbitrary birthday limit applied to all older adults.

But what does continuing my lifelong learning, and helping others, mean for me now in my second decade of retirement? Although I have enjoyed my classroom experiences, I’m finding it more difficult to find classes of interest in the course catalog. And hiking to the classroom from a distant parking lot is becoming more taxing on my body. I need to find a new paradigm for learning which doesn’t rely on the constraints of a university class schedule.

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During my writing coursework, I discovered an essay written by Francis Bacon in 1597. Its title, “Of Studies,” captured my interest. Perhaps it could become a template to help me create a plan for the next decade of my personal education. In his essay, Bacon described the virtues of reading. He stated, “Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested.” He continued, “Reading maketh a full man, conference a ready man, and writing an exact man.” In today’s prose I would interpret his words as “reading on a subject can fill my mind, dialoguing on that subject can make my mind sharp, then writing about the subject can make my mind exact”. This seems to be an excellent method to continue my citizen scholarship. It matches a spiritual directive found within my religious beliefs to “seek ye out of the best books, words of wisdom;” and much of my campus coursework has actually mirrored this same method of reading, dialoguing and writing.

Thus I’m imagining a ‘Francis Bacon Academy’ to leverage this three-phased study process for personal learning among my colleagues. It could build a community of like-minded learners who strive to lift each other through shared reading and conversation. The Francis Bacon Academy could help its members to discover the books which should be “digested”. The academy’s members would ‘read’ their choices in a variety of formats, including hard copy, e-book, audiobook, video, online courses, and other electronic sources of information, all of which might fill the mind.   We would then assist each other in gracefully absorbing a book's teachings, giving participants every opportunity to become ready through dialogue with others. Conversely, their dialogue wouldn’t only be through face-to-face conversation. Video conferencing, online chat, even e-mail, would allow the participants’ conversation to transcend the limitations of simultaneous time and place. Even online dialogue with language-based AI systems could assist the academy participant to sharpen their thoughts about their recent reading.

But more than a book club, the academy could also develop a writing community to lead its members toward more exactness in their study. Whether their writing followed specific reading and conversation, or the thinking on the page that often accompanies mental wanderings, the members of the Francis Bacon Academy could work together to foster each member's writing journey toward exactness. Online editing and commenting tools could assist the writing workshop among participants, allowing volunteering work shoppers to give helpful feedback to those members who choose to write.

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The wheel is spun,

The motion set,

All our fears have come to rest,

On this one thing:

That when we age

The part that’s left

Can no longer be called

The essent ring

Of life.

If the goal of modern medicine is to get me to age 100, my response will be to look for every opportunity to be a power for good in the lives of others during the twilight of my centenarian journey. 

But along the way to that 100-year life, if these opportunities to lead by influence disappear, maybe I will take Dr. Emmanuel’s advice and give up the handful of medication that haunts my nightly sleep preparations. Then, perhaps my slumber will return to the level I once enjoyed before all of this concern for my aging pushed the other reveries off my dreamful stage.