After Eighty

As I explained in my previous essay, “Eighty: Age of Fulfillment,” once I reached the eagerly awaited age of eighty, I discovered that the primary objectives of my life—seen more clearly in retrospect, of course—had largely been achieved. I married the man I loved, raised two fine daughters, attained some small success as a fine art photographer, received a PhD when in my seventies, relished many loving friendships, watched five beloved grandchildren grow into young adulthood, looked after my husband through a decade of Alzheimer’s disease until death finally took him away, and wrote a book about my life as a gift and a legacy for my family. I felt loved and appreciated. My fundamental needs had been fulfilled, my modest ambitions satisfied, and my fondest dreams realized. I basked in an aura of contentment and completion.

As I began to relax into the self-satisfied daze brought on by this sense of accomplishment, a surprising thought occurred to me: If I were to drop dead at this very moment, all would be fine! I would have no regrets, no unfinished business, no pangs of guilt. At first that unexpected insight brought a feeling of utter relief, for in the past I had often obsessed over some lapse in judgment or failure in relationship, had repeatedly agonized over important and not-so-important decisions, and had frequently been burdened by guilt over what I perceived to be unforgivable mistakes or grinding stupidities. As all those real and imagined shortcomings faded into insignificance, it was as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders and a binding loosened from around my heart. I felt free, could breathe easily.

I had barely assimilated that feeling of freedom, however, when I was struck by another startling realization: Something profound had come to an end. My life of yearning and striving was over. A sense of finality loomed over me, casting a chilling shadow on my initial exhilaration. All those needs and desires in my early life had pushed me forward, provided me with motivation and purpose. If they are no longer present, what will give me incentive for my remaining time on this earth? Does the absence of want suggest I am finished with life? That possibility brought a flash of anxiety. On the one hand, it seemed unreasonable, for I am still in good health. On the other hand, I am entering what is certain to be the final stage of my life; I can sense the inevitable end approaching.

It was once thought that age sixty or sixty-five ushered us into our final years, but that no longer holds true. While by that time we have passed through middle-age, and may have retired from our jobs, we certainly are not yet really old. We have entered a phase that I refer to as the penultimate stage of life, the next to last. It is for many, as it was for me, a golden period of happiness and accomplishment. When we reach eighty to eighty-five, however, we move from the penultimate stage to the ultimate stage. These words have interesting etymologies. Penultimate comes from the Latin paenultimus, from paene, “almost,” from which flows its meaning “almost last” or “last but one.” The term ultimate carries the connotation not only of “final” or “last,” but also of “supreme” or “utmost” or “high point.”

According to those meanings, as we move from the penultimate period into the ultimate, we are entering not just our final years, but the crowning season of our lives, the peak of our existence, the high point of our time on this earth. These words may seem odd or inappropriate, since we have been conditioned by our youth-worshipping society to think of our last years solely in terms of decline, as going down. We also tend to equate aging with unavoidable loss. There are too many of us, young and old, who view old age almost exclusively as a time of debilitation, decrepitude, diminishment, and disease.

Chances are we will have to deal with one or more of those dreaded “d” words. I do not deny the difficulties we may face; they can be formidable, and may on occasion threaten to overwhelm us. We must endure the deaths of ones we love, and must face our own mortality. We must cope with likely physical limitations: ebbing energy, lessening strength and flexibility, questionable memory, and fading eyesight and hearing. We may suffer serious illness. We may have to accept assistance for personal care. In short, we may be required to change how we live our lives. Such changes can be challenging, even acutely painful, but they are not the whole story. I maintain that it is possible to acknowledge our losses, accept our infirmities, and face our failings without being defined by them. We are more than our deficiencies.

Persons over age eighty-five now constitute the largest-growing sector of our population. As a group we are healthier and wealthier than any previous older generation. Our decades of living, working, and learning have profited us in countless ways. As a result of our longevity we have broader experience, greater insight, enhanced awareness, superior knowledge, and better understanding than those who have not lived so long. Though we have made our share of mistakes, we have had the opportunity to learn from them. We have had to adjust to changing circumstances, personally, culturally, and economically, allowing us to develop flexibility. Many of us have lost good friends and/or spouses, imbuing us with a depth of feeling heretofore unexplored. We have maintained relationships in spite of differences and confrontations, teaching us the value of compromise. All these experiences have added to our store of worldly knowledge, have contributed to our emotional maturity, and have given us an opportunity to widen and deepen our outlook so that we might live into a more meaningful and satisfying old age.

Nevertheless, as I move from the penultimate stage of my life into the ultimate stage, I am puzzled. I still have an irresistible urge to live life fully as long as possible. But what am I to do now that the main goals of my life are realized? Many in my age group are facing this existential dilemma. We wish to continue to participate in the world around us, but we are not sure how best to do that. It seems apparent, however, that how we choose to use our residual energies and how we apportion our remaining resources will be determining factors in shaping not only our personal futures, but also in shaping the future of our nation. Perhaps the most crucial aspect is how we regard our roles, how we envision ourselves as we enter this final stage. We need to adopt an appropriate and meaningful paradigm of aging, so that as we move into our late years we can continue to bring enrichment into our own lives and to the lives of those around us.

Transitions from one stage of life to another can be difficult, filled with fear and uncertainty. And yet transitions are necessary; we go through many of them throughout the span of our lives. Without them we would remain stuck, unable to grow or change. Now that I have reached what seems to me the pinnacle of my life—age eighty—I find myself wandering and wondering. I know that I am crossing over from one way of life to another and that I must let go of many of my former patterns and perspectives. But I am not yet sure of what exactly it is that I must relinquish. And I certainly cannot see what lies ahead. I am in an in-between place, a liminal space, neither here nor there, a state that in mythological terms is thought of as Hekate’s crossroads.

These crossroads, shaped like a Y, demand a change in direction; there is no way to continue on the same path. It is the option given prominence by Robert Frost in his well-known poem “The Road Not Taken.” Frost’s traveler contemplates a fork in the road, knowing he must choose one of the two paths. He takes “the one less traveled by,” and “that has made all the difference.” In the poem, the alternatives are equally apparent, so the decision can be made quickly, but sometimes the paths ahead cannot be clearly seen; the choices are obscured and the life-traveler is filled with confusion and doubt.

This is where I currently find myself. Which is the right way for me? Which fork in the road will be more serene, which less rocky? Which path will lead me to the high point of my life? How am I to live these last precious days, months, years? I feel I am not the same person I was before, but I do not yet recognize this new emerging woman. I am bewildered. I suffer the vacillations of ambiguity. I wish for clarity and understanding, but am filled with perplexity.

Having gone through painful periods of transition in the past, I know that there lies within my current chaotic state a promise of new order. In archetypal and psychological terms, chaos signifies not only confusion, but also void or emptiness, and thus allows space for new ways of thinking, provides opportunities for creative energies, and opens the way for new precedents. During this time of unease, outside my conscious awareness, a restructuring of the habits and patterns of my life is taking place, my identity is undergoing a subtle or not-so-subtle shift, my imagination is being stirred—all of which, I trust, will help me reach a new level of integration and meaning. In the world of physics, chaos implies process; it is dynamic, ever changing. In personal terms it is a becoming.

What I am surely becoming is a very old woman. Perhaps the role I am now living into makes me a true Crone, a woman who is well weathered, who is both tough and tender, who has survived many seasons, indulged in countless pleasures, and endured untold sorrows. What I hope is that I can infuse this new persona, this very old Crone woman, with intensity of feeling, with compassion for all, with acceptance of frailties, with deeper spiritual insights, and with a grand sense of humor. I hope that, having attained my main aims, I will savor these final years, remembering and honoring the past while reveling in the present as I live into the supreme, utmost, high point—the ultimate stage—of my long life.