The transition to elderhood—a fancy name for growing old?

Today in Central Market we had to wait our turn at the deli meat market. Jordan stood by the counter and talked to the server when it was her turn. An attractive young woman was also being waited on at the same time. I sat in my motorized grocery go-cart, but it was obvious from conversation that Jordan and I were together. The other woman offered Jordan a taste of her New York-style pastrami, and they struck up a conversation. In the checkout lane, the same young woman came up behind me, so I said, “Hello, again!” She began to talk to Jordan, never spoke to me nor acknowledged me.

That’s not the first time I’ve been invisible recently, though I’m never sure if it’s because I’m handicapped or because I’m perceived as elderly (hey! I’m young at heart!). But I came home today and read a lengthy article, sent by a friend, on the transition to elderhood, and the need to shed our identity and take on a new one. I’m not sure about shedding my old identity—it’s who I am, but perhaps I need to think more about my new status of “elderhood,” with its connotations of wisdom with age.

The writer had experienced a health crisis several years earlier and now, in retrospect, recognizes that was his transition to elderhood, his forty days in the desert as it were where he shed his old identity and re-entered society, ready for his new role. It struck me that my health problems of the last eighteen months are maybe my own personal transition. But into elderhood? I’m not sure about that.

I know that life is different than it was two years ago—before my hip disabled me and ultimately required extensive surgery, before my heart decided to beat to a different drummer, before that lens in my right eye decided to go a-wandering. And that invisibility I mention above is part of the change.

Elderhood sits uneasily on my shoulders, though I recognize my social interactions are forever changed. Some longtime friends are loyal and oh! So very good to me; others have kind of dropped away. Part of it is me—I no longer leap at every opportunity to go to a conference, a book event, evens sometimes a neighborhood dinner. It’s too easy to stay in my cottage. Nor do I burn with the passion to write—my approach these days is more leisurely, sometimes dominated by procrastination which was never like me.

The article recommends developing a dedicated circle of elders and mentors. I’m not sure about that. I am reminded of my writing mentor. He and his wife moved into an apartment complex where my daughter had once lived, and when I protested that it might be noisy because there were a lot of young people, he said that was precisely why he chose it. He did not want to be surrounded by old people. I sympathize. The cottage is my way of avoiding assisted living yet getting the assistance I need—like, Jordan, please come hang up my clothes because I can’t reach. But I am also around young people—Jordan’s friends--and they welcome me into their community. I guess they regard me as older, but they never make me invisible.

I’ve gone on too long, but this is a subject I’ll keep puzzling over in my mind. I’d welcome your thoughts on elderhood even if you’re still young. I keep going back inmy mind to “You’re only as old as you feel.”  Just drop me an email at j.alter@tcu.edu.