Age-Old Complaint

This is an open letter to young women whose mothers are inarguably old.

First, there is no way you can ever completely understand your mothers. You may not want to believe this, but it’s true. Because no one can possibly understand elderly people except those who are elderly, too.

This age - this old age - is a never-ending shock to those of us who are in it. As Nicholas Chamfort wrote in 1700: “Man arrives as a novice at each stage of his life.” And at this older stage, somehow, one remains a novice for the rest of one’s life.

Probably many of you are worried about your mothers. And, although you may love them a lot, you are apt to be somewhat critical of them. It seems to go with the territory.

Here are some of the things you are likely to say about your mothers: “She used to be so attractive and could be now, if she worked harder at it. It’s ridiculous that she won’t spend more money on herself. She has it, for goodness’ sake.

“And why doesn’t she hire more of her work done, instead of wearing herself out doing it? She makes such a big deal out of everything. Why doesn’t she relax?”

And, perhaps more than any other thing, you say you just can’t believe how forgetful and occasionally confused she’s become.

Let me try to help you understand what is, by far, the most difficult time of life: You’ve heard old people say that they feel just the way they always have? Of course. After all, there’s no possible way we can stop being ourselves.

But it’s not literally true because our bodies - our physical selves - have been changing every hour of our lives. And, when we’re old, they have drastically changed. We’re not as strong, not as healthy and definitely not as agile. We’re completely different from the vital persons we once were.

Here is, perhaps, the most important thing you should know about us: Deep inside each one of us, as ever-present, ever-disturbing companions, are the thoughts of our own mortalities. YOUR mortalities are vague and unreal “somedays.” But we can’t hide from the knowledge that our mortalities will be here relatively soon. Whether we have faith or not, death is and has always been the eternal unknowable.

We don’t want to leave the people we love. We don’t want to leave the world we know. And it can’t help but be traumatizing to know that this self - or at least this body - just won’t be. We try to shove these thoughts deep within us, but too often they come to the surface.

We’re somewhat limp with fatigue a good deal of the time. How could it be otherwise? We have to work so much harder to accomplish what was once so easy for us - and is still so easy for you.

Our generation, unlike yours, was brought up believing that work is good; pampering oneself is not. So we can sometimes still experience the nag of guilt when we’re idle. Then we push ourselves. Our egos demand that we keep on being the persons we were, but our bodies refuse to cooperate.

You complain that we’re forgetful, and you’re right. We’re all too aware of this. Dr. N. Roger Cooke, a Spokane neurologist, explains it this way: “Each year we have more things to sort through - a more selective memory. If we have not used a particular piece of information, we may have trouble recalling it immediately, or at all. With concentration, we may later remember more about it, unless the memory gives emotional pain. Then we may repress that memory completely.”

I can easily understand why our forgetfulness irritates you. But to you, it’s only irritating. To us, it’s frightening. We ask ourselves what it implies: Does it mean we are becoming senile? Or, the most devastating question of all, do we have the beginning of Alzheimer’s?

Still, we laugh with each other about our forgetfulness and tell little stories about ourselves - for example, how we found we had put the ketchup bottle in the cupboard with the cleaning supplies! Yet, weaving in and out of us is this small, subliminal fear which never quite goes away.

It’s impossible, of course, for us to be as attractive now as you might wish we were. (And as we once were.) Let’s face it, age has never been a beautifier. And, also, remember that we can no longer do anything - for example, putting on make-up - as skillfully as we once did.

Our space perceptions have changed. Our arthritis-damaged fingers are clumsy. And we don’t see quite as well. But most of us do try. So please give us an A for effort.

Our generation was brought up to be much more frugal than yours. This doesn’t excuse any stinginess, but should help you understand why we don’t spend money as casually as most of you do.

Also, please realize that a good deal of the time, we are worrying about our futures, about whether we will be able to continue living in some degree of comfort and security. Above all, we don’t ever want to be burdens for our children to have to bear.

I recently read an article by a man who said there was nothing good about old age. I don’t agree. I like our acquired wisdom, the ability to like and care for ourselves, and, most of all, the way that, for many of us, laughter has become a given. Good, close friendships and hours of laughter … both immeasurably wonderful gifts of this age.

And for the luckier of us mucholder women, there is another gift: adult children, who, with love, and no small amounts of patience and tolerance, continue to try to truly know us … and to understand us.