At Seventy Things Fall Apart

                                                With a nod to Chinua Achebe, who was nodding to Yeats

At Saturday morning coffee, when some of us vintage folk gather, Judy was talking about how she’s been healthy all her life and able to do more than people twenty years younger. I’ve known Judy fifteen years or so and can verify the truth of those statements. In her 60s, she was rehabbing and selling houses; helping to plan, design and build a green artist studios and galleries complex; fostering kittens; keeping grandchildren for the weekend; coordinating art exhibits at a coffee shop, doing a dozen other things I don’t remember and maintaining a lively social life.

Now, in her mid-seventies, she’s suffered two bad falls, the first on her mad dash to a demonstration with a load of picket signs. That one broke both arms. Then winter before last she slipped on ice in her alley and fractured her hip. None of that stops Judy from fostering kittens and coordinating art exhibits, but these days she admits she must be mindful of every step.

Judy ready to join a historic march

Another friend past seventy said, “I can do one event per day. If I go the art museum, that’s it, I’m done.” I’m not there yet but going to coffee group and the gym in the same day is enough for me. It’s already the case that after a certain time in the evening I can’t make decisions. About what grade to give a student’s assignment—I used to do hours of grading at night—but also about if I should take a shower or not. I mean I can’t make decisions. That window closes around the time it gets dark.

This morning over breakfast, Phil and I were discussing colonoscopies. I’ve had one and he’s had two. The prep is hell. I’m convinced I should not have to endure another one. At lunch with my dear stepdaughter from my previous marriage, who is fifty-something, we spent half our time reviewing results of our doctor visits. Another over-seventy friend’s advice: don’t start talking about our ailments, because then we won’t talk about anything else.

Phil walked through the kitchen to the breakfast room and said, “wait, I wanted to go upstairs.” Upstairs is in the opposite direction. I was comforted, because several times a day, I stop to ask myself, “why am I in this room?” Most of the time, I remember. “What we have to hope,” Phil says, “is that it doesn’t get any worse.”

Some more advice, for anyone else passing seventy:

• Create routines: This way you’ll remember it’s Tuesday because you’re going to the gym or you’ll remember to go to the gym because it’s Tuesday. Very handy.
• Don’t stop moving: We’ve all watched old people struggle into and out of seats. (Groaning to get up doesn’t count. I’ve been doing that for years.) Take a walk. Is it Tuesday? Go to the gym.
• Keep learning: The old brain. That sucker will atrophy without exercise faster than your biceps. Do something to challenge your mind. Research shows old people are more susceptible to scams. That’s because they’ve let their brains get mushy. In my opinion, it’s the only thing that explains the existence of Trump supporters.
• Practice patience: Judy is my prime example. I could also cite my own broken wrists, but don’t like to be reminded of them. You can’t do all you used to as fast as you once did. Get over it. I once spent five hours and weeded the entire front yard. Now, it takes six days at an hour a day to do the same work. Learn to see this as an accomplishment.

When Phil and I entered seventy’s front door, Judy was waiting in the parlor and promptly warned us: this is when things start to fall apart. Judy wasn’t just sitting there, of course. She was organizing a student tour of the Santa Fe Arts district and sending the latest batch of kittens she fostered off to their new homes.

Here’s the bad news: the average life expectancy in the U.S. is 78.6, behind Canada and the UK, where it’s over 80, but those people have national health care systems. The good news? Those who make it to 70 have a good chance of reaching 85, but only a third or so of us get to 90. If you want to beat the odds, follow the advice. And step away from that soda pop and fries too.