The Invisible Side Effect of Aging

Loneliness and Being Alone are not the same, but often overlap.

“Agnes is being moved into a nursing home,” my mother said.

Agnes is still alive? She was ancient when I was a child.

 So go my thoughts as I busied myself with 40-year-old motherly tasks.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mom. How old is she?”

“79.”

I do the math. That ancient woman was in her 50s when I was a child. Okay, old to a 10-year-old and even to a 40-year-old, but years later, in my 70s, I look back at the 50s as the prime of life and no longer view 79 as ancient.

“Are you lonely? Suicidal?” doctors inquire with every visit, social isolation and loneliness considered health risks among the elderly. Spoiler alert: social isolation is a natural by-product of aging. Members of my peer group are dying or becoming debilitated, limiting and even cutting off communication with their peers. Adult children take over the care of their elderly parents but in the busyness overlook the impact of the arrangement on their parents’ social connections. Over many years my mother bemoaned that friends made in her retirement community would simply disappear. Because of privacy issues, the facility could not inform her of what had happened. Are they dead? In the hospital? Moved to another facility? My healthy middle-aged mind dismissed the news. Now my friends are dying, moving into nursing homes, turning their lives over to adult children for needed care. My pool of friends is shrinking.*

Today I met two old friends for lunch. Lunch is the preferred social meal, dinner requiring driving in the dark when cataracts transform street lights and pavement reflections into confusing constellations. My friends are old and long-time. I see the faces of the 40-year-old women I first met many years ago, although I am sure we looked elderly to most of the people in the restaurant. We couldn’t avoid talking about physical ails although all of us are upright, walk without support, and remain relatively socially active. Our biggest frustration was that it took all three of us to come up with the name ‘F. Scott Fitzgerald.’

“Sometimes, though, I just want to sit and do nothing,” said Diane. Thirty years ago doing nothing would have driven us crazy. Now I justify it as developing writing ideas. Just like stopping to take a picture when exhausted on the hiking trail is a photo op.

Today’s lunch followed news of close friends moving to a retirement community for much-needed help with physical and cognitive care. The news came from one of their daughters in response to a voicemail I left earlier. I could always count on a return phone call from these friends when I left a message. No longer. If connected, I hear the good-humored voice of my dear friend but I am confused: conversation is halting, her mind no longer finding the words to express the thoughts. I cling to the memories of the years of experiences our families shared. The experiences we never expected to end.  

Generally I have been doing well. Mike and I took a cross-country car ride from Phoenix to Chicago pacing ourselves to enjoy parts of the country we may never see again. Midway through Iowa my body balked, the humidity affecting me in new and inglorious ways. Now I am reluctant to tackle stairs and bad weather to meet up with others. My mind fatigues when confronting noise. I question whether I can live in the Midwest even part of the year.

“Old people shouldn’t go outside in this weather,” admonished Diane’s doctor. I can’t go out in Phoenix in the summer because of the heat. Now I am warned against going out in Chicago because of the humidity.

Defying that doctor, I sit on my daughter’s deck writing. I am not sweating. Chicago weather changes minute by minute and is pleasant at this moment. In Phoenix, the weather is more stable: hot and dry unless it is monsoon season which has little to do with rain but much to do with dirt and humidity. Thankfully I live in a time with interactive technology and worked in positions requiring basic technical savvy. I can maintain a significant number of connections via messaging, email, Zoom and phone calls.

This winter three people on my contact list died. And no one has replaced them.

*My siblings and I made a point of contacting the community and everyone on her lengthy Christmas card list when Mom died. Please share the news, we pleaded. Her friends deserved to know.