I haven’t a leg to stand on.

There is no excuse for acting impulsively, climbing onto an airport shuttle with a deep (very deep) step up, not stopping to ask for help, not wanting to inconvenience the other passengers.  The driver had left me to stow my bag and prepare to drive off.  Clearly, pulling yourself up with all your weight on weakened tendons is not smart or safe.  No thought to ask for help, to call out for support or a step stool.  No thought at all.  And so, for the past week I have been encumbered by a severely stressed set of tendons, icing my foot often, relying on Tylenol extra strength, walking as little as possible. 

My last few days in Florida, needing to organize my papers, pack my bags (with help), prepare to drive to Sanford Florida to board the auto train home and I am hobbling around the house in frustration and remorse.  What is wrong with me? Why am I so unaware of potential hazards?  How can I be more aware without loosing my innate need for energy, for drive, for action?  I give up any planned beach walks which had become a regular routine for me every year, saying farewell to the birds, the surf, and the peacefulness of the gulf.  I attend fewer discussion sessions, trying to avoid extra walking, and can make only tentative plans for the few days I have left in St. Petersburg.  I’ll miss one last visit to the Saturday Market; one last walk around Coffee Pot Key, off a Tampa Bay inlet; one more opportunity to wander the downtown shops for last minute gifts for friends and family back home.

Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could devise a way to “program” our mind/body connections so that if we should begin at action (reaching too high for at item in the closet or supermarket; taking a shortcut that leads you down a dark, unknown street because traffic was stuck on the highway, and you just HAVE TO get home!) an inner voice would whisper: “whoops, slow down, be safe?

One of the main challenges we face is finding a way to stay healthy, stay “intact” and safe, without cowering before potential calamities and doing less and less of the things we most love.  We are in a constant state of balancing risk and opportunity, stability and safety with lost potential for growth, and fun and adventures.  For myself, I’d like that balance to be rich with new experiences, trying new opportunities for sharing ideas, concerts and theatre,  meals and beach walks, learning about the world through travel and books, mostly just being.   Given my past experiences, I also know that this approach will take a well planned ‘balancing act’: being more mindful of my body in space, avoiding distractions like phone beeps, giving up a small amount of spontaneity to lengthen independence.  So off to dance, but not for a few weeks, and not with high heels!

aging and ageism some issues and questions

Aging and Ageism: Some issues and questions

 

First the reality:  we are aging.  The alternative is not an option.  So we find ourselves at yet another developmental stage.  Yes, we have traveled that worn path from infancy to childhood, through adolescence; (not an easy one!), to young adulthood and, for many of us, marriage and parenting and working and exploring our world and ourselves. 

 

Until our early sixties, aging was something our parents did.  We were there to help with the occasional crisis, in many cases taking over the care and decisions for an infirm parent widowed early. We often watched as their world shrank and trips to the supermarket became a complex chore rather than a quick stop on the way home. They had cared for us, now it was our turn to be caregiver, or at least care manager.  

 

The experience of living in our modern world has changed dramatically in our lifetime. Medical advances in the identification, diagnosis and treatment of countless diseases have been life extenders.  Groundbreaking research in biomedicine and the expansion of our worlds through new technologies that were unimaginable only a generation ago has become standard, though expensive, options to early death or disability.

 

We have moved from sharing a land line telephone with another customer, (Remember the ‘party line?”), to being virtually connected at all times and places.  It has even extended to having a chip implanted in our bodies to allow long distance monitoring of heart rates and blood pressure.  

 

Aging in today’s world looks markedly different than it did for our parents and grandparents.  In addition to the changes in health care, a wide variety of “self-help” options through exercise, dietary choices, yoga and Tai Chi act as both extenders to our lives as well as providing enhancements, so we can feel and look better.  We have more stamina and the ability to function independently longer.  Imagine:

• When our parents were our age, they were clearly old, or long gone.  My father died at age 54, my mother at 74 and I’m pushing 73 (and trying to lift weights too!)
• Many of us, especially women, broke glass ceilings, faced and faced down education and work barriers that were rare in our parents’ generation.
• There are fewer role models to learn from as we age and many more choices and decisions to make.  How long is it safe to live alone, or drive at night?  Do I really have to stop all work, or can I continue to consult, or volunteer to work with children, or the homeless; chair a Board or begin to take classes in life long learning programs?

 

As we move into the last phases of our lives we are facing an array of choices.  Even taking the vagaries of health and illness into account, we can find ways to affect our outcomes.  Are we beginning to face the discrimination, the denigration of aging? Jokes about memory loss and aging, even told by us, can feel demeaning.  Often Doctors or other health care professionals talk about us and our symptoms and wishes with our children, ignoring our presence in the room.  How does this make us feel?  Irritated, diminished, angry, or anxious?  And what of preferential treatment, such as senior discounts, a guaranteed seat on the bus or subway, a wise sage turned to for advice? 

 

Questions arise regularly as each of us manages this transition.  As you think of them, remember how you have made other transitions.  They may act as a guide for you as you plan your future. 

 

What drives your planning?

-With fear, a growing awareness of what you can’t do, rather than what you can? 

-Do you welcome this change with energy, enthusiasm, excitement, wonderment?

- Does planning make you anxious and thus avoiding the very idea of change?

 

Where do you fall on the independence vs. dependence scale? 

• Do you feel entitled to receive preferential and deferential treatment?  After all, you earned it, right? 
• Do you feel grateful for the outstretched hand, or, protecting your independence, do you react like a toddler pulling away and saying “I can do it myself!”
• Are you continuing to contribute; to families, communities, societies?
• Are you keeping up with the latest health/dietary/safety options? 
• Have you adapted to and adopted new ways of communication, like I phones and I Pads, texts and e-readers? Trust me, it may be complex and frustrating, but if you live far from family and grandchildren, a five minute ‘face time’ with them via computer or smart phone can make your day!
   
   Over the past few years, facing widowhood and illness, living alone and traveling I’ve learned to listen to my body, but let my mind and imagination and joy of learning grow unchained by fear of new experiences and opportunities. So I watch my step, hold onto banisters, eat reasonably healthy foods, while I explore art museums, mentor young children, finish crossword puzzles, learn about science, and health, and politics and poetry.  I share my ideas with others, and I write.   Happy graduation to a vibrant older you!
   

On February 5, 2008 I began living alone for the first time in my life.  My husband Ben died, after 47 years of marriage.

 

Born in 1941, I had shared space and my bedroom with my sister and parents until my marriage on February 22, 1961.  47 years. The first apartment we lived in had one bedroom, one bath and I slept on a day bed in the hallway.  Today, I live alone in the house Ben and I bought in 1977; three stories, finished basement, four bedrooms and three baths, rooms once filled by us, our children, and various dogs and cats fully.  In winter, I transition to a much smaller space, a two bedroom condo in St. Petersburg, Florida. 

 

That smaller space provides me comfort and convenience. I can downsize, I’ve been experimenting with it for the past 10 years and it works.   I read articles and books on aging in place; I’ve even lectured on the subject to senior groups both in Florida and home in Maryland.  At a certain age, at a certain point in time, the space we inhabit changes from a place of support, filled with memories and memorabilia to an obstacle course, filled with potential dangers; managing the upkeep and repairs of household fixtures from light bulbs to water heaters to plumbing leaks; stairs to climb, empty rooms to keep heated in winter and cool in summer, cabinets built up to the ceiling and well above the 5 foot 2 inches of the only inhabitant left. 

 

What follows is a rollercoaster of emotions: I need to downsize!  Yes, but where would I put all the furniture, pottery, paintings, tables and couches and book shelves in less space?  Each painting or drawing has its own story; where it was found, what it meant to us, what memories in evokes.  I even have a full size painted carousel horse that has pride of place in my living room.  This house is too big, too expensive to keep up!  Recently the house needed repairs to the heating system, costing upwards of $1500 dollars and shattering my monthly budget.  More importantly, why I am heating so much space, when I barely use one quarter of it, and only for 8 months of the year?

 

But there are the memories filling up the spaces, housing footprints of holidays celebrated, favorite foods cooked, birthdays remembered, our 30^th wedding anniversary, our daughter’s Bat Mitzvah reception, the Halloween ritual of eating hotdogs on rolls so we could answer the constant peal of the doorbell. The basement is now totally devoted to a potpourri of storage items long unneeded; gift wrapping papers, excess bowls and dishware and unused bedding, even a queen sized bed not used for over 25 years since our daughter moved away for the last time.  I’ve found at least 100 old record albums, but no turntable to play them on.  And books, always and everywhere the books!  Some dusty and dog-eared, some probably never read, all vying for pride of place in the front row of deeper shelves.

 

We used to celebrate Christmas day playing an endless game of monopoly on the living room floor: cheese, salami, crackers and cider eaten while the fire roared and our dog, Hersey waiting till the game was almost over to lazily wander in and walk over the game board, knocking everything over. 

 

How does one carry all those memories, pack them up, consign them to new spaces, sell, donate or gift them others, without feeling an aching emptiness? 

 

I’m usually not the kind of person who holds onto things; Ben, my husband, was the saver: olds drafts of writing, magazines by the dozens, articles to be cut from newspapers and filed away, even socks with worn out heels.  I was always the one instigating periodic sprees of organization, discarding the unused, the old, and the “we’ll never need this again” criterion for disposal.  But suddenly I find myself holding onto files or books or scarves, concert programs or pieces of pottery, not wanting to discard them, not wanting to whittle down my stuff.

 

What I am realizing now is that I do want to downsize, but only my space, not my memories.  I may end up in a smaller house or rental apartment but I am sure the walls will be covered with my collections of art work, the tops of surfaces filled with pottery, an antique mosaic tile from Spain and of course, the carousel horse. 

 

What will be missing is the companionship, the shared experiences and the stories a house well-lived in collects.  These I will keep inside.

 

Downsizing spaces, not memories

Downsizing Spaces, not memories

Or

TCHOTCHKA memories

 

 

The decision has finally been made after a costly repair to my heat pump and excessively high electric bills while it was running on electricity for almost a month.  I will move to a smaller space, a rental apartment without the angst of home ownership.  37 years living in the same house, watching the children grow and then outgrow their family home, moving on to their own futures; school, spouses, children, careers, homes of their own.

 

I walk through the rooms of my house, many fully furnished but rarely used anymore. First the living room, still used daily and lived in.  The couch, swivel chair, rocking chair and book case in good condition.  They move with me…check.  Easy decision.  The coffee table, shaped like the uneven bark of a tree, knotholes and all.  Of course it stays with me.  I can still remember the entire weekend we spent, Ben and I and two New York friends in New Hope, Pa., visiting a wood working studio.  I wanted the carefully sculpted three piece wooden screen/room divider, with eye holes that cast a subtle light onto the table.  It would never fit our small one bedroom apartment, but the table, its uneven edges, only minimally smoothed surfaces, it has served us well in apartment after apartment, house after house.  Looking at it today, the last day of another year without Ben, I can still hear our laughter as we tried to tie this bulky, weighty table on top of our car with taut ropes.  Ok, that stays with me, it holds more than books and old New Yorker magazines and coffee cups and remote controls. It holds the past.

 

The ancient stereo system, large cabinet still filled with old LP albums; jazz, opera, Broadway musicals, classical music, some classic folk rock.  It stands between two out-sized speakers, products of the early 60’s.  They haven’t been used for over 15 years, so they go. No difficult decision there.  But the albums?  Sell them? Even though I no longer have any way to play them?  Ok, they can go too.    

 

The table that is really a slab of marble atop an ancient sewing machine base, all wrought iron and ornate, that is also precious.  The day was warm, we were browsing in Ellicott City Maryland after the hurricane Agnes flooding.  It had survived and is now covered with pictures of the kids and grandkids on carousels. So yes, it also stays. 

 

Carousels?  I’ve always loved them, spent much of my childhood summers riding them, collecting gold rings, even a boyfriend for a while whose Dad owned the amusement park section with the skee-ball machines and the wonderful painted carousel.  One late August day Ben and I had lunch in Ellicott City and walked toward our car.  In the window of Taylor’s antiques we saw a full size brown, brightly painted carousel horse.  For sale.  For a price we could afford.  For ME!  His name is now Sylvester Stallion, and he lives in our house, wearing an old ascot of Ben’s, an Obama for President hat, ridden by a Barbie doll with pink ribbons in her hair.  Sylvester will stay with me.

 

Pictures on walls display the artist’s creation, but also the stories of where they were purchased or found, or given as gifts to us from artist friends; each has a back story.  A pen and ink drawing of a New Orleans strummer and musician, holding an umbrella and dancing in a parade; Ben was taken by it and purchased it.  It was almost ruined when he set it next to him in an old Oyster Bar in the French Quarter, where water flowed through a trench under the seats (an old fashioned spittoon).  He rescued it just in time.  The photograph of Thelonius Monk, looking down at the piano keys, which are reflected in his sunglasses, has special meaning too.  It was taken by a gifted photographer during the 1960’s in Greenwich Village. I purchased it the year after Ben died. When you look at the photograph, it’s as if Monk was playing just for you.  In a way, he was.  On our first date, November 1961, Ben and I went to hear Monk live at the Jazz Gallery in the Village.  And we sat in the audience and Monk wore sunglasses and he looked down at the keyboard.  I pass the picture daily, and I can still feel the night and the music and the beginning of love.  It stays with me.

 

My professional life, too, is recalled in photos and framed diplomas.  Pictures of the hospital I worked in for 15 years, helping to transform it from a convalescent home for children, aptly named  “Happy Hills Home”, to a state of the art pediatric rehabilitation hospital;  photographs of both the old and new hospital, framed, hang in my home office, a parting gift of thanks to me by the Board.  Photos of legislative bill signings, a Governor’s citation on my retirement working in the Governor’s office for six years; a pen and ink drawing of a child peering over a wall created by a fifteen year old African-American boy working as a summer intern with me in a County Executive’s office.  

 

And of course, the Tchotchkas (trinkets, or inexpensive toys; stuff).  The dented cup my uncle used during World War II in his mess kit ;the brass mortar and pestle that sat on my grandparent’s fireplace mantle; the cut glass vase and pitcher that went from my grandmother to my mother to me, used maybe once yearly;  a plate with Egyptian Cyrillic  symbols we picked up at an antique shop the day we purchased our first house in Baltimore, which hangs on the brick side of the fireplace; a mosaic tile reclaimed from a box in Toledo, Spain; extras from the renovation of a small temple. All have back stories, none that I am willing to part with yet.  

 

I have not mentioned the photographs; all the pictures in collages and frames and on the refrigerator, in scrap books and boxes and computer and smart phone “galleries”. Luckily, they are easily transportable and easy to store for they will not ever be discarded; they are the stuff of memories.

 

downsizing

Down-sizing/right-sizing

Sizing up my options           

 

 

On February 5, 2008 I began living alone for the first time in my life.  My husband Ben died, after 47 years of marriage.

 

Born in 1942, I had shared space and my bedroom with my sister and parents until my marriage on February 22, 1961.  47 years. The first apartment we lived in had one bedroom, one bath and I slept on a day bed in the hallway.  Today, I live alone in the house Ben and I bought in 1977; three stories, finished basement, four bedrooms and three baths, rooms once filled by us, our children, and various dogs and cats fully.  In winter, I transition to a much smaller space, a two bedroom condo in St. Petersburg, Florida. 

 

That smaller space provides me comfort and convenience. I can downsize, I’ve been experimenting with it for the past 10 years and it works.   I read articles and books on aging in place; I’ve even lectured on the subject to senior groups both in Florida and home in Maryland.  At a certain age, at a certain point in time, the space we inhabit changes from a place of support, filled with memories and memorabilia to an obstacle course, filled with potential dangers; managing the upkeep and repairs of household fixtures from light bulbs to water heaters to plumbing leaks; stairs to climb, empty rooms to keep heated in winter and cool in summer, cabinets built up to the ceiling and well above the 5 foot 2 inches of the only inhabitant left. 

 

What follows is a rollercoaster of emotions: I need to downsize!  Yes, but where would I put all the furniture, pottery, paintings, tables and couches and book shelves in less space?  Each painting or drawing has its own story; where it was found, what it meant to us, what memories in evokes.  I even have a full size painted carousel horse that has pride of place in my living room.  This house is too big, too expensive to keep up!  Recently the house needed repairs to the heating system, costing upwards of $1500 dollars and shattering my monthly budget.  More importantly, why I am heating so much space, when I barely use one quarter of it, and only for 8 months of the year?

 

But there are the memories filling up the spaces, housing footprints of holidays celebrated, favorite foods cooked, birthdays remembered, our 30^th wedding anniversary, our daughter’s Bat Mitzvah reception, the Halloween ritual of eating hotdogs on rolls so we could answer the constant peal of the doorbell. The basement is now totally devoted to a potpourri of storage items long unneeded; gift wrapping papers, excess bowls and dishware and unused bedding, even a queen sized bed not used for over 25 years since our daughter moved away for the last time.  I’ve found at least 100 old record albums, but no turntable to play them on.  And books, always and everywhere the books!  Some dusty and dog-eared, some probably never read, all vying for pride of place in the front row of deeper shelves.

 

We used to celebrate Christmas day playing an endless game of monopoly on the living room floor: cheese, salami, crackers and cider eaten while the fire roared and our dog, Hersey waiting till the game was almost over to lazily wander in and walk over the game board, knocking everything over. 

 

How does one carry all those memories, pack them up, consign them to new spaces, sell, donate or gift them others, without feeling an aching emptiness? 

 

I’m usually not the kind of person who holds onto things; Ben, my husband, was the saver: olds drafts of writing, magazines by the dozens, articles to be cut from newspapers and filed away, even socks with worn out heels.  I was always the one instigating periodic sprees of organization, discarding the unused, the old, and the “we’ll never need this again” criterion for disposal.  But suddenly I find myself holding onto files or books or scarves, concert programs or pieces of pottery, not wanting to discard them, not wanting to whittle down my stuff.

 

What I am realizing now is that I do want to downsize, but only my space, not my memories.  I may end up in a smaller house or rental apartment but I am sure the walls will be covered with my collections of art work, the tops of surfaces filled with pottery, an antique mosaic tile from Spain and of course, the carousel horse. 

 

What will be missing is the companionship, the shared experiences and the stories a house well-lived in collects.  These I will keep inside.

 

Does it take a Village?

Aging in Place

 

During the 1990’s, Hilary Rodham Clinton wrote a book titled after an African Proverb, “It takes a village to raise a child.”  Fast forward to 2013, and we have begun to see a variation of this concept.  In the growing and growingly diverse literature concerning aging, there has been a lot of discussion around the concept of “aging in place.”

 

 

Why is so much attention being paid to the elderly?  The reality is that the aging population in America is growing significantly. Unfortunately, programs, services and alternative living options have not kept pace with the changing needs and expectations of the “newly aging” generation born before or during WWII, the pre-baby boomers.  Some basic statistics tell the story best:

 

“In the United States, the proportion of the population aged >65 years is projected to increase from 12.4% in 2000 to 19.6% in 2030 (3). The number of persons aged >65 years is expected to increase from approximately 35 million in 2000 to an estimated 71 million in 2030 (3), and the number of persons aged >80 years is expected to increase from 9.3 million in 2000 to 19.5 million in 2030 (3).” (CDC Public Health and Aging, 2003)

 

Grandma isn’t so ready to take over the small front room of the house, or live out her remaining years in a nursing home environment, circa 1950. Two major trends have begun to emerge to meet the combination of needs the “new elderly” are faced with; aging in place, i.e remaining in your current home with adaptations and retrofitting of to accommodate safety and accessibility issues; and coordinated planning for transportation, recreation and medical services.  A second model is referred to as the Village concept. The Village concept aims to “support the medical, functional, emotional, social, and spiritual needs of older adults.” Seniors living in their own homes join together in their neighborhood and set up networks, public and private, to help coordinate and deliver  essential services, thus creating  a “Village”.  Villages reflect their communities through variations in design, capacity, and operation. Many older adults join these Villages because of a desire to remain in their homes and not be totally dependent on family members and friends.  A good summary of this concept can be found through the AARP Public Policy Institute Fact Sheet 177, March 2010.

 

Buts let’s talk about us.  Aging can be daunting.  For those of us in our early 70’s and 80’s, the gradual loss of energy, or resiliency, not to mention hearing, vision, balance and memory looms over our daily lives.  One friend remarked that if she had to ‘age in place’, that place should be, say, the 1970’s!  Even the language we use to describe ourselves is weighted with hidden, unwelcome images: old, elderly, decrepit, “loosing it”, aged.  When I say these words, images of my own grandmothers appear; stooped over, with white, thinning hair;  wrinkles on their wrinkles.   

 

One way we might choose to help guide us through this next phase of our lives is to ask  some basic questions:  I’ll list some here, but do join in the conversation; add your own questions.

 

1. Is my current living arrangement comfortable, safe, and accessible to me NOW,
2. Would this change if I encountered a temporary or permanent disability, e.g. injured arm, leg, back; post surgery body-part replacement (hip, shoulder, knee and yes, we have two of each!!!)
3. Would this change if my energy level or difficulty breathing limited my ability to meet all my basic needs, (cooking, shopping, showering, simple house cleaning)
4. Would this change if I lost my spouse or living partner who shared tasks with me.
5. Would this change if I could no longer drive, or only drive in daylight?

 

 

Over the next month, I’ll be looking into these models, and would love feedback.  Ideas, models that work, questions that need to be asked and answered. Join the conversation.

 

October 4, 2013

 

Living Dangerously, or is it time to move yet?

Living Dangerously

Or

Is it time to Move Yet?

 

As we age, there are frequently two life-changing decisions that face us:  “Do I have to give up the car keys?” and “Is it time to move?” In both instances, we come to a crossroad; two paths to take, a complex choice to make.  Do we hold tenaciously onto independence, the freedom to leave home to complete daily chores such as shopping, social outings, visits to friends and family when it’s convenient for us.  You just get in the car, assure there is enough gas, and you’re off.  Ah, then doubts creep in; “Can I see clearly enough in the dark?” “Can I easily twist my head around to check for passing cars?” Has my reaction time slowed dangerously?” “What if it starts to rain or snow?”  “How close to my destination can I find parking?”  We dread the day our grown children begin making subtle hints to us; joking about the need to take away Granny’s keys.  Not funny.  We know they’ll come a time when we have to make that judgment, give up that bit of independence, depend upon the kindness of friends and family, or often simply stay home in isolation and frustration.  Resources exist, more abundant in urban areas, such as bus lines, neighbor care riding programs, ride share programs offered through religious and community service groups.  But that means the loss of spontaneity, the creeping need to ask for help.

 

“Is it time to move?”  This presents a more daunting challenge.  This is your home. It holds countless memories, echoes of children shouting down the stairs, or across backyards; worn parts of throw rugs, shelves laden with books read and re-read, plants and gardens you’ve nurtured.  Of, course, there are also the steps leading down to the first floor and basement; the “handicapped inaccessible” shower and tub; the need to change light bulbs, fix leaky faucets, repair plumbing, or roofs.  When both spouses are alive, one often takes on the chores of the relatively more fragile or older partner, and it works for a time. For those living alone, the barriers loom larger. Often our first reactions land in the usual ‘mental baskets’ of denial, anxiety or stubbornness.  Sometimes, a new illness, a fall, or a change in visual acuity or hearing forces the need to pause, reflect and look at options and choices.  As you face these challenges, you might find it helpful to frame your thoughts around some key questions/issues.

 

 

Safety: So let’s get real.  Can you continue to drive a car, maneuver through traffic, hear, see and react to other vehicles and get to your destination safely and without near-misses? Be honest with yourself. Remember, this should be a dialogue between you and your spouse, or with yourself.  No hiding behind a brave front.  At home, can you do all that needs be done for yourself without the danger of falling, loosing balance or forgetting to turn off the oven?  Do you have a cadre of family, neighbors or friends who can be called to change a light-bulb, repair a leaky faucet, and winterize your house?  

Many communities offer home assessments for those who are ‘aging in place’ to recommend or install a variety of safety and accessibility modifications.  Search for them and use them.  Asking for a little help early may serve to extend your independence. 

 

Health/fragility:  Here is where a frank discussion with your doctors can be critical in making the decision to move from single to congregate living quarters.  Do you take multiple medications, and remember which ones to take when?  Does an illness, if unstable, lead to medical crises; loss of balance, bleeding, severe pain, loosing consciousness, difficulty breathing?  What’s your crisis plan and is it workable?  And no, a son or daughter living an hour away with family and work commitments is not workable for emergencies. 

 

Housekeeping/daily chores:  Can you keep your house clean and relatively neat without help?  If you need assistance, do you have access to a cleaning service, or local community members who can provide help for a modest fee?  In some communities, barter systems have developed, with more able-bodied neighbors doing the heavy work, and others provided meals, or other less physical jobs.  If you plan to age in place, looking for cooperative programs through neighborhood exchanges, or religious or community groups can make a difference.

 

Meals:  Eating foods that are healthy and adjusted to dietary restrictions on a regular schedule is critical to maintaining overall health stability.  Skipping meals when you’ve forgotten to shop, or if you’re just too weary to stand over a hot kitchen stove is not OK.  It should be a warning sign to you.  I’ve taken to buying semi-prepared foods in local markets, and often “assemble” meals.  But mealtime also holds a myriad of social memories and experiences. How often have you heard, or said, “Why should I bother to cook just for me?  Too much trouble!”  My reply is often “why not?  You are important.  Treat yourself!” Lunch dates with friends can take the isolation of eating alone away, and if that is a stretch in your budget, taking turns with friends cooking for each other is a great way to combine the health and social benefits of eating. 

 

 

Social life: We are, by nature and experience, social animals.  From our earliest years in families and school, religious organizations, recreational activities and community programs, we join together in groups, learning from others, sharing common experiences, working together, born into and creating families.  Yet as we age, family connections can change; older members die, children leave home for school, marriage, their own families, and these natural social relationships and interactions shrink.  In our increasingly mobile society long time friends may move across the country or relocate to more temperate climates.  One of the least expensive and most effective ways to stay alert, engaged and involved is to keep and expand a wide variety of social experiences; book clubs, religious services, community events, films and concerts and lectures, and life long learning programs.  Ironically, the independence you cling to in living in your own home may be eroded by your difficulty in solving the complex logistics of planning, arranging rides and arranging companionship.   

 

One of my closest friends recently moved into a continuing care residential community with her husband.  She noted wryly one day that “this was the kind of place we put our mother’s into, and now it’s us!” And yet, since she and her husband moved into a continuing care residence, they are actually busier, more social than when they lived alone.  Increasingly congregate housing programs are offering a multitude of activities, social experiences, learning opportunities without having to leave the campus or building.  So, bottom line, it may be helpful to think through the choices you have, the options that exist, and your current and likely future health status.  Go ahead, try it.  List what you must do, want to do, would love to do.  Now, rank them in order and ask yourself how you can create for yourself the kind of life for the next year, or few years, that will provide the most safety and the most stimulation, variety, options and yes, even joy.

 

 I’d love to hear your experiences as you begin making these decisions.