How Pathetic Have I Become?

Aging’s Effects Are Multiplying

At first, it’s gradual … not to paraphrase Hemingway about bankruptcy. But advancing age (I’m 78) is something like that. There may not be a “sudden” phase following the “gradual” phase, but what I’m noticing now is increasing difficulty escaping my routines; I don’t look forward to new experiences anymore. Instead, I seek the comfortable and familiar. It didn’t used to be this way. There was a time when adventure was a goal … or is my memory playing tricks with me? When would that time have been? I used to be concerned with what, or who, I would become rather than what I was, or where I’d been. New was desirable, stasis was boring. Now, stasis is the goal, new means decline.

Last year, on Easter Sunday, I found myself in the emergency room with a serious incidence of a subdural hematoma – apparently caused by a fall some six weeks earlier. The neurosurgeon, after drilling two holes in my skull, told me my situation had been life-threatening. Upon release from the hospital, I began to rethink my position vis-vis the world. Next came another birthday. Since then, I keep reminding myself that I’m 78 years old. My plans should now include fixing up the house I’ve lived in for 42 years, to sell it and move to some continuous care facility! It’s hard to get my head around this. Pathetic for sure, but it represents my future. The trouble is I have no identifiable infirmities … yet. The future is actuarial. Where should I invest my time and resources at this point in my life? I’ve never been a short-term gambler or investor. Long-term has always been the driver in my life. Now it seems like long-term means my heirs … only. And time, after all, is the ultimate scarce resource. My wife helps – occasionally prodding me to start planning along these lines – but she likely is counted among my heirs. Those college funds for my grandchildren? They’re all in the realm of the unknowable, uncertainty reigns.

Of course, nobody knows how long they have left, but actuarially it seems unwise to stipulate much more than another decade. Some investments (time as well as money) are not likely to pay off in the time I have remaining. The real long-term is governed by that Second Law of Thermodynamics, but in the meantime I can’t help but see that life all around me still goes on – especially other people’s lives – those close to me (my “heirs”) and those who don’t know me. Not so pathetic. There must be another law of thermodynamics accounting for the appearance of continuity. Perhaps it has to do with the cyclical patterns in nature. When things decay, they transform into another substance. Panpsychism seems to acknowledge this, although the true nature of consciousness is still beyond the scope of my understanding. Undeniably, I still feel joy in learning new things – reading, meeting new people, being observant. These are all signs that I’m not dead yet! And I want to share my new knowledge, too. Aging’s effects may be multiplying but don’t yet include any reduction in my desire to share.

The problem of creativity is one of those effects. We all want to be generative, creative, in some aspects of our lives. The desire for creativity doesn’t necessarily decline at the same rate as the physical and mental capacities for it. This can lead to growing frustration as we age – unless we can find a way to channel our continuing creative urges in ways that accommodate our possibly diminishing facilities due to muscular atrophy, arthritis, vision and hearing loss, even dementia. I write — and now find myself less dependent on audience appreciation than previously. I don’t need as many likes on social media as when I first entered the blogosphere. Feedback from readers means less — I’m my own best critic. If I can keep writing, editing, getting new ideas, I’m good. With modern technology, it seems the only threat to my chosen creative outlet would be dementia. Current research into Alzheimer’s and other dementia is increasing in intensity – but so far all we can say for sure is that there are apparently a variety of paths to dementia prevention, retardation, and treatment. We’ll see if any show real promise. I can only keep fingers crossed that my own physical survival does not outpace my mental survival. I have no genetic predisposition I am aware of, anyway. But I see dementia all around me, among many in my generation (including you know who). I surely hope for some breakthroughs in this area.

Then there is the mystery of memory itself. There are short-term memory issues and long-term fading of memories. I have trouble remembering names of people who are either vague acquaintances or celebrities, like members of my church or well-known actors on TV. My wife often helps me here (same church, same TV viewing). And it’s not hard to prompt memories of names by looking at photos with labels, or Wikipedia entries (my high school yearbook from 1965, recently unearthed in the attic, was amazing). The definition of a “memory” for ancient recollections (like that yearbook) is probably disputable. Is it a memory of a real event, or acquaintance, or is it a fanciful concoction of something or somebody altered just enough to suggest reality? I read an inscription in that high school yearbook from a female classmate who I swear I had barely met, but it sounded like she had a crush on me! Who knew? Perhaps she thought she was writing in somebody else’s yearbook. Memories can be fabricated. We invent details and insist they really happened. We convince ourselves – but our memories are at least partially fantasy. Pathetic?

Finally, we always come around to contemplating our “legacy.” It’s no longer a matter of what we can accomplish, but what we can leave … and, to whom. Will we be remembered? That law of entropy applies to legacies as well. History causes memories to fade. When we start thinking about multiple generations, that legacy might require affixing our name to something – like a building, or a trust. My kids and grandkids share my family name, which I inherited over at least two generations preceding me, but I’m not sure it goes back further than that (my late first cousin, the self-appointed family genealogist, never came up with a satisfying answer to that question). History requires evidence, the only remedy for those fading memories. Legacies may not count if nobody is left to remember them. Even money left to progeny requires them to remember where it came from. Otherwise, is it really a legacy? Perhaps there are invisible legacies – gifts that are real, even if their source is not known. What do my grandchildren really need from me? How about their parents? Was my career a legacy to my federal agency after 42 years? These are questions for which I may never have an answer. Do any of us understand our legacies? Are we all so pathetic?

— William Sundwick