Tag Archives: aging

WE’RE ALL IN THIS TOGETHER

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We’re All in This Together

Remember your senior year of high school? The prom, the senior banquet, graduation. Remember calling your friends and asking about their dresses? Who they hoped to go with, what to wear to the senior banquet, and then the rented graduation robe and hat that ruined our poufy hair? We shared every moment and activity with our closest friends and anyone who would listen. We were all in it together, the biggest transition of our lives for most of us, leaving home for college, getting that first job, or maybe entering the military. High schools can be cliquey, but they are also times of bonding around a shared experience.

Then there was that 25th reunion, when many of us came together again to share not only our stories about adulthood, but more importantly, our memories of a time when we were all in it together.

The other day a friend, Carla, and I were talking, and of course the conversation devolved to that painful (pun intended) litany about our aging bodies—eye problems that make it unsafe to drive at night, knees, achy shoulders, hand arthritis, heart issues—if you live in a body and are over 80, there’s probably some component that’s either on the fritz or on its way there. Carla mentioned one of her friends who is getting a knee replacement—but the friend didn’t tell anyone. She believes she needs to tough through it, not bother anyone, etc. Carla reminded her—and me—that we’re all in this aging business together. And we are.

I think of my new bridge group. Most of the members have known each other since they taught together at a local elementary school. There’s a kindness and consideration that I love being part of. Two members, sisters, have tremors, and one of them takes a medication that exacerbates the tremor, such that she needs two hands to bring a coffee cup to her lips. When it’s her turn to host, we help serve, clear the table and do whatever we can. One member fell and broke both ankles, so we took the club to her rehab facility and played bridge in a hallway with a pitcher of water, Styrofoam cups for our coffee, and paper plates for treats. Another member needs us to watch carefully so she doesn’t get lost as she plays the cards. We play bridge, no matter what, and some players are quite good. We also have great fun, supporting each other, including me with my creaky knees who needs time to get up from a chair. We’re all in this together.

But it’s more than supporting each other as we age. Being in it together is part of the human condition. I especially see that living in Minneapolis right now. I am honored to be part of a community where we help each other. One woman decided to collect coats because people are usually released from ICE detention with absolutely nothing but the clothes on their backs, and we’ve had a very cold January. So many coats were donated that she had to find other charities that need coats in other areas.

The nearest public transportation to the ICE detention center is a half mile away—a long walk when it’s cold. So volunteers wait to drive released people home, even though sometimes people are released in the middle of the night. At my son’s school, teachers put together a Christmas for a family that was afraid to leave their home for fear of being detained. The city council found a million dollars of funding for people who can’t pay their rent because they haven’t been able to work (many immigrant businesses have had to close, especially on Eat Street where Pretti was shot.).These are only a few of the ways in which people pitch in, because even if we’re US citizens and not in danger, in Minnesota, we’re all in this together.

Last Wednesday, at the University of Minnesota basketball game, two former players were introduced at half time. We all cheered for one man in his late 50’s who looked fit and trim. He then walked under the basket and wheeled out another player in a wheelchair, wearing his letter jacket from years ago. The announcer told us his name and years that he played and then said that he is battling ALS. Immediately balancing popcorn and drinks and ice cream everyone stood, everyone, even the children and band and students and press, and they clapped. The camera flashed to the player in the wheelchair and threw his image on the scoreboard. He was both sobbing and smiling. The clapping grew deafening, and as we clapped, his smile stretched across his face. Blinking back my tears, I realized again, young and old, we’re all in this together—and we mostly know it.

I have to brag that the Gophers, a nobody team with a new coach and only seven players beat Michigan State, ranked #10. As we left the arena, happily hustling to our cars in the cold, picking our way on the icy sidewalks, I tried to pry my hearing aid out of my ear. I have a bad habit of unconsciously fiddling with it and pushing it deeply into my ear. As I grabbed it, I dropped it. Oh no! Hearing aids are not cheap. How would I find it with everyone speeding to their cars around me. I bent to look. Someone said, “Did you lose something?” I replied, “My hearing aid, and they’re not cheap.” The crowd stopped, literally stopped, and everyone started looking. Within minutes a man found it in a nearby snowbank where apparently it had bounced. “Is this it?” he said handing it to me. . . And we all walked on. It wasn’t just Minnesota nice, it was the humanity that we all share.

As I get older and my body shows it, I am often discouraged. I want to hide my infirmities, but this past month, living in Minnesota, I have realized that we’re all in this life together whether it’s aging or something else. I promise myself not to hide, pretend I’m the Karen I was at forty when I’m not. It’s about accepting myself and doing my part to help others, knowing that we’re all in this together.

Heart Picture from Turgay Koca. Others thanks to ChatGPT

I Never Thought. . . Or How Aging Has Brought Me to My Knees

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Getty from Unsplash

One late Sunday evening, after being in the house alone all weekend, I started down that melancholy path of “getting old is hard.” I realized that I had not learned much about aging from my parents or other relatives. I’d mostly responded when they needed help, and they didn’t share their aging experience with me (or maybe I didn’t listen). I started saying to myself, “I never thought that. . . “ and my list began.

I never thought that aches and pains could be a topic of conversation. Now, when I sit with my contemporaries, we invariably start with the litany. Who knew the bonding that can occur around bunions, trigger fingers, sore shoulders, hips. . .

I never thought. . . I’d have to eat kale to stay young. Growing up in the 50’s, the main green was iceberg lettuce, cold and crisp.

First everyone said, “try romaine.” I thought it tasted overly strong. Next were field greens. I adjusted to both,

but then came kale. I sometimes wish I’d never heard of it. It’s a dark time for greens and diet.

And I will never forget Elaine’s big salad:

https://www.youtube.com/shorts/Fet3c0U4vWs

What about grains? I thought spaghetti was a perfectly lovely grain, especially with a greasy meatball on top. Now it’s all about farro and quinoa—rice, you know, has arsenic in it.

I never thought that drinking coffee after 2pm could be a problem when I went to bed. I was one of those schoolteachers with a cup in one hand and chalk in the other. My own kids complained about teachers’ coffee breath, but I was sure I didn’t have it. How I long for the days of endless cups, every time I needed a break from something tedious!  And coffee started keeping me awake just when ordinary coffee became delicious—we could buy whole beans and grind them ourselves. No more church basement coffee, which, incidentally, still tastes good to me.

I never thought I’d walk into a room and wonder why I was there. Or loose the title of a favorite book on the tip of my tongue. Forget the name of Ozzie and Harriet’s other son—Ricky and ?? (I refuse to ask Google. I’m waiting for the memory to surface.) I’m still quick with music titles—they must live in another part of the brain.

I never thought I’d need a strategy for unscrewing jars—some of my rosemaling friends carry pliers to open paint tubes. My late husband Jim and I used to have contests over who would get the jar opened first. When he wasn’t looking, I’d use a rubber thingamajig to help me win. (I’m sure he knew and humored me).

And I never thought I’d think twice or three times or four, about taking a big trip. I’d check my passport and go.

And then there’s being married three times. I never imagined such a thing when I promised “till death do us part.” Three fine men—enough said.

Interestingly, as I listed all the changes aging has wrought, I found myself considering the whole of my life and a different list started to emerge. It wasn’t a dirge but celebratory.

I never thought family and friends would bring such joy. When I can’t do something, I call my children or grandchildren. Can’t change a bulb? Call someone, and while they climb the ladder and screw in a bulb, we get to talk. Can’t assemble something from IKEA? Call grandson Henrik—he loves to put things together while I make us a salmon dinner. Need help around the house? Granddaughters love telling me what to do, and I like taking their bossy directions. Need advice? Call a friend. I’m free to take their advice or not, and we get to talk.

Can’t run the stairs—so use the railing. . . and be careful.

Big trip—thank goodness I have more judgment than my younger self did.

And those aches and pains? They’re a good excuse to spend the afternoon reading a book, of which I probably won’t remember the title, but I can look it up on Google.

The marvel of living through the changes in the world is another landing. Yes, I could get bogged down on the frustrations with screen time and AI and processed food and TSA requirements and phone chains and ya da ya da ya da. But wow, what a journey! World War II to 2025.

My mother had bad knees. In her 60’s she had one of them replaced. Although the replacement ended her pain, she barely walked after the surgery. When told she needed to exercise it, she said, “Not me. I don’t exercise. I don’t even like people who exercise.”  It was a joke, but there was truth in it. She did not see the point of exercise. The artificial knee bulged under her skin, not like the natural looking replacements of today. Seeing that scared me, I resolved that I would be different; I would exercise and stay fit—I would head off the bad knees and old age, too. From about my thirties, I ran, walked, lifted weights, saw a trainer, swam lengths, did aerobics, the treadmill, rowing machine and elliptical. . . at least until COVID.

Well, guess what? My knees never got the message. They hurt and are bone on bone as doctors like to describe it.  I’ve been literally brought to my knees. I never thought that could happen. But maybe it’s a good thing. I never thought I’d understand humility either, but I do, along with other values that aging is teaching me. And, at the end of the day, I can still get on my knees and say thank you for everything I never thought would happen.

Photo from Bing

Dear Old Age

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Savador Dali: Alice in Wonderland

April 20, 2025

Re: Old Age

Dear Old Age,

You snuck up on me. One day I was going to the gym three times a week, and the next I was shaky in the knees standing up in the morning. I give you credit—you attacked me in a vulnerable spot—the family weak knees. I can almost hear you gloating. “Those Evans/Jacobson women, they’re weak in knees. That’s where I’ll come for her.”

I recognize that weakness in the knees doesn’t always imply old. Plenty of younger people get knee replacements. But it’s a symptom, and if I could only fix the symptom, everything else would be fine. I wouldn’t be getting older, and worried that I won’t get to do all those things I still want to do.

I want move to Norway and live there. Go to the family farm, Vaagenes, and rent a cabin, long term. I’d even settle for that second home on Lake Michigan . Sadly, I’m not going to do that. Darn, Old Age, you stink. . . . . . . Heh, wait, I got to live in Salzburg for three months just a few years ago. I stayed in a Zimmer with a tiny kitchen, bath, puffy duvet, and a big window with no screens and tiny, biting mosquitos. I ate boiled eggs every morning, a gift from the chickens cackling below that window. I do know what it is to live somewhere completely alone and in a foreign place! I do know that I can adjust to the new and learn about different cultures. Ha Ha – fooled you Old Age!

What about that dream of bicycling the North Shore, carrying camping gear, finding a secluded spot and setting up a tent in the evening? Of course, I still want to do that. I’ve never camped. We’d (notice I’m not alone—there must be another lover in here somewhere) sleep under the stars, fish for our dinner, and make love in a sleeping bag. Okay, it’s not going to happen for so many reasons, but don’t forget the Parkway and Lake Nokomis, my happy places where I biked with abandon. Been there, and almost done that, Old Age!

I’ve always wanted to turn a manicured, pesticide polluted lawn into a habitat for pollinators. I’d thumb my nose at my neighbors letting that residue drain into the beautiful lakes and streams we have in Minnesota. Old Age, gotcha again—I turned our lawn into a field of clover, seeding it summer after summer until the plants matured and bloomed into a home for the birds and the bees. I once saw a flock of flickers land and pillage the soil for healthy worms.

Another thing, I could get married—again—have the storybook ending this time. We’d meet, fall in love quickly, never argue, and agree on the same TV shows. As we near death, we’ll hold hands, serene as we fade away. Okay, three’s supposed to be the charm, but I might need four tries at marriage. I know, it’s a silly idea, but nothing was silly about being married the first three times. I had children, grandchildren. I held hands in movies, cuddled before falling asleep, wrestled over bills and where to live and how to live. I comforted lovers, and they comforted me. So, Old Age, look at all the love I’ve had along the way.

There are so many different lives I could have had in this amazing world –become a Buddhist, live off the grid, move to DC and protest. I want to try them all, but I’m running out of time.

Okay, Old Age.  I concede. I’m probably not going to live in Norway, or bicycle and camp under the stars. I never was a gardener—I detest getting my hands dirty. As for a fourth marriage, not sure I have the energy. I’m not interested in fighting, Old Age. Truce. . .     I actually like the life that I have, even if I want all the other experiences too.  I can even accept getting old, if you help me use it to build something different, something equally new, even if it doesn’t look flashy from the outside. I’m still here. Include me, inspire me, and I’ll always show up.

Love, Karen

Loneliness

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Loneliness. . . that feeling of isolation you don’t know how to change. Advice abounds: join a group, call a friend for coffee, get a hobby, and of course, find a purpose. . . but you can’t seem to make yourself do those things. It’s your own fault you feel lonely. You need to shut off the TV, get off the couch, and stare down loneliness. You stay stuck in feelings, not the solution. Solutions are for math class. You long for the ideas of others, their insights about the world. You wish someone would call, but they don’t. You’re so tired of hearing nothing but your own mental chatter.

The surgeon general says we have an epidemic of loneliness, defined as an objective state “of having no one around or of being by oneself for protracted periods of time.” That’s you. In the UK, 49.63% of adults and in the US, one out of two adults report feeling lonely. You’re not alone after all. Half of the world is with you. You tell yourself, “Humans are inherently alone. Everyone knows that.”

 “Maybe I’ll go to the grocery store,” you think—there’s no one to say this aloud to. You don’t need groceries. You don’t really care about cooking and eating except as appeasements to hunger. Regardless of what the Mayo Clinic says about not watching TV when you eat, you do like to sit in front of it and have dinner. Antiques Roadshow, people like you, many are antiques themselves, rooting around in attics hoping for a windfall.

And they talk. “Maybe you should go to the grocery store and get yourself something special for dinner,” that blabbermouth in your head does tend to repeat herself.

You’re a tad ashamed of your self-absorbed loneliness. Look at Helen Mirren. She’s alone and she’s not lonely. She takes responsibility for herself—like you should. She reframes being alone as solitude, and it’s her choice. “Does having a choice make a difference?” you wonder. Mirren notes:

One of the great gifts of growing older is to discover the exquisite art of being alone. What used to be an uncomfortable silence, is now a luxury. The house is peaceful, and I can dance in the kitchen without being judged or just doing nothing. My best company is myself, with a coffee, a good movie and the freedom to be, because solitude is not absence, it is fullness and peace of mind.

You resolve to reframe your loneliness as solitude.

Maybe you could write a journal, like Amy Tan’s The Backyard Bird Chronicles. People would flock to your door. “That probably won’t happen,” your inner voice tells you. “You no longer have a bird feeder.” Sometimes that voice does say something worth listening to.

A few days later it rains. Streaks of water coat the windows, making everything outside blurry. It’s one of those 48° chilling rains. No grocery store visit today. You’re still on a Helen Mirren kick, so you make some tea (which you don’t really like but it works for the Brits), and you decide to reread May Sarton’s Journal of a Solitude. Maybe it has some hints for reframing.

Sarton describes solitude as a retreat from the demands of others, a way to find the “rocky depths” of her personality, a chance to do inward work to understand herself.  She argues that we have to make myths of our lives. . . to yield further insight into what it is to be alive, to be a human being. “Maybe I’ll be Emily Dickenson,” you think. Sarton explains:

My experience of great solitude is that its character is unstable—at times exalts and fortifies then soon beats down, and throws one into a starving and thirsty state. (Does that mean you should go to the grocery store?)

You’re more drawn to Sarton’s solitude than Mirren’s, who makes it sound like tea and a biscuit. Sarton sees personal growth in solitude and she doesn’t sugar coat it. Knowing ourselves can be painful, but you’ve always been willing.

That said, you’ve read all of May Sarton’s journals, and you know the truth about her. She maintained a huge correspondence with admirers and entertained a stream of visitors—friends, hired help, and readers—such that she lamented about how tired they made her. Is that really solitude?

The days roll on. You fill out questionnaires in self-help books, hoping to find your purpose. You grocery shop, watching people. You eat dinner and guess the answers for Jeopardy, although you’re not as quick as you used to be—but what 80-year-old knows the names of rap artists anyhow? Finally, it’s bedtime. Two cats vie for a spot on the bed—see, you do have company. You read a self-help book with another one of those questionnaires and then settle in with something entertaining. A whiff of Pranarōm’s Sleep Aid and you’re off to dreamland, full of people and adventures, wild car rides, trips with significant others, not being able to run when you need to, flying (that’s my favorite—wouldn’t you love to fly?). Dreamland. It’s a place where you are never lonely.

Dear Readers.

I am not lonely. I have a passionate engagement with a rosemaling group, volunteer work I love, two writers’ groups, church, friends, and an attentive family. I have, however, had lonely times in my life, so I know what it is like. I worry that our society blames the lonely person, puts it on them to find a way out. So, if you know someone that you suspect is lonely, offer a hand up from that swamp. Call them up. Share your thoughts about something of interest. Connect.

All the lonely people, where do they all come from…

 (Paul McCartney)