I get together with two good friends each week. We take turns meeting at one another’s houses.
We are old friends who have seen one another through many bad and good times.
We are also experienced mental health professionals who have been involved in therapy or counseling over the years. All three of us chose to move into retirement villages at more or less the same time.
This shift required deep psychological adjustments—some tougher than others. As we moved from ‘young old age’ into ‘middle old age,’ we began to glimpse the gradual slowing down that lay ahead.
We have been meeting for nearly three years, and our
friendship has deepened. We talk about our families, our dilemmas about
spending our money versus leaving it to the children, and of raising children in
Israel, where, yet another generation is still fighting an existential war. We talk about aging and the quiet fear of losing strength. We reassure one
another that misplacing keys or forgetting where we left our hearing aids is
not a harbinger of cognitive decline—just the ordinary absentmindedness of
life. We try to help one another avoid catastrophizing about growing older, to appreciate the good lives we' have, and the choices we’ve made. We try not to allow
ourselves to be demoralized by doomsday predictions.
This week, we talked about identity and self-image. Now that I don’t work, who am I? Now that my partner has passed away, will I still feel comfortable with my couple-friends? Does living in a protected community imply that I am in some sense ‘passed it’? We talked about the difficulty men face in reshaping their self-image after years spent as businessmen or high-level managers. Many have poured so much energy into building careers and climbing the status ladder that, when work is no longer their defining force, they struggle to answer a fundamental question: Who else are they?
I am more than the sum of all my past identities. I was a baby, a child, a teenager, a mother,
a widow, a professional writer, a social worker … and many other things
besides. My friend, Noami built an outstanding organization. She catalyzed sweeping
changes in the treatment, education, research, and accessibility to resources for people with special needs. Due largely to her vision, those with
disabilities are more visible in the community and feel empowered to fight for
their rights. Michele achieved her doctorate in Occupational Therapy and
developed a worldwide reputation for the development of sensory treatments in
the Snoezelen – an adapted sensory treatment room. We have all done well in our
professions and have good feelings about our professional selves.
Nevertheless, we came into our new communities with more or
less clean slates. I had no friends or
acquaintances. Nobody knew anything
about me. Our first conversations were
always, ‘Where do you come from and what did you do in your earlier life?’
We want the people we meet to see beyond the elderly figures before them—the gray hair, the wrinkles, the slight stoop. We were once vibrant, full of motion and possibility. There was, indeed, a time …
Growing old disrupts our confidence in who we are. Once I
was energetic and active. I enjoyed
adventurous travel, meeting new people, and lazing on the beach. Today, I sit in the shade, counting the minutes
till I can go home. I hardly manage my 6000 steps each day, and I have to pause now and again to catch my breath. I like
meeting people, but it’s not easy to find friends who enjoy what I enjoy. I like to mess about in my house and watch
TV. If I do more than two things a day,
I feel overextended. I bristle at the
thought that just because I’m in a retirement village, a social worker asks me
how I’m getting on and whether I have made friends. On the other hand, I know it’s a good thing that
such concern exists, I am hard
to please.
I resist being seen as ‘old,’ I keep my hair neatly cut and swipe on a dash of lipstick before stepping out. But sometimes, when I catch my reflection, I startle. Who is that woman staring back? She bears an uncanny resemblance to my mother!
Naomi wrestles with who she is today. I wish people
knew that not long ago, she was awarded a National Prize for the work she did for
people with disabilities. On the other
hand, some people exaggerate their past achievements and don’t seem to
notice when others nudge one another or smirk. The thing is, we all have the same need. We
all need to feel recognized for what we’ve achieved.
And perhaps even more so, for the ways in which we continue to be creative and contribute to our communities.
Today I told my friends I’d created a Blog. I showed them what I’d produced, and they
oohed and aahed, telling me I was wonderful.
What made me do it they asked.
What made me put together all the bits and pieces I’ve written about my
life and go public with it?
Blogging began as a scattered collection of my thoughts and memories, but now I see it clearly—it is my way of preserving a cohesive sense of self. Unlike a memoir, which would bind me to the past, my blog keeps me present-oriented, reminding me that I am still someone beyond my former career.
Through my words, I continue to shape my identity and articulate my experience. I tell my stories the way I remember them. I want to be the author of my own life.
