Progress or Decline: Ageing in the Modern World

Things I Ponder

We live in a world that encourages us to grow, follow our dreams, develop our creativity or achieve goals, pushing on to change, renew or better ourselves, but is there a time to stop? Moneymakers. powerbrokers and insane world leaders governed by iron egos don’t change as they wreak havoc upon us all. But as mere mortals, should we persist in seeking acclaim or find acceptance by turning inwards as we face the inevitability of death?

Does moving into a retirement home develop or limit our potential? What does it say about our society that the elderly gather, locked away, albeit in comfortable circumstances? We may be isolated from family, but we can reach out and do community work and creative stuff despite being subtly pointed towards the grave the moment we retire. TV ads don’t tell the full story.

We move into retirement living voluntarily in the expectation that smaller dwellings might save us from a nursing home. People in my building certainly live longer. One man will be 100 in February 2025. But who are we, really, when we leave our houses and pets behind? The overarching aura of independent retirement living often feels more like being institutionalised than independent, as I’ve written before.

What Does it Mean to be Old?

I first thought I was old at 30, fearing I’d lose my figure with my imminent third baby (born on Cyclone Tracy’s cusp of fury). When I turned 50, that same baby boy gave his mother a single red rose when I hosted a party for women friends; a powerful women’s party. After a tipple or three, some guests broke down at the thought that they had, indeed, achieved power and insight through tertiary education yet wondered who they’d become and mourned the innocence they’d left behind. Others bemoaned their failure to follow suit with excuses for not having achieved anything because of children and bad choices in men. It was an interesting evening.

Rejuvenated at 75, I published my first poetry chapbook with two novels and several other poetry collections to follow. Living the dream. I turned 80 on the Marina Boardwalk in Glenelg over lunch with my daughter, but this year, my 81^st has seen me turn inwards. I find myself wondering whether that is a natural progression or a portend of decline.

I have come to believe we tend to settle into ourselves more as we age, but is that by adaptation, cultural isolation as we drop out of social things or something else altogether? When I see elderly friends who are younger than me but with healthy pockets and living partners tripping around the world or visiting interstate all the time, going places and doing things as though nothing has changed, I can’t help but wonder if the changes I see in myself are peculiar. But, changed I am.

Change Brings Grief

When I look back over the posts I’ve written over the years on Wattletales, I realise that I have often summarised those parts of my life that I’ve most valued, using them as a trigger to make a point about something that was niggling me at the time.

Recently, however, I’ve worried because, since the publication of my second novel, They Who Nicked the Sun and its recent launch at Manson Towers, where I live, I have not written a word until today. An article on grief gave me a clue as to what’s going on. 

When I told my doctor recently that I often cried for no apparent reason first thing in the morning, she looked at me blankly. The topic got lost in the more important stuff that she thought a test or a different pill might assuage. It must be hard being a GP for the elderly in a discipline predicated on the heroics of scientific medicine more suited to acute conditions. You simply cannot fix ageing; most conditions thereof resist the force of nature.

But the grief article showed me that I am grieving for parts of myself now defunct, and living in the confined space of my independent unit seemed the most suitable thing to grizzle about. Instead of taking pride in myself for being content with my lot and commending myself as I usually do for not fearing death, I sought to blame.

Like those women at my powerful women’s party years ago who blamed husbands and children for their failure to achieve, I have been blaming retirement living for pretty well all the changes my mind and body have experienced of late. My tears dried up the moment I understood that fact and once again accepted who and what I am at this moment. Then, my words —these words — began to flow.

The Truth Is

I grieve the diminishment of my mental acuity, my way with words (when speaking), and the decline of my physical strength and energy. I have been independent for so many years and now have to go slow, take it easy and ask (or pay ) others to help. Yikes! We need to listen when they say ageing is not for cissies. Frailty and weakness are simply not valued in our world, and I’m not too shy to report that old age sucks at times. But, then, so can life.

Nevertheless, old age has rewards. I am content not to be on the constant ‘doing and going’ merry-go-round. Even if I had the money and energy, I know I’ve had my turn, and I’m still here. My mental meanderings always find answers, and there’s nobody around to tell me I’m wrong. In writing, I found my home, and that is true freedom.

Happy Writing

Wattletales

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