Not long ago, my husband said rather casually to me, “I wish I knew when I was going to die.” An important wish, indeed. He is 81.

But his concern was neither spiritual nor existential. He was wondering whether it was worth his while to have a knee replacement operation.

The complex issues of being old

Finding ourselves in what are inevitably our later years has many different aspects. Some people bemoan the fact of being old, loathe the many vicissitudes of ageing and have a strong fear of death.

Not me. I have always focussed on the positive at whatever age I have found myself – and this includes right now, having turned 80. Indeed, I have written a .

But this doesn’t mean that everything is easy. We have less and less energy. Our memories fade. Our bodies begin to show their age in one way or another – or perhaps I should say in many ways altogether.

I tend to summarise this as ‘the wheels begin to fall off’.

The knee operation

Which brings me back to this knee.

As many readers will already know, knee operations are not at all easy. Some proportion go wrong (you end up worse off than when you started) and there is a long period of recovery and rehabilitation.  My husband’s thoughts were very sensible: “If I knew I was going to die in a year, it wouldn’t be worth all the trouble. But if I had ten years, it would be worth thinking about.”

And he is right. It is a difficult decision.  I would bet there are plenty of others in the same situation. Or wondering whether to move house. Or whether to embark on some other major undertaking.

All our lives, we are taught to weigh decisions carefully, taking into account the costs and benefits, including the time available.  Yet here we are with a key variable completely missing from the calculation.

I wish I had an answer, but I don’t.

Would you really want to know?

But his simple question sent a number of ripples into my mental pond. Would we really want to know our expected date of expiry?

Yes, there are some decisions where a clear date of departure from this earth would be useful.

You could make more sensible medical decisions. And perhaps some others. You would know exactly when your things needed to be in order. You could say your good-byes in good time.

But this is undoubtedly a slippery slope. How would it affect your day-to-day relationships? Or the activities you undertake?

Would you be out there trying to fulfil every longstanding wish, ticking off the items on the famous ‘bucket list’? Or would you simply turn your face to the wall some time in advance?

Or would you be the proverbial deer caught in the headlights – so much to do, so many people to see, not certain where to turn?

Socrates

It is strange the things that you remember. I distinctly remember my mother telling me, when still a teenager, about Socrates.

He had been condemned to death and was due to be administered a dose of hemlock (a known poison). While it was being prepared, he asked to be allowed to finish learning a particular melody on his flute.

On being asked why he wanted to do this, he was reputed to have said, “When else will I learn it?”

I don’t know if this is apocryphal, but it is a good story. Doing something meaningful until the very end.

This was first published by SixtyandMe.com.

A few months ago, my husband was approached by a young researcher, doing a study on the frail elderly and clearly keen to approach all such people with the right attitude.  Yet once you have the need for a particular ‘attitude’, instead of a normal interaction with another human being, the trouble begins.

Her concern was to determine whether he was frail enough for the study. Unfortunately, she asked questions in such a way as to suggest that she thought he was probably a bit dim.

This did not go down well. He, being a former academic, was trying to get her to define her terms.

In the end, she decided he was not frail enough, which I am sure was right.

I would make a good guess that she was glad to be rid of him. But not more than he was glad to have avoided involvement with her.  The whole experience did not leave a good taste in his mouth. Nor mine, when he told me about it.  We do not want to be talked down to.

The view from ‘below’

The experience brought back memories of many years ago.

When my son was just two years old, I realised he had a mindset that I had never seen in any other child of my acquaintance. It took some watching and some thinking, but I finally got it pinned down.  He simply did not accept child status.

As far as he was concerned, he was not less equal than the larger people he came into contact with – whether parents, childminders, teachers, our friends or anyone else.  Yes, he needed to learn from them (when he wanted to) and yes, they would insist on bossing him about, but somehow, in his mind, he was their equal. And he squirmed with visible discomfort when confronted with clear condescension.

This continued as he grew older. As a young child, he loved collecting facts of all kinds and had a good memory for them. Even at the age of five, he had no reluctance to correct teachers when their facts were incorrect.

Nor us, of course.

I remember trying to explain this to friends. If we found ourselves on another inhabited planet, I suggested, we would soon realise that we needed to learn the language, the customs, the history and the belief systems of the local people.

BUT we would be darned if we would be talked down to. We were their equals ­– we just had a lot to learn.

Why shouldn’t a small child feel the same way?

And why older people?

Yes, there is a natural tendency (of which I think we were less guilty than many other parents) to talk down to children. But then it seems to go into reverse as we age. There is an even worse tendency to condescend to the old.

There seems to be something about a lot of wrinkles that brings out a wish to talk down.

This is exacerbated when the older person has the bad luck to be in a position of dependency, such as being hospitalised. The “how are we today, Ann?”, asked in a high voice, is not something I have any wish to experience.

This tendency to condescend to old people, when you think about it, is very odd. We are the people who have seen so much more of life and have handled so many more difficult situations.

What happened to the reverence with which ‘elders’ were traditionally regarded? Weren’t we once assumed to have some wisdom?

We should fight back, like my son, whenever we can.

A version of this article was first published in my book The Granny Who Stands on her Head: Reflections on growing older, Glenmore Press. Available on Amazon and elsewhere.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Can you remember when you first heard these beginning lines from this famous poem by Dylan Thomas? Perhaps in high school? Or perhaps in college? It was published in the early 1950s and has remained one of his best-known poems for decades.

It had such ferocity, such passion. It swept many of us up in its simple words. No, of course, we will rage against the dying of the light. We wouldn’t imagine doing otherwise.

I don’t know about you, but I was young and romantic when I first heard this poem. It sounded so brave and so right.

If you hear Dylan Thomas reciting it, with his very musical Welsh voice, it is even more so.

But, in the light of our years of experience, is it so right after all?

Thinking about dying

Something made me think about this poem recently, and for the first time, I began to wonder whether I agreed with it anymore.

Those of you in your 60s may not think about dying all that much. It feels a long way away – unless you have some life-threatening disease or are closely involved with someone who does.

It’s the kind of thought we easily put away for another time, further down the line. Nothing to worry about now.

But as we grow older, into our 70s and beyond, we begin to think about a lot of things, including dying.

We are aware of friends dying, not to mention many others around us. We notice that the obituary pages are full of people younger than us.

It makes us begin to ponder how we will cope with this last challenge.

Attitudes to dying

I have spent some time over my life thinking about dying for two reasons.

First, 30 years ago, I wrote a book based on interviews with young people with HIV/AIDS, back when the diagnosis was essentially a death sentence.

The men and women interviewed were incredibly inspiring. They were not generally raging at their situation, as Dylan Thomas urges them to, but were doing their best to live as well as they could for the limited time they had left.

And they were remarkably concerned for others. Many were involved in support groups for other people with the disease. Not surprisingly, those with children were particularly concerned to ensure that they would be well looked after.

I found them all very moving and, indeed, wise. I called the book Wise Before their Time.

Caring for the dying

Secondly, roughly 15 years ago, I wrote another book based on interviews with nurses, doctors and many others looking after the dying in two hospices.

They, too, were inspiring but for another reason. They were very thoughtful of the needs of the dying people in their care – and did their very best to respond to them.

For instance, they helped hospice patients to write important letters to family members or encouraged them to make their peace with key people in their lives.

They also went the extra mile to respond to patient requests. One man, for instance, said he wanted to die under a tree and when the time came, he was taken outside to a tree.

The atmosphere in the hospices I have visited is always very tranquil. Peaceful – certainly not full of rage.

Dylan Thomas revisited

Which brings me back to whether I would really want to rage against the dying of the light.

The simple answer is no.

Yes, I want to live life to the fullest for as long as I can, but when the time comes, I hope I will meet my end in a spirit of tranquillity.

I hope I will have said all the important things that need to be said and feel at peace with myself.

This will make my dying so much easier for family and friends, not to mention my husband if he is still here.

But it will also make it easier for me.

This article was first published by SixtyandMe.com (see https://sixtyandme.com/how-we-die/)

Have you ever stopped to think about how very odd it is to have children? It is, when you come to think about it, one of the most peculiar things we ever do.

The decision to have children is an enormous leap in the dark, with very little control over the outcome. Yet, whatever happens – whether you have a girl or a boy, whether you have twins or more, whether there is some horrendous catastrophe – it affects the rest of your life.

What we wanted or expected

And, over time, it is never quite what you really expected.

Some of us strongly wanted a girl but got a boy. Or vice versa. Some of us wanted a quiet child and some the reverse. Some of us hoped for a house full of children, while some wanted only one.

Yet we got what we got. And many of us end up deciding that we were very glad that we didn’t get what we thought we wanted. Life can surprise us like that.

Perhaps you foresaw all the ways in which your life would change, but few of us do. It is too hard to think that far ahead.

And the hardest part is to really realise how long the impact would last.

I have written a book about , and one of the reasons that I do is the pleasure of having adult children. I liked them when they were young, too, but I like seeing them really grown up.

Babies become children become teenagers become adults

We tend to start with wanting a baby. (I will skip over those who never wanted to get pregnant in the first place.)

People with a number of children already may actually think about wanting an eight-year-old (or another age), but most of us get no further in our thinking than that baby.

It may be a sleeping new-born baby wrapped in a blanket, or it may be a crawling and laughing baby trying out his or her new capacities, but it is definitely a baby in our thoughts.

You don’t hear many people say, “I really want an argumentative teenager in my house” or even a sweet cooperative teenager for that matter.

Moreover, I never heard anyone say they wanted a son or daughter of 36 or 45 or 52, who may or may not be in touch. Human beings are not built to think that far ahead.

Yet that is what we end up with for years and years and years.

Of course, children don’t stay the same age any more than we do, but they stay adults and yet remain our children. It’s all very strange.

We look at our children now and the image can morph into the same person at age two or 10 or 20 in the blink of an eye.

And yet this small child, whose bottom we wiped and who we nurtured through so many ups and downs, now has a beard or grey hair and glasses. Not to mention all the abilities and interests we never could have imagined.

Relationships

Ongoing relationships vary hugely. Some parents talk to their adult children every day, no matter how distant or how little news to impart. Some lose touch completely, often with considerable pain on or both sides.

But I suspect the vast majority of families remain in contact in some way, at a minimum keeping abreast of major developments and recognising occasions such as birthdays.

And I suspect that whatever the arguments that may arise from time to time, these relationships remain important.

There are so many variables that affect our relationships with our adult children. Their interests, their temperament and character are certainly important.

I don’t know how many children ‘fall close to the tree’, as they say, and continue in the family profession. Carpenter begets carpenter and doctor begets doctor.

It probably makes family meetings easier unless carpenter-the-younger takes up some new fad, with which carpenter-the elder has no sympathy. It happens.

Then, there is the choice of marriage partner, which can bring us together or drive us apart. The complexities of coping with in-laws need no introduction.

Grandchildren

And finally – and perhaps most importantly – there is the arrival of grandchildren. I would guess that this event generally serves to cement relationships with our adult children.

At a minimum, it means we see them more often, since if we want to see the children, the adults come, too.

Of course, arguments may ensue if we don’t approve of how the grandchildren are being brought up. Perhaps the adult children give their children too many things and not enough time. Perhaps they seem too strict and/or not strict enough.

Whether said grandchildren are cuddly young babies or strapping teenagers, there are plenty of ways in which we may want to help our children to cope. The tricky path is to decide how much to say.

I like having adult children, the more adult the better. It is a pleasure to see how they have grown and developed. Their interests may not be my interests, but that just adds another dimension to my life.

They keep me in touch with the generations below and keep me on my toes. Very occasionally, they may even seek for my advice.

I find them a constant surprise.

A version of this article can be found in my book The Granny Who Stands on her Head: Reflections on growing older (see getbook.at/Stands-on-Head).  

Another version was recently published on SixtyandMe.com (see https://sixtyandme.com/experiencing-adult-children/).

I heard an expression the other day that stopped me in my tracks. It had the ring of a famous saying, although that turned out not to be the case. But more importantly, it had some real profundity. It said, simply, “Life ends in the middle of a sentence.”

Getting your life in order

Life ending in the middle of a sentence basically means that the end of life is not tidy. And, I suspect, that is absolutely right.

The issue is essentially about getting – or not getting – your life “in order.” How many times have people spoken to you about this? It is one of those phrases that people start to use once they are over a certain age.

And those of us who have reached that certain age also begin to think about it. When the end comes, as it must someday, we want to be ready.

This sense of readiness can be about your mental state­ – making peace with yourself and others – or it can be about your things and your activities. It is the latter I want to address here.

Some people may have already met this readiness goal. They will have carefully downsized both where they live and what they own.

In the process, they will have sorted all those old papers, with many thrown away and the important ones carefully organised. Their books will have been sorted and cut down to a minimum.

More significantly, they will have handed down all the precious memory-filled items that they wanted to ensure landed in the hands of a particular daughter or son. Or, perhaps, grandchild or, indeed, friend. They will have read through their last will and made sure it is in a safe place.

In sum, all that stuff that seems to accumulate over the years will have been substantially reduced. Everything will be in its place.

The process of ‘cleaning up’ after their demise will be easy. They will have left no mess behind. Congratulations are due.

Real life

But is it really that easy? Can most of us be quite so fully organised? We may have tidy plans and a wish to do the right thing, but I question whether we can ever have such orderly lives. And, most importantly, would we wish to do so?

The image of everything being in its rightful place suggests that we have had our lunch, tidied up, put the plates away and are sitting quietly in an armchair waiting for the Grim Reaper to knock on the door.

In truth, life is not like that. We all have projects of one kind or another. For me, it is writing; for others it may be painting or knitting a special outfit for a grandchild or planning the next holiday.

Human beings don’t often put their feet up and wait. They get restless, they mooch around, and they get themselves stuck into something that interests them.

Even if they don’t have exact plans, they may well have dreams. This came home to me very vividly when I was looking after a man who was dying of AIDS roughly 30 years ago. We were writing a book together about living with AIDS and had become good friends.

He had done comparatively well, living longer than anyone expected, but his body was beginning to let him down. As someone active in the AIDS community, he was well aware of his situation. I helped him out where I could.

Among the errands, he asked of me was to post a letter, together with a coupon, to a company offering a free trip to the Caribbean to a lucky winner in several months’ time. I remember walking to the nearest post box wondering why I was doing this obviously pointless task.

But I knew that such dreams were part of what was keeping him alive. In fact, he died two weeks later.

My own experience

Although I would dearly love to know that my life was “in order,” I have not yet tackled this process. I keep thinking about downsizing, but like St. Augustine and chastity, I say, “Oh Lord, not yet.”

I have thrown away a lot of papers, given away many books, and made some lists that will make life easier for my children when they come to cope with my death.

But I have not yet moved from a large house, suitable for when my children were home, and still own a lot of things that should properly be moved elsewhere.

More importantly, I have numerous projects still to go. I am nearly finished with one book and am planning another. There are books I want to read.

My family photographs are in a mess and need to be sorted if those who remain behind want to know who was who. A long list of things To Be Done sits on my desk.

And there are aims for the future that will never get finished. I want to see my grandsons grow up and find out what they choose to do with their lives. If I live long enough, I will feel the same about any potential great-grandchildren. So, there is no end ever in sight.

We don’t stop until we are stopped. At that point, we will be in the middle of loads of things. There will always be a long To Do list. In short, we will be in the middle of a sentence.

And this is how it should be.

A version of this article can be found in my book, The Granny Who Stands on her Head: Reflections on growing older (see getbook.at/Stands-on-Head)

It was first published on SixtyandMe.com (See https://sixtyandme.com/getting-your-life-in-order-before-it-ends-too-soon-can-it-ever-be-accomplished/)

By the time you are in your mid-70s and there has been no major health crisis, you know you have been lucky. If you have a spouse (or partner) and ‘you’ means both of you, you know you have been doubly lucky.

Now aged 79 and my husband aged 80, I have been saying to friends for a few years that we can reasonably expect a metaphorical block of concrete to fall on our heads at any time. No certainty of when or where, but it is definitely getting more possible.

Cancer? Heart attack? A nasty fall? Or, worse, some form of dementia?

Our own form of bad luck

And then that block did fall.

A few weeks ago, on Easter Friday evening, we were chatting about nothing in particular when my husband said that his eyes were blurry. It had just happened, there were no other symptoms, but it didn’t feel right.

Phone calls to a medical helpline and to an optometrist friend both elicited the suggestion he should get to an eye doctor. Both suggested a particular eye hospital, but neither hinted of any emergency.

The following day, Easter Saturday, not much was open. Even in the great metropolis that is London. Not our own GP surgery. Not the recommended eye hospital. The local optician had no appointments, but there was no eye doctor there in any case.

In brief, we went early to the best-known eye hospital in London, where a perceptive doctor feared it might be a stroke. To my eternal gratitude, with persistence, he obtained a referral to an excellent stroke unit in a convenient hospital.

We learned then that my husband had had a haemorrhagic stroke, resulting in an eye condition called a homonymous hemianopia (hemianopsia in the US). Difficult to spell h’s seemed to be part of the condition.

He stayed in the hospital for two nights (it should have been more, but he managed to talk himself home on the grounds that he would recover quicker with good sleep and good food – and perhaps they needed the bed).

Aftercare

The aftercare from the National Health Service (NHS) was brilliant. The day after my husband arrived home, an occupational therapist visited him at home to assess his needs and provide advice.

The stroke doctor phoned twice within the first two weeks, a senior stroke nurse phoned once to provide a helpline number and the senior doctor from the eye hospital also phoned to say they would be in touch when his eyes had settled down.

As for the patient, he was left very tired and with no disability except to his eyes. Indeed, after a few days, it was clear that he could read a newspaper slowly, go for walks and do most things. He could watch television, but with occasional difficulty (for instance, at times he couldn’t see the football in a televised match, depending on the camera angle).

But he is an avid reader, and it is likely he will be unable to read books because the slow reading means he cannot absorb the rhythm and meaning of such prose. Yes, there are audio books, but they are not the same at all.

Reaction to misfortune

But all of the above is a preamble to what I most wanted to write about, namely our reaction to the situation, particularly my own. You never know until it happens.

OK, a block of concrete had fallen. Yes, this was likely to change the texture of my husband’s life and therefore my own. It could, indeed, shorten his life span. We were told his eyesight might improve, but it was not likely to.

Many people become frustrated and angry in this kind of situation and I was, indeed, warned that he might undergo a personality change. That was the most terrifying suggestion of the whole experience.

But he is a calm and patient man and has never expressed any frustration at all. “It is what it is,” he says, “I will learn to deal with it.” He has a wicked sense of humour and it has not disappeared, thank goodness.

I went into a period of suspended emotion – not cross, not relieved, just holding in there. Part of me certainly wanted to fall apart. To rant that this had happened and was in some way unfair. Only I knew it wasn’t ‘unfair’ because fairness has nothing to do with these events.

And my strongest reaction was that he – and therefore I – had been lucky. He could have been permanently disabled. He could have lost his speech. He could have died. But all he had was a loss of some sight.

He had got off lightly, dodged the bullet, take your metaphor of choice.

At some point, roughly two weeks after the event, I did break down and have a short but powerful weep following an exploration of whether this shortened his expected life span. A terrifying chasm opened up just briefly – enough to peer over the edge – and then closed again.

I think the psyche knows exactly how much pain you can take ­­– and when – and doles it out appropriately. I went back to a sense of calm.

The man down the road

I think it is quite a common reaction to disasters of whatever kind to decide that you have essentially been lucky, that there is someone worse off than you.

Years ago, my husband’s late aunt, then widowed and in her late 70s, was flooded out of her much-loved bungalow by a major flood in North Wales.

Because of sanitation issues, she was required to live in a caravan next to her house for months while the authorities slowly cleaned up the numerous houses similarly affected. It was cramped, there were limited cooking and washing facilities and was clearly not the way she wanted to live.

Did she complain?

No, she told us she felt sorry for the man down the road, who was in the same situation but with a heart condition. “It must be really hard for him,” she noted.

I thought then – and I still think now – that there is always ‘a man down the road’. Someone worse off. Makes us appreciate what we have.

The future

We will continue to wait to see if there is improvement. We will wait to see what resources are available for the condition.

And, in the meantime, that block of concrete can still come – cancer, heart attack, a nasty fall, or, worse, some form of dementia.

You just never know.

A version of this article can be found in my book, The Granny Who Stands on her Head: Reflections on growing older (see getbook.at/Stands-on-Head)

It was first published on SixtyandMe.com

Two little girls, age 2 and 4, are having a bath. Their mother, a doctor, is asking them to wash themselves. “Who is going to wash her face,” she asks. “Me,” “Me”, they shout at once, giggling.

There is a bit of splashing, Then the mother continues, “And who is going to wash her vulva?” “Me,” “Me,” they again shout at once, again giggling.

Did your eyebrows go up? Mine did. And then they went down again. I think she was right.

It takes a bit of thinking about.

And where did I hear this exchange? On BBC Radio 4, on a series of programmes entitled “Inside Health,” with this section brazenly called “The vulva,” played on a Wednesday afternoon.

Body part names – men

We grow up and are told various names for the lower end of our bodies.

Words for the male body are easy for reasons that aren’t altogether clear. You can use the formal words – penis and testicles – and many people do.

You might not talk about these things at the Queen’s Garden Party, but otherwise they are considered reasonable words with no overtones of impropriety.

There is also a friendly child’s term for the penis in England – and perhaps other parts of the world – the ‘willy’. It has an endearing quality and is not considered impolite, except in the most formal circumstances. Some men use it, too, but rarely in a sexual context.

And, of course, there are a lot of slang words for both, which you don’t learn at school and we don’t need to worry about here.

Body part names – women

But for us women, it is much more complicated. There have always been issues around what we call our various body parts in the lower region.

And much more of a frisson when we say them out loud.

Somewhere along the line, we learn we have a vagina, often contrasted to the penis, and it is also seen as a respectable term.

And at school, we tend to be shown pictures of the inside reproductive parts, so we know about the ovaries, the fallopian tubes and the uterus (or womb) – and even the vagina in this context.

But what about the rest of our equipment? Who teaches us that we have a vulva or a mons pubis or labia majora and minora (which sound like some distant part of Turkey).

No one teaches us, we cannot see them and we remain remarkably ignorant. Indeed, we often know the names for the more detailed parts of our eyes better than we do of our female parts.

And then there are the inevitable euphemisms. My mother told me I had a ‘front bottom’ and a ‘back bottom’ and left it at that. I never learned anything more in that department from her.

When I had my daughter in 1969, the nurses informed me that I had a ‘front passage’, a ‘back passage’ and a ‘birth canal’. I had a slight jolt, but I worked it all out.

(If I may digress, I also learned that babies ‘passed motions’, but at the same time – remember it was a period of student protests – the students at my husband’s university were busy ‘making motions’. Or it may have been the other way around. The two concepts have been forever mixed up in my head since that time.)

Again, I am not getting into the business of slang. You could write a book about that.

The power of words

So why are we shocked when a mother teaches her young children to use the correct word for that part between the legs?

You just don’t hear the word very often and it sounds, well, too strong, too technical or perhaps too much ‘off colour’.

Is the word ‘vulva’ seen as vulgar because it starts with the same three letters? What if, instead, we associated it with a Swedish car? It already sounds a lot more friendly.

But you may say, it is not ‘nice’ because it is associated with sex. But so is the penis and it does not have the same power said out loud.

There is certainly nothing shameful about the vulva – or, indeed, any part of the body. The vulva and other bits and pieces are simply parts of the female anatomy. Every female has them, from the new-born baby to the 90-year-old woman and beyond.

On reflection, it can only be right for mothers to teach their children the right words and to not be embarrassed by any part of their body. This goes for boys as well as girls, so we all know all the anatomical terms.

But perhaps she might hold off on the word ‘clitoris.’ It would be difficult to explain what it is for.

A version of this article was first published on SixtyandMe

I have always loved to write. Should you give it a try? The answer depends on what you want to do – and be.

Many people think that this is a glamorous activity, but I can assure you that it is not. You sit at home on your own, in your own world. Or in a cafe, with noise all around, but in your head, you are alone with your computer.

You struggle to think how to put your thoughts. Sometimes nothing comes. Sometimes what does come is not worth the candle.

In the old days of paper, you often found yourself with a wastebasket full of scrunched up bad starts. Now, you just press a computer key and everything disappears.

And yet I love it. Because sometimes you say exactly what you wanted to say. And then it is wonderful.

Children and writing

Most of us were expected to write from time to time as a child. I am sure I wrote the usual dull stories of princesses that young girls tend to write. I don’t remember them at all.

Perhaps you wrote something more interesting then.

What I do remember is going to my father’s office one Saturday morning, when he had urgent work to do, but needed to look after me. I was given some paper and pens and was told to sit quietly at a big table.

The idea came to me to write the story of my life (I would not have known the word ‘autobiography’). I had one line for each age.

The whole thing ended with the memorable statement “Age 8: And then I understood what life was.”

For some reason – I didn’t know why at the time ­– my parents thought this was funny. Or, perhaps, charming.

They kept this document safe, and I found it with their papers after they had died, along with the jacks and rubber ball I used to play with at more or less the same time.

Finding a career

I never thought of pursuing writing as a career, for instance becoming a novelist. This was never seen as a ‘real’ career. I also didn’t feel I had enough to write about. And, most importantly, it would not support my husband through his PhD.

But writing can take many forms and, in the end, I found my way. I became a social researcher and wrote numerous reports, articles and, yes, even books on the topics of my research. I liked doing this and others seemed to like what I produced. And so it went on year after year.

When I chose to work freelance, I was asked to do a lot of writing – reports from Committees of Inquiry or for Government departments, more mundane reports and even research proposals. I also found myself doing a lot of editing.

Even after retirement, I carried on doing unpaid what I had previously done for pay, because it was what I liked to do. I even went back to that day in my father’s office and wrote a kind of memoir.

Not that I really know what life is.

The process of writing

So why do I like writing? For as long as I can remember, I just liked the process – I enjoy the challenge of working out how to begin and how to find the right word for any particular context. The rhythm of a sentence is important to me.

I like seeing a piece of writing grow, like a knitter of an ever-increasing blanket or sweater.

And equally importantly, I love the process of cutting it back, namely editing. It is like weeding. Just as a garden can suddenly have a shape and a beauty when the weeds have gone, so too can a piece of writing.

Should you take up writing?

Would I recommend writing as an activity to take on in your 60s or beyond? Why not, if you have the inclination, feel you have something to say and want to try.

Even if you’re not sure what you want to say, it is worth having a go.

You may find a whole new career, writing down stories you told your children or grandchildren or exploring difficult or interesting experiences from your life.

Or you might even find yourself producing a novel.

If you are seeking fame or, indeed, an easy income, it is definitely not a good idea. It is possible to become rich and famous as a writer, but it is exceedingly unlikely.

But it is a great way to challenge yourself and do something that is genuinely creative. And you can do it anywhere and anytime.

Think about it.

A version of this article can be found in my book, The Granny Who Stands on her Head: Reflections on growing older (see getbook.at/Stands-on-Head)

It was first published on SixtyandMe.com

“I’ve had my three score years and ten. I really can’t complain – all the rest is extra.” These are the words of my father a few years before he died.

The number these days – probably even then – might not be exactly right when calculating the average life span, but the attitude is spot on.

When it comes to living, we all want more, more, more. But I think we should be pleased when we get those extra years of life. They should be valued and savoured as much as the years before.

But my father had a much more serious problem than simply dying – he was deeply concerned for the welfare of my mother, who had vascular dementia.

If he died first, who would look after her when he was gone?

Older People

Many of us older people these days find ourselves in the role of carers (or ‘caretakers’ in the US). There is the occasional carer for a parent – the children of all those centenarians, after all, are not exactly young.

But much more common are the older people caring for a spouse with a serious disease or disability. They slowly aged together and one of them became afflicted with some problem or other.

The remaining spouse generally does what he or she can for a period. If things become too difficult to manage, the overwhelmingly stressful decision may be taken to put them into a care or nursing home of some sort.

But this doesn’t take away the problem. All the worries of who will visit and care about them and how the ill or disabled person will manage in the case of their death still remain.

In my father’s case, the situation was eased because they lived in a retirement community and, when he could no longer cope, my mother was moved to the ‘assisted living’ – and later, the ‘nursing care’ – part of the same complex.

Moreover, he had hired a wonderfully attentive woman to see to her needs for some hours every day. She helped my mother to dress, talked to her endlessly and took her out for walks.

She had a marvellous combination of practicality, good sense and great warmth. She undoubtedly eased the lives of both my parents in their last years.

And yet this did not solve my father’s problem of dying before my mother.

He broached this issue with my brother and myself on several occasions, and we assured him we would continue to do what we could – and to pay for the extra help for as long as it was needed.

Other people with disabilities

I had already been very familiar with this problem. Many years ago, I had carried out some research on the problem of parents of adult sons and daughters with what are now called learning disabilities.

Many of the parents were in their late 70s and 80s and many of their ‘children’ were aged 50 and above. The study was ostensibly about what they saw as the best housing arrangements once their son or daughter moved from the family home.

But it soon became clear that the real issues that worried these parents were emotional – not practical – ones.

First, the tremendous family bond meant that they didn’t want their son or daughter to move away to be helped by anyone else. They feared that no one would love them or care for them in the same way.

And second, they were deeply, deeply worried about what would happen after they were gone.

This was probably the most emotionally stressful of any of the research I ever undertook, with highly emotive interviews often ending with tears.

My colleague and I felt that we had no easy answers, but it was important to raise the question, which had been largely hidden. By bringing it out in the open, we hoped that both parents – and the professionals who worked with them – could begin to make appropriate and thoughtful decisions.

We published a book called Letting Go, which got some attention at the time (1989) but is long out of print. I should mention that the book has not been updated since it was published, so if you manage to find a copy, please do bear that in mind.

The problem of dying

I want to come back full circle to where I began. As we age, we naturally begin to think about death and its implications for ourselves.

This is normal – and healthy ­– and I hope everyone can find their own peace.

But spare a thought for those who have that additional worry of what will happen to someone they love when they are gone. They are the ones for whom we must have the utmost sympathy.

Postscript

My father did die first. But my mother died only three months later. We continued to pay for her companion, who was enormously helpful to the end.

At my father’s request, we gave her an extra sum after my mother’s death in thanks for her devotion to my mother.

And I learned some years later that she used this sum to pay for nursing training, got her diploma and has since become a nurse, a lifelong ambition.

This article was first published on SixtyandMe.com

Yes, I am about to reach the big 80. It’s not a surprise. I have seen it coming for some years. But I only started thinking about it recently.

Big birthdays

We all tend to make a bit of a meal of the decade birthdays, although less so at age 10 (all part of childhood) and age 20 (because we make a fuss of 21).

Each one sounds ‘old’ at the time. We fear becoming 30 (yes, I know it sounds ridiculous now), because it somehow means we are ‘over the hill’. Little did we know.

Age 40 and 50 remain milestones as each sounds like a marker for a different part of middle age. And I suspect the unspoken thought is that middle age itself is only a stone’s throw from something called ‘old’.

Sixty must have a meaning to readers of Sixty & Me and it is, after all, the traditional benchmark for the beginning of our older years. And yes, it does feel like a big step, even though for me, it is now 20 years ago.

Celebrating birthdays

For the first time since my childhood, I held a big party when I turned 60. My daughter helped with the organising. We hired a room and had live music, loads of good food and wine. Some friends even came from abroad. It was very memorable.

By the time I turned 70, I chose to have a much smaller party, but a number of friends came to my house to celebrate. As it happened, it was the first slightly warm day after a cold winter and everyone was in a good mood for that reason.

And now, at 80, I shall have my daughter and her family, plus my long-suffering husband who does not even like parties. My son and his family are too far away.

But it is enough. Our world shrinks somewhat as we age. But so do our expectations.

My feelings about turning 80

But the real question is, how do we feel about turning 80? I can’t speak for anyone else, but I feel great. I didn’t expect this reaction, but it is what I find.

I feel I have climbed a mountain and like the view. Or have been honoured with some unexpected prize.

It is a sense of achievement. Perhaps well-described in the Sondheim song “I’m still here,” sung famously by Elaine Stritch.

Yet all I have really done is just kept breathing. Looked in that way, it is hardly an achievement at all.

Being old

The truth of the matter is I like being old. It took me awhile to realise that fact, but once I did, I gave it some thought as to why.

The , just published a few months ago, exploring the joys and challenges of being older.

I concluded that although there are both upsides and downsides to becoming old, for me the former outweigh the latter. As long as – and this is a big proviso – you retain reasonably good health.

Yes, you go downhill physically – no doubt about that. Your memory is not what it was, and your energy is disappointing. Your body lets you down in many ways.

Your day-to-day life tends to shrink. You may give up driving. You may look to downsize your living arrangements. You begin to lose some people you love – old friends, perhaps your spouse.

And you become more aware of the Grim Reaper looking over his shoulder in your direction.

But this is only one part of the story. I like being old because of the very great self-confidence it brings. You know yourself – your strengths and your weaknesses – and, with luck, you have come to terms with your life. You feel comfortable in your own skin.

All this brings a sense of freedom or liberation like never before.

Relationships tend to strengthen with age. With your spouse. With your friends. With your now grown-up children. And in many cases, you have the delight of new grandchildren in your life.

What’s not to like? And, as my dad used to say, it is better than the alternative.

This article was first published by SixtyandMe.com