As we move into our ‘senior years’, a whole lot of new questions begin to emerge in our day-to-day thinking. Some of us may look into the future and begin to worry about coping with long term illness or, indeed, dying.

Others, in contrast, may begin to think about the past. Were we happier then? Was it easier then? Would we, in short, prefer to be young again? And, if so, how young?

Start with Childhood

Some people say that childhood represents the happiest years, when we were completely carefree and responsible for nothing much at all.

Circumstances differ, of course, but for most people, it was a time when we simply had to get up in the morning, get ourselves to school, play with our friends and, perhaps, do the odd chore.

Personally, I think childhood is greatly over-rated. Certainly, for some it was an easy and enjoyable time, but others will remember it as a time of great stress. You don’t understand the world, you don’t know where you are going in life, your ‘friends’ can be difficult and sometimes even bullies.

Worst of all, you don’t understand yourself – neither your strengths nor your weaknesses.

Some people look back and see only the positive. But I had problems in my own childhood and then watched both my children experience problems and now my grandchildren as well.

I would not go back to childhood for the world.

Teenage Years

Becoming a teenager is undoubtedly exciting, as you begin to explore the wider world and its possibilities. But it is a time of such angst that it is hard to think anyone would ever want to repeat it.

Is there anyone who would want to be a teenager again? In my view, this is a question that answers itself.

20s and 30s

Once you are past the worst of adolescence, it does seem to me that life becomes a little easier. You have begun to settle into a profession or job of some kind. You are exploring personal relationships, perhaps choosing a partner and having children.

Yes, it is exciting. A lot of new joys. A new partner or husband! A new baby or two! Learning new responsibilities at work. Beginning to get a sense of yourself.

But as I look back, I also see a lot of problems.

The period of one’s twenties is particularly problematic. You are officially an adult, but frequently don’t feel or act like one. It’s not easy to find a permanent place to live and, indeed, many young people these days continue to live with their parents.

More difficult still, a lot of people feel the pressures of not really knowing where they are heading in terms of a career. If they have chosen something, they wonder whether they will be good enough. Some may also question whether their chosen partner is, in fact, the right one.

Perhaps it all becomes easier in your thirties. Some issues have clarified themselves for good or ill. But you see yourself approaching the big 40 and wonder whether you have done well enough.

Everyone is busy and pulled in many directions – the search for promotion, the needs of the partner and kids.

Often, you find that even your friends are too busy to talk.

Is that so great?

Midlife and Beyond

At least by the time you are in your ‘middle years’ you know yourself reasonably well. You have learned how to pursue your strengths and how to live with your own limitations.

You have finished having all the kids you will ever have, which may be seen as a joy or a relief or the source of considerable unhappiness. But you know where you are in this respect.

You may also be coping with menopausal symptoms, which may be no difficulty at all or be the cause of major problems.

And you may be coping with the famous twin pressures of adolescent children and ageing parents, both of whom need your attention. For some, this can be the most stressful period of their lives.

Looking Back

These are all very personal thoughts, which undoubtedly depend on the trajectory of your life and that of those around you.

In my own view, the older you get, the better it gets. Not everyone will agree. A lot of it will depend on the simple issue of health.

A friend of mine, for instance, who found himself quite ill and tired at the age of 70, asked me whether I would prefer the normal spread of ages or to be age 65 all my life. He said he preferred the latter. I was not so sure.

Perhaps, like me, you are glad you went through all those stages but are happy to be where you are. Or not.

Of course, if you could be all those earlier ages with the confidence and wisdom you have now, perhaps the answers would be different. But that would be cheating!

This was first published on sixtyandme.com (see https://sixtyandme.com/would-you-like-to-be-young-again/)

A friend asked me recently whether she should take on the role of volunteer in a cause she believed in and for an organisation she trusted. My immediate reaction, based on my own experience, was “Yes, go for it.”

Being a volunteer is likely to present a whole new series of challenges from anything you have seen before. You will be faced with new problems and will search inside yourself for new ways of coping.

As we age, we need such challenges to feel young and vital. It keeps us on our toes. I believe that research I’d read somewhere suggested that new experiences of this kind are good for our long-term health.

Volunteering After 60

There are many types of volunteer work. Some will involve the use of skills, such as teaching children to read, or driving old or disabled people to medical appointments and the like.

Other tasks will involve helping organisations with their paperwork. Or sorting clothing or other donations to charity shops.

To me, it is most satisfying to work directly with people – visiting lonely old people in their homes or helping out in care homes. In my case, I worked in a hospice and gained enormously from it.

The benefits from such work are surprising – both in the sense that they are likely to be more than you thought and in the sense that they are unexpected.

Thrown into the Deep End

If anyone had told me beforehand that I would want to make tea for dying people, I would have doubted their rationality. Yet that is exactly what happened to me. Doing it and wanting to do it.

The first time I ever walked into a hospice, I did so with some trepidation, concerned about what horrible things I would likely see. Yet all I saw was an incredible peace and tranquillity that very much drew me in. I can still remember it vividly. I wanted to be part of the place.

And so I applied to a local hospice and was taken on. The ‘volunteers manager’ interviewed me briefly and said OK. No background check. No training. Just thrown in at the deep end.

That was 20 years ago. These days, there is doubtless a great deal of bureaucracy required to obtain such a role.

My Involvement with the Hospice

I spent roughly four hours in the hospice every Saturday afternoon, week after week, unless I was away.

The institution was very small – 16 beds – but almost always full. People were admitted much earlier than they would be now. All were dying, but some of them lived for some months in the hospice prior to leaving this world.

Somehow, it felt important just to be there, just to help at this very intimate moment in people’s lives. If anything I could do would lessen the burden of patients or their families, I was very pleased.

My job was to talk to patients, especially those with no visitors, make them tea, and discuss the menu for the next day. When I started, it felt very daunting just to do these small things.

After a few weeks, however, I got used to it and became adept at making what seemed like appropriate small conversation. Visits generally went smoothly.

Difficult Moments

But now and again, I would be faced with something that gave me pause, but also taught me the skills I could muster when necessary. Here are a couple of examples.

The hospice had a chef who went to some trouble to make the food appetising. One week, around the time of Mad Cow Disease, there was beef on the menu. People all over the country were often uneasy about eating beef, although it was said that it took 20 years for infected beef to have any effect.

But yes, one patient studied the menu and asked, “Do you think I dare to eat the beef?” I said I thought it would be ok, trying not to smile. I do not have a natural poker face and this was not easy for me.

A more difficult situation was that of a father who had travelled from the south of France to see his son, who was dying of AIDS. The man clearly had not known his son was gay nor that he was ill, so it was a lot for him to take in.

I felt very sorry for him, suddenly so far from home, dealing with this delicate situation, and no English. I mentioned to someone that I spoke some French. What I had not taken into account was this man’s thick Provencal accent – famously difficult for anyone to decipher.

He began to pour out his heart. I understood exactly what was going on, but it was a strain to get the particulars. I realised I was out on a limb ­– with little I could do.

I decided to answer when I could, but otherwise, to repeat, with as sympathetic air as I could muster, “C’est tres difficile” (“It’s very difficult”). I have never forgotten that man’s pain.

Special Moments

And there were also special moments. A young man dying from AIDS, who loved opera and had a CD player, asked if I would sit with him and listen to an aria from the Pearl Fishers. Sun was streaming in from the window. It was memorable.

There was also an older man with motor neurone disease, a former architect whose mind was clear as mine, but he had no physical movement. He communicated via a board with letters, directing me to them one by one.

One day, he asked for an ice cream, which I needed to feed to him very slowly. When it was gone, he had a big smile on his face. I said casually, “You liked that, would you like another?” and he signalled “yes.” Another half hour spent, another special moment gained.

Volunteer Work

Yes, volunteering can be so rewarding; you owe it to yourself to make possible such experiences. I would be very surprised if it was not found to be enormously satisfying. Sometimes, even a privilege to be there.

I worked at the hospice for four years. I had to stop because my husband and I had decided to travel a lot. I could no longer guarantee to be there every week. Even volunteers need to be dependable.

But I found the experience so interesting that I wrote a book based on interviews I conducted with hospice staff, Life in a Hospice. In the book, nurses, doctors, and many other people – even a very reflective chef – talk about the joys and challenges of such work and its impact on their lives.

It may not be for everyone, but you might find it moving.

This was initially published on sixtyandme.com (see https://sixtyandme.com/having-free-time-after-60-can-be-so-rewarding-as-a-volunteer)

People everywhere are fascinated by sex. I am not the first to say so. We wonder what other people do and when and what it means to them. And some wonder how long it continues.

When I was in my 20s, I naively thought that sex was only for the young. It simply did not occur to me that people over 40 continued with such activities.

This was nothing to do with any connection to child-bearing, but simply to the assumption that only the young had an appetite for – or interest in – sexual relationships.

As we age, we learn more – about this as well as everything else. There is, of course, much more research now.

Surveys will tell you about the extent of sexual activity at different ages. But few of these involve people over 70. And we are often reluctant to raise the issue with people we know.

The Story of My Parents

Of all the stories I tell about my family, the one which always gains immediate attention is one about my father.

My parents lived in an independent apartment in a retirement community in central Pennsylvania. They moved in when they were both roughly 80 and died within three months of each other, 10 years later. That was nearly 20 years ago.

After about five years, my mother developed vascular dementia. This is, of course, every married person’s worst fear. The husband or wife is no longer what they once were, but you are still married. And it is harder and harder to cope with the sheer physical demands.

My mother remained in the family apartment for well over a year, with a caretaker having been hired to help with her daily needs.

But eventually, it was too much for my father to manage and it was agreed that she would move to the Assisted Living section of the community. She was looked after, but he could pop in several times a day to see her.

He rarely complained, at least to me. It was just something that had happened.

An Affair Begins at 90

In the meantime, his eyesight had worsened, and he was losing one of his great pleasures – reading. He listened to a lot of audiobooks (and complained that there was no easy way to find the place where you fell asleep).

He had a friend, a somewhat younger woman, who came in to read to him. He was terribly pleased about this and talked about it – and her – quite frequently in our regular phone calls.

I should have seen it coming. When a man starts mentioning a woman (or vice versa) quite often, it tends to mean that something more than friendship is involved. But it just didn’t occur to me.

My daughter suggested that it was a possibility and I thought, no, that is unlikely. Not because the thought upset me, but they just seemed too old.

I went to visit around the time of his 90^th birthday, when we were holding a party for him. Soon after I arrived, he sat down and clearly wanted to communicate something to me.

He had never sought very intimate discussions, but this time was different. He mentioned the name of the woman, who I had not yet met, and said he wanted me to know that they had become ‘an item’. I remember thinking the word was odd.

He was very clear. This was not ‘simply kissing and cuddling’, it was the real thing. Indeed, he said his doctor thought it was terrific for his health. There was no mention of love, but that did not seem important. The key thing was that he was happy. And he was. He was then 90 and she was 83.

I was surprised, but also delighted. Whatever my views about fidelity in marriage, they do not extend to the time when one partner is effectively no longer there. I made this very clear and could see him visibly relax.

He had wanted me to know but had been frightened of my reaction. He said his worst fear was that some other resident would tell my mother, but it did not look like that had happened. He still continued to visit her as before.

My father and his lady friend never moved in together, although perhaps they stayed in each other’s apartments when I was not there. I did not press for such details.

She continued to be a regular presence in his life until he died. Indeed, the night he died, she went to the hospital and sat with his body for a long time.

When Do People Stop Having Sex?

I don’t know when – and if – people stop having sex. I suspect there is a lot of it about. Certainly, in the retirement community, it was common for couples to spring up quite quickly after the death of a partner.

But I do know about my father. And when I tell this story, I have never heard a reaction other than “what a wonderful story” or “so, there’s hope then”. I’m sure he would be delighted for you to know.

This post was originally published with a different title on sixtyandme.com (see https://sixtyandme.com/the-taboo-topic-of-older-people-having-sex-lets-not-hide-from-the-facts)

An old friend and I were chatting recently via email. She had sent me a photograph she had taken of me earlier that day. I replied that it made me notice how very white my hair is and that I needed a haircut. It also reminded me that I am not as slender as I used to be.

She replied immediately to say I was “beautiful.” Which I am definitely not. I suddenly realised that she thought I was one of those women who don’t much like their own body and was seeking to reassure me.

I wrote back to say I have never felt ugly nor beautiful, but “pretty enough,” and it was not an issue for me. And she replied, “A rare and precious quality – being happy in your own skin.”

This stopped me in my tracks. Am I truly “comfortable in my own skin”? Do I feel happy about myself? Is it, indeed, a rare quality?

Of course, this has many meanings, but let us start with the physical one.

Physical Appearance

For as long as I can remember, it never occurred to me to feel that my face or body were not good enough. Yes, I was very short, but that couldn’t be altered (aside from wearing high heels).

Yet I didn’t feel the need to “fix” my body in some way. I never even liked wearing makeup and, after a few inelegant efforts, gave that up. I was – and have remained – a walking WYSIWYG (What You See Is What You Get).

It was only when I got into my 20s or so that I discovered this was not the case for all women. Many seem to feel their breasts are too large or too small, their backsides are too big, their noses are not the right shape, and so forth and so on.

And so, of course, the business of makeup was born (going back to Egyptian times, if not earlier) and, more recently, plastic surgery.

Much is the advice given about how to alter your physical appearance – dying your hair the right colour, doing the odd nip or tuck, and certainly applying loads of stuff to your face. Even the right colours to wear for you.

But does it make you happier, or indeed, more “comfortable in your own skin”? I honestly don’t know. That is certainly the intention.

Deeper Issues

But feeling happy, or simply comfortable, with yourself is grounded in much more than your physical appearance. Do you like yourself? Do you think people like you? Do you feel you have done enough to meet your early expectations of yourself?

Our initial view of ourselves must come from somewhere. This may be what our parents told us or how we compared to our siblings. Much labelling goes on within families “he’s the sporty one” or “she’s good with people” and this must rub off.

On the other hand, it may not be fully accurate. I was the middle child of three, with the other two being outstandingly clever. Despite reasonable grades in school, it took me years to realise I was really quite bright as well. It hadn’t seemed so, by comparison, in my formative years.

Our view also comes from our classmates, not only in those many years of school, but also if we go to university and beyond. We may get a reputation for studying or partying or being good at politics. We may have loads of friends or very few.

We try somehow to work out who we are and what we are good at. And how much do certain qualities and skills matter – to us or anyone else?

And many a novel has been written about the rest of life! It has a way of throwing you a hand-up or pushing you down. An abusive partner is very likely to flatten self-confidence, just as a quiet but admiring one will do the opposite. Success in work is much the same.

I cannot do justice to the issue here, but it is all part of the process of learning.

This post was first published by sixtyandme.com (see https://sixtyandme.com/how-happy-do-you-feel-in-your-own-skin-growing-old-may-have-something-to-do-with-it/)

It is a well-known fact that we begin to lose our memories as we age. I’m not talking about serious conditions like dementia, but just day-to-day problems of bringing something to mind. Much of it isn’t too important, but occasionally it is.

Conversations with No Helpful Details

My conversations with my husband often go something like this:

“I saw that nice guy just now in the supermarket and said hello.”

“What guy?”

“You know, the one we met last summer on a boat – he was tall and very nice. Had a wife with red hair and I think there was a small dog.”

“Oh, yes, that guy. He was very nice. Are they living near here now?”

Or

“Shall we go see that film that is on down the road?”

“What film?”

“You know, the one that was made by the same guy as that terrific film that had really good American actress in it. We really liked it.”

“Oh, yes, good idea. What time is it on?”

How many conversations take place among older couples that sound something like that? Never a name in sight – or any that really help. Anyone from outside would be really baffled. Yet we often know what we are talking about.

These conversations can be annoying, as we don’t always get the connection we want. They can, of course, go on a lot longer, but you get the idea.

But they are not the real problem.

Remembering the Vital Details

What really bothers me is when I can’t remember the really important facts that I should have at my fingertips. I am not talking about who was President in 1953 or what is the capital of Switzerland.

No, it is all those little personal facts that you ought to remember – but can’t. It can get you into trouble if you aren’t careful.

When we were younger, our friends had husbands and children and you could generally remember their names. You met them, after all, and knew something about them. You could picture them in your mind.

How Are the Grandchildren?

But now they have grandchildren who you’ve never met. They’ve talked loads about them, of course, but your memory isn’t what it was, and you lack the visual framework.

It is so hard to keep up. How many did they have? From which children? And wasn’t there one with a problem, but which one and what was the issue?

You meet for the occasional chat and try to re-make contact. Didn’t this friend have a daughter with twin boys? Or was that someone else? Were they born a long time ago or are they still small? Time goes so fast they are probably older than you think.

Well, you can usually find a way of saying “I’m sorry, but I can’t remember the names of your grandchildren,” which gives leeway for age, sex, and number. And which child had what children when. Sorting that out will get you back on track.

How Are the Children?

But it gets harder, especially about those near and dear to them. Take their grownup children, whose lives you have heard a lot about over the years. You haven’t seen them for ages or, perhaps, ever.

You have a vague memory that there was some problem in the past that you were told about. Was there a son with a messy marital problem – did they get divorced or sort it out? Or was it the daughter? You should know, but it has completely gone from your head.

Or was it a work problem? Did they get fired or made redundant? Little details can be very important. It looks thoughtless to have forgotten.

Perhaps you can get by with “How is that son of yours getting on?” and hope that covers all contingencies. With luck, you won’t have to reveal your forgetfulness.

The Parents

But then comes the killer. You are friends with an older couple who you don’t see often, and you cannot for the life of you remember whose parents are still alive.

You can’t say “How’s your father doing?” if he died two years ago in difficult circumstances. But you don’t want to offer condolences if the man is in rude health.

Two people means four parents. Oh dear. And this does matter to them. It’s not like the names of their grandchildren.

This happens more often than I like. I’ve never found a good solution, aside from keeping the conversation going long enough and hoping it comes up naturally. Sometimes, a friend will say, “After my father died….” And I breathe a big sigh of relief.

What Seems Like a Good Solution

One should probably keep a notebook for all such information – little lists of children, grandchildren, and what they are all up to. And – definitely – the deaths of parents. It would make conversations a whole lot easier.

But, if it is any consolation, remember there is a good chance that your friends have the same problem as you do.

Keeping up with children’s food preferences – or should I say prejudices – is a job in itself. It was hard enough when we were mothers and handled it every day.

But it is harder as a grandmother since we have to remember who will eat what, while we don’t see the kids as often to keep ourselves up-to-date. It is so easy to get mixed up.

Fussy eaters

Both my grandchildren have been fussy eaters at times. My daughter’s son is older and was fussy at first. There were only a limited number of foods he would tolerate as a small child, and I would check with my daughter before they came for the day.

My second grandson, my son’s son, started out eating anything and everything. We have odd tastes ourselves (we prefer cold meat and salads to a cooked meal), and he was fine with that.

“More prosciutto!” he would demand, long before he had much vocabulary at all. Or, “More Muenster cheese!” My daughter was envious that her son was not so ready for these strange foods, although we did always cater to his wishes as well.

Yet the situation changed after a couple of years. The older one slowly began to experiment with the food his parents ate, and, after a while, he welcomed – more or less – anything you put in front of him. No problem there. Good for him.

At the same time, the younger one grew fussier and fussier. He only liked sausages, eaten after peas and before pasta. Each in their own plate or bowl. No putting them all together into one.

It was not worth the fuss if we digressed from the allotted routine. We knew it was lazy, but it was always easier to take the accepted option, rather than argue on a brief visit.

Keeping up with the changing grandchildren

But the real problem for grandparents is keeping track. Both children like ice cream and jelly, so we have these available when they visit. The older one likes them both together in a bowl, with lots of sprinkles. The younger one does not want them to touch. Not even a little.

And I just forgot which was which. After a good meal, the younger grandchild asked if he could have both – half the normal portion of ice cream and half the normal jelly.

Fine. I put them both in a bowl, side by side. I called out to ask if he wanted sprinkles, but he was in the middle of a movie and didn’t reply. I made a guess.

Oh dear – I got it all wrong! They were not to be in the same bowl. He didn’t want sprinkles. I offered him a separate bowl of each, but all was spoiled. He concentrated on his movie in a slightly bad mood.

Changing Perspectives

When I was younger, this kind of behaviour would have made me very cross. I never made my children eat something they didn’t like, but such antics were of a different order. And it was dessert!

As we age, however, our perspective changes. Suddenly, the whole situation seemed funny. Instead of getting angry, my biggest problem was to keep from laughing.

You just wonder what it is about the human condition that someone could make such a fuss about such a small matter.

But with age we gain the wisdom to evaluate each situation from a distance. So, as a grandmother and someone who has lived long enough, I am glad I have learned to tell the important from the unimportant.

Other grandmothers have said much the same, as can be seen in my book about the joys and challenges of being a grandmother. It makes life much more relaxing.

Not everything about ageing is better, but some things definitely are.

This was first published on SixtyandMe.com (https://sixtyandme.com/the-lesson-i-learned-from-dealing-with-my-grandchildrens-fussy-eating-habits/)

It is said that once a mother, you are always a mother. However old your son or daughter may be, they are always your children. This may be right, but it is a blessing and a curse. Most of us cannot escape it.

The Nature of Motherhood

This realisation came home to me a week or so ago when I passed a restless night, even waking at one point in a clear state of panic.

I don’t know what I was dreaming, but it was probably one of those dreams where you can’t get to where you want to go. All I know is that I was visibly shaken, and it took awhile to settle back down.

I knew immediately that I was worried for my son. But why? Was he a new-born, and was I a new mother who knows absolutely nothing and worries about every little thing? Nope.

Had he just started nursery school, when you worry about whether they will manage without you for the first time? No, not that either.

Was he at the end of secondary school, when you worry about whether they will get into the college or apprenticeship of their choice? Wrong, again.

No, I was worried about an interview he was having the following day for a job that would make his life very much easier (due to its location) and set him on a good ladder for his professional career. He is not new-born, nor age three or even age 18.

He is, indeed, in his late 30s, married, a father himself, and completely independent. He doesn’t need my worry at all.

Worrying

Are you more easy-going than this – or do you worry, like me, in such circumstances? Do you feel it deeply when your no-longer-young children pass through important life stages?

Perhaps you worry whether your daughter will juggle a new baby with her developing career. Perhaps you worry whether your son’s new girlfriend is entirely suitable. Perhaps you see signs of mental instability or too much alcohol and wonder what you should do.

There are a myriad of circumstances and important decisions they will make, over which you have no control.

And I don’t mean worry in the sense that we worry slightly over loads of day-to-day irritations. I mean worry in the sense that it is immediate and palpable to you. You begin to be easily distracted when you should be thinking about other things. Or lose sleep. Perhaps you even lose your appetite.

This is a deep-down, umbilical-cord-still-attached kind of worry.

And it doesn’t help that we mothers of middle aged children are the subject of ridicule all over the world. I am sure we have all seen some movie where the young hero has to stop an important business meeting to deal with his over-protective and very annoying mother on the telephone.

It is always shown from the child’s point of view, too. The mother should have let go a long time ago.

Developing Coping Strategies

For those of us who do worry, it must be said that we probably have little control over the matter. The important issue is not what we feel, but what we do about it.

We all need to develop coping strategies for such moments. Go to the gym or for a long walk. Talk to your spouse or partner. Or a friend. More than once. Read a distracting book. Meditate.

The main thing is not to put our problems onto the very sons and daughters we are worried about. Avoid making a nuisance of yourself, however hard that might be. And, most certainly, don’t make that phone call.

When interviewing women for my book on being a grandmother, one woman made a very wise a comment about giving advice on parenting:

“Every grandmother has to be issued with a zip [finger across lips]. There’s a fine line between help and interference and you have to learn it. Nobody can teach it to you, because everybody’s experience is different.”

The same is true for other aspects of our children’s lives, however old they are. It’s not easy and I don’t always succeed myself, but it’s good advice.

Afterthought

In case you’re wondering, he got the job.

I wonder what I will worry about next?

This post was initially published by SixtyandMe.com.  See http://sixtyandme.com/of-mothers-and-adult-children-how-do-you-cope-with-thoughts-that-make-you-worry/

I was asked to write a post for a site specialising in history, called Myths, Legends, Books & Coffee Pots.  The following was my response:

Myths?  Definitely not.  Legends? No. Books?  Yes, for certain. And a very powerful one at that.

I am not a historian or a even a writer of historical fiction. I write books that are not easily squeezed into any genre. They are sometimes called ‘narrative non-fiction’, but I don’t much like the term. They are based on interviews with people talking about their lives and are best described as like a TV documentary, but in words.

So what does this have to do with history? Well, if you live long enough, what you lived through when you were younger becomes ‘contemporary history’. And nearly thirty years ago, in the early 1990s, there was a very real crisis in the lives of millions of people across the world – the rise and spread of HIV/AIDS.

Now, so many years later, this is seen to be almost like any other chronic disease, with those diagnosed being able to expect a normal life span. Back then, it was a different story. Seen as a kind of twentieth century plague, it had everyone terrified. For the individual afflicted, it caused a lot of pain and other physical and mental problems, followed by almost certain death. There was no cure.

Because of the stigma attached to the disease, people avoided talking about it. It was thought to be caught, primarily, from the transmission of bodily fluids via blood or sperm, but many lived in fear of accidental contagion.

And the data were frightening: millions died over a short number of years – not just in faraway places, but nearby. It took an enormous toll of mostly young people. Even writing about it now makes me tremble slightly.

Wise Before their Time is a book about a small number of people living with AIDS, who happened to be attending an international conference in London in 1991. It is based on interviews with 21 people – and written material submitted by 23 others –  spanning every continent.  It allows them to tell their stories in their own words. I felt the statistics being spouted at the time were so overwhelming, there was a need to see the human side.

These men and women talk about how they first learned of their diagnosis, the difficulties of telling their partners, friends and family and the problems of keeping in work and active. Indeed, they explore the many challenges of living with a stigmatising condition, often with numerous friends in the same situation and knowing that they did not have long to live. For the most part, perhaps in part because many were active in their local communities, they were immensely dignified and strong, hence the title of the book.

Sir Ian McKellen kindly offered to write a Foreword, in which he wrote that these stories were “as powerful as any great classic of fiction”.  But the power rests, in part, from the fact that it is not fiction. It is all true. Readers will come away with the real understanding of what it was like to live through this terrible time in living memory.

How did I come to write the book?  My day-to-day job was a researcher and writer on health issues – and this brought me in touch with many problems of the day. In 1989, I met Dietmar Bolle, a young (early thirties) gay German man, who had been living with AIDS for five years and was a busy AIDS activist. We had little in common (I was in my early fifties, happily married and not an activist at all), but somehow in the way that can sometimes happen, we became close friends.

At that time, I had no particular interest in AIDS – nor, indeed, in issues surrounding dying, although I subsequently wrote another book about people providing end-of-life care (Life in a Hospice).  But when I learned that Dietmar was the principal organiser of a conference – and had asked those attending to send in their ‘stories’ with their application, I was hooked.

I immediately saw that this could be lead to a load of fascinating stories, especially if supplemented by personal interviews. Here were  people living with the most feared disease of the day, all coming together to talk and learn. It would be a challenge to undertake and would prove a valuable way to humanise this dreadful condition.

Wise Before their Time is the result. Published by HarperCollins in 1992 (Dietmar did not live to see it),  it sold well at the time, but eventually fell by the wayside. I took back the rights from the publisher and re-launched it with a new cover and short introduction in 2017, primarily for its historical interest.

Here is one story, to give the flavour. As with the rest of the book, it is written in the present tense, but one has to assume that Danny died within a short time after the interview – along with others I tried to trace some years later.

DANNY

Danny is thirty-two and from Northern Ireland. He is currently unemployed, having just spent four years at college studying theology. He had hoped to be ordained as an Anglican priest, but his ordination was deferred on grounds of his homosexuality. He is now seeking to have this decision overturned. He lives on his own.

Danny’s diagnosis is very recent:

I was diagnosed HIV on the 13th December 1990. The reason I went was I’d got a swollen gland under my armpit. I discovered that at Easter of last year and it was still there in December. When they took the test, it was a week’s wait. Those seven days were like an eternity.

I remember it exactly, probably always will. The doctor said to me, ‘As you know, Danny, we took some blood.’ I said, ‘Yes, I was here when you took it.’ And he said, ‘Well, we had the results back and I’m very sorry to tell you that it’s highly probable that you are positive.’ It was as if somebody kicked me in the balls. Then I thought, hang on, what do you mean ‘highly probable’?

This was my body we were talking about. It took me three times saying I wanted to know what’s going on before he said, ‘Okay, Danny, the results of the first test are positive.’ Although I’d more or less convinced myself that it was possible I was positive, it didn’t really prepare me for hearing those words. I’d lived in hope that the result of the test would be negative.

I went with a friend, a close woman friend, for the results. I went out and got her and the poor woman, she knew right away what had been said. We sat and talked to the doctor. Or she talked and I just gazed into oblivion.

I went back to her place that night, to her and her partner. I intended to get totally drunk, but no matter how many drinks I downed, I couldn’t quite make that stage. Who? Why? What’s going to happen? Who can I tell? Why me? And even, ‘Hang on a second, they got my test mixed up with somebody else. That’s what it is, some other poor sod has been told he’s negative and in fact he’s positive.’ And I thought, no, get a grip on yourself, that doesn’t happen.

My health has been fine. I’m healthier now than I have been for the last two years. The chances are that I’d been living with HIV for at least two years, as my weight had dropped then, over three stone in four months. I did go for a test at that time – and that proved negative. They said to come back in three months, because I had put myself at risk, but I was so relieved I didn’t bother going back.

One difficult aspect of learning about HIV is telling other people – friends, partners, parents and so forth:

The first people I told was the faculty at my college, because they were people I trusted. They’d seen me through the ordination being put off and stood by me. We disagreed very strongly, theologically, with God’s view of sexuality, but that didn’t matter. When I needed their support they were there. They were fantastic. I couldn’t have wished for more from anyone, both faculty and fellow students.

When I was first diagnosed, I was in a relationship with another bloke. We’d been together for a number of months. And although we practised safe sex, the first thought that came into my head was have I put him at risk? He wasn’t around for a few weeks. When I eventually told him, all he did was get up and just hold me for about twenty minutes, which was fantastic.

We’re no longer together. I don’t think it was anything to do with the HIV, but it might have been. The important thing for me was his immediate reaction – wanting to support and comfort and hold me. He didn’t get himself tested. He saw the health advisor and as a result decided that there was no call for him to be tested.

I haven’t told my mother and brothers. The three of them know that I’m gay – they’ve known since I was nineteen. That caused enough problems in itself. I went home this Easter, not really sure whether I was going to tell or not. I was only there for a week. And when it came to the Wednesday and I hadn’t told them, I thought no – thinking about my mother particularly – to dump this on her now and just leave would be an awful thing to do.

It’s a difficult thing. What I don’t want to happen is that in three years time I become ill with something like pneumonia and end up in hospital. I don’t want my mother to find out that way. That would be horrendous for her. But if I tell her now and then go on for the next ten years being healthy, will she spend those years in fear and trepidation?

In two or three years time, I’ll be ready. I’ll know when it’s time for me to tell. I want to tell her. It will send her up the wall, it will be as if things are caving in on her. After that, there would be, I hope, a tremendous amount of support.

There was a situation about three years ago where my brother wouldn’t let me see his kids. That tore me apart. I’d arranged to meet him at his home, to be there for the evening. I met him in the middle of the road and he said his wife didn’t want me near the kids, she’s afraid of AIDS. He said, ‘You’re a queer, queers get AIDS, don’t they.’ I left him, went into town and just got totally wrecked. I was in tears.

One effect of telling people is that relationships change:

Some of my close friends suddenly wanted to wrap me up in cotton wool. It was as if I became some china doll that had to be treated gently.

I was known at college as being one of the more controversial figures. I revelled in that. I’d be forever challenging people about issues to do with unemployment or race or sexuality. I loved getting into heated arguments at times. Two people in particular, I noticed that their whole tone towards me changed, they wanted to ‘care for’ me. I didn’t need to be cared for in that way. I said, ‘Listen, I’m still Danny, I’m not “Danny-HIV-positive”, I’m Danny.’

On one level, it was good to know their desire to shield me from other people’s ignorance and fear. On another level, I’m a fighter, born into the civil rights movement in Ireland and brought up with protest almost running in my veins. It was the possibility that that part of me could have been lost. They became like the parent and I became the child. But I was able to say, ‘Hang on a minute, I’m still me.‘ I still enjoy stirring things, I’ve spent my life breaking out of closets and I’m not about to be shut into another closet called HIV.

I’m now involved in a number of training groups. And I’ll say ‘Listen, if I as a person with HIV get up your nose, then bloody well tell me.’ If you begin treating someone as if they’re breakable, then you’re in danger of robbing them of some of their humanity.

There is always a fear of prejudice:

I get paranoid on occasion, I think I overhear or see the odd kind of look, as if people are talking about me, people who I’m not close to particularly. I refuse to keep my HIV status under lock and key. I’m not broadcasting it from the rooftop, but one of the things about HIV and AIDS is the stigma and the loneliness and isolation.

I used to run a playschool. I really love kids. Often, the mums would be a bit harassed and they’d say, ‘Here Danny, take this little so-and-so off me hands.’ And I’d take the child and look after them, while mum went for a walk. Which I loved. Sometimes, when the kids were coming through, before they’d get from A to B they would have to crawl all over Uncle Danny. You’d see me crawling under the tables chasing the kids.

One day, just after my diagnosis, I was doing that with one little kid and the thought hit me ­­– how would his parents react if they knew I was HIV-positive? And I froze, it was a horrendous thought. Then I thought, no, I’m not going to let this child suffer. He’s used to me chasing him around, he looks forward to it and I enjoy it as well. As for the parents, I don’t know how they’d have reacted, because they didn’t know.

Awhile later, I had an incident with a married couple who I’m very close to. I told the husband I’d been diagnosed HIV-positive. The next day, his wife came with her child around the corner and she said ‘Look who’s here, Jim’ as she did every morning. And Jim came tearing round, ‘Danny, Danny, hug’, arms in the air. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Just this woman being the same with me as she’d always been. I walked away feeling twelve foot tall.

It is most helpful to meet others in the same situation:

I can come across as being very outgoing, easy, laid back. And I am, partly. But there have been times when it’s almost as if the whole surroundings just freeze. And I’m just left there, feeling like I’m suspended on the end of some rope somewhere.

Within the week of being diagnosed, I went into the AIDS centre in my area and saw one of the workers. I told her and she didn’t say a word, she got up and came over and held me. That was exactly what I needed. Then I found I was going in there almost every day of the week, just to sit down and have a coffee. And let people in the street walk past – they could be out there, I was in here and I was safe.

I asked if I could speak with someone else with HIV. The feeling of relief when I saw this person who had been living with it for at least five years and he was healthy! That was so good, to talk to him. We were in the same boat. He knew what it was like, he had experienced some of the same things and he was enjoying his life.

Just the other day, I was asked to speak to someone who had just been diagnosed. That gave me a great feeling of contributing, of helping somebody else, just like this person that I spoke to. Just being there.

Danny found he needed to come to terms with himself:

When I was first diagnosed, I felt very angry at myself, that I had been stupid enough to pick up HIV. I should have been practising safe sex for at least five years.

In one of my counselling sessions, the counsellor piled on top of one another five telephone books. She gave me a piece of wood and said, ‘Anger doesn’t have to be a negative thing, it can be healing, but only if you express it.’ I started to hammer into the telephone books and it was frightening, the rage that was in me. It was directed against me.

My feeling about myself has changed. Overall, I like me. I am a wholer person today than I was this time last year. HIV brought out all kinds of issues – things that happened as a child – I’ve been able to look at them. I like being me. The God I believe in doesn’t make mistakes.

The Jesus of the gospels and the Jesus of the Church so often seem two different people. Some parts of the Church even go as far as saying that AIDS is a plague sent by God. But those who think that haven’t met my God. That’s blasphemy, to say that God is a despot, playing germ warfare with sections of humanity, it’s blasphemy.

I’m going to go ahead with the ordination. Very much so. I’ve been on the road to ordination for eight years and I’m not about to fold up.

Originally posted on the site “Myths, Legends, Books & Coffee Pots”, the official blog of Historical Fiction author, Mary Anne Yarde. See https://maryanneyarde.blogspot.com/2019/07/join-ann-richardson-as-she-takes-look.html

For those of us who have reached the age of ‘seniors’ or ‘pensioners or ‘crumblies’ (as my son used to say), we are of an age to think about grandmothers. Perhaps you are a grandmother or hoping to be one. Perhaps your friends are grandmothers. It is a whole new world to enjoy.

But does this make you think more about your own grandmother?

When I was writing my book about what it is like being a grandmother, many women I interviewed – including some friends – talked about how important one or other of their grandmothers had been to them.

They had spent a lot of time with their grandmother, learned many things from her, and some said they missed her constantly.

Surprising as it might sound, this was a bit of a new idea to me. Yes, I knew both my grandmothers until my late teens, but they were not an important part of my life nor a big influence.

They did not teach me much, did not pay me special attention, or take a real interest in what I was up to. They were just relatives who turned up from time to time, to whom I was required to be nice.

My Father’s Mother

One – my father’s mother – lived on the other side of the United States, and we saw her very infrequently. It’s hard to remember what a big deal it was to take an airplane in those days. And when someone spent the money and time to fly somewhere, they tended to stay for a while.

Although I never heard it said out loud, it was clear that this grandmother always over-stayed her welcome.

She would totally disrupt the household, as she was not reluctant to criticise my mother’s ways of keeping house and child-upbringing nor to verbalise many other issues on which she had an opinion. Her visits were therefore periods of great family tension, not conducive to a close relationship.

But she was, to her credit, interesting. She was what people might call ‘a bit of a character’. She felt she should have married ‘better’ than she did and would readily remind us of this fact.

My most memorable example was orthodontry, which I and my siblings benefitted from. “If they had that in my day…”, she once said, “none of you grandchildren would have been born!”

She was also highly politically involved. In the autumn of 1960, during the period just before the Presidential election, when visiting my uncle’s family in a different state, she had a heart attack and thought she was about to die (she didn’t).

She later said that, while contemplating her death, she was very pleased that she had already voted by absentee ballot. That put a whole new spin on the term.

My Mother’s Mother

My other grandmother – my mother’s mother – was very different. We saw her more frequently, as she lived much closer. She was dutifully invited for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and other occasions and she – equally dutifully – took photographs of the family to be helpful.

This grandmother had few interests that I could see, aside from regular bridge games with friends and the usual concerns of a well-brought up suburban widow, such as charity and her church.

I know she was worried I would marry someone ‘unsuitable’, which covered almost all categories you might think of. I married only after she died, but I suspect she would not have approved.

This was a classic case of a grown-up daughter – my mother – becoming much more radical than the family from which she came, creating a cultural and political divide that was difficult to span.

It was evident that my parents had little time for this woman, so her visits were also a trial because everyone was trying so hard to get along.

Grandmothers Everywhere

The women I interviewed for my book also talked about their grandmothers, who came across as much more important to them. They came from very diverse backgrounds.

Some were rich and proud, some very poor; some were very warm and cuddly and others distant and cold. Many associated their grandmothers with food of one kind or another, whether the activities of preparation or the joys of eating.

Most felt that their grandmother had been a considerable influence on their lives and their attitudes to being a grandmother, whether positive or, in the occasional case, negative.

It made me realise how many different family stories there are.

A Relationship to Cherish

It must be wonderful to have a grandmother as a major influence in your life. Now that I am one, I realise that it is such a special relationship.

You can be very close but without the inevitable tensions that arise within the immediate nuclear family. You gain new perspectives and ways of doing things than you gain from your parents.

And you also gain a small foothold in history, if she talks about her own background and life as a child.

I have written a lot about the importance of this relationship to the grandmother, but yes, in the right family, it is also important to the grandchild.

This was first published under a different title by www.sixtyandme.com. See http://sixtyandme.com/does-being-a-grandma-change-how-you-look-at-your-own-grandmother/

As any grandmother will know, there are many sources of joy in the time spent with grandchildren. For me, a key one is teaching my grandsons something and seeing how they respond.

This is also a common theme in my book, Celebrating Grandmothers, where 27 women talk about the joys and challenges of being a grandmother. In their own words, they describe how they – like me – love teaching ­their grandkids all sorts of things.

Teaching Knowledge and Skills

We tend to think of teaching as passing on knowledge or a particular skill. Certainly, this can be a large element in many interactions with grandchildren. And it happens all the time, even when you are not noticing.

For example, you may be boiling an egg or baking a cake, and they suddenly take an interest and try to learn about cooking. Or, you may take out your knitting, and they see the result and want to have a go.

Such teaching may be accidental, as described, or it may be purposeful, undertaken specifically to pass on the skill. Either way, you can see them learning a lot, adding one step here and there to their journey to adulthood.

Teaching Values

But there is more to teaching than passing on facts or skills. Some women make a special effort to instill into their grandchildren the values and ethics by which they live.

In my book, some women gave particular importance to teaching values. Indeed, they felt that this was so important that it should be left to parents and was an inappropriate role for grandparents.

Others, however, felt strongly that they also had a part to play. One woman was keen to teach the importance of a belief in a Christian God. Another, in contrast, explained that she was teaching her grandchildren not to be ruled by a blind faith, but to question everything.

Although diametrically opposed in the specifics, both had the same goal of affecting their grandchildren’s values in life.

Teaching Children to Think

And finally, what I find truly exciting is teaching my grandchildren to think for themselves. This involves challenging their thoughts and helping them to see other points of view, so they can begin to work out their own position.

Such teaching flows easily from everyday discussions. Just the other day, for example, we were watching the television news and there was a long piece about migration into the US (although it could equally have been migration into Europe).

This started a discussion with one visiting grandson of why people want to migrate, why their situation is different from tourists, and how migration affects everyone involved. This entailed him asking loads of questions, as he began to see the complexity of the issues.

A few minutes later, there was another news item on people protesting climate change. Our grandson, although concerned about climate issues, was upset at the idea of protesters making people late for work.

We then moved to explore how people can best bring an issue to public attention. My husband asked the simple question, “What would you do?” Lengthy discussions ensued.

It is very satisfying to see a young person’s brain confronting complexity and trying to think things out.

The Joys of Teaching

I have never been a teacher by profession, but I am a teacher by inclination. I really love passing on what I have learned in the course of my life. And it is wonderful to see the impact on a young mind.

It is rewarding, first, if you see a great response in the person you teach. Some children light up with pleasure at learning a new activity, such as a sport. You show them how to manipulate a ball, and they are thrilled and do it again and again.

I am currently teaching one grandson to swim. He loves the water and enjoys working out how to move himself through it. If this is partly due to my own efforts, how can I not be thrilled?

It is also rewarding when something you taught is truly learned. Whether it is a new word or how to put together a toy, or something you believe in, keep a watch and listen – and see how it comes out later.

And finally, there is something rewarding about feeling part of a link down the chain of the generations. Your grandmother may have taught you to cook and now you are teaching your granddaughter.

You are part of the circle of life.

This post was originally published by Sixtyandme.com (see http://sixtyandme.com/the-many-joys-of-teaching-our-grandchildren/)