It felt like I’d been hit by a ton of bricks.
Muscles ached. Joints creaked. Pain proliferated.
What had I done to endure this? Hike a mountain? Lift heavy boxes? Plunge a shovel into the dirt?
Nothing of the sort. I’d simply slept in my own bed. And now I was waking up wrecked.
This has become my new reality. I’m getting older. And the cracks in my armor are starting to show.
Some days, I might feel sore all over for no apparent reason. Other days, I’ll wear down faster than I used to. Still other days, it’ll take me longer to remember things I once recalled instantly.
And on the worst days, all three outcomes converge upon me.
These disruptions are still relatively mild – more inconveniences than anything. I’m still relatively young, and I remain fiercely independent.
Still, they offer a dire warning. For aging only goes one way, and I’ve still got plenty of runway left for it to do its worst.
It will only get tougher to navigate the obstacles in my path going forward. And the cost of failure is sure to get higher.
When I was young, I spent a lot of time with my grandfather.
I would read children’s books with him. I’d build model train sets with him. And occasionally I’d steal his glasses and scamper off.
I’ve written a bunch about my grandfather – my mother’s father. The child of depression-era Brooklyn turned World War II veteran turned high school math teacher. He often regaled me with stories from his life. And in the process, he sparked my fascination with narrative.
The reason I shared all this time with my grandfather in my early years was that he was already retired. He volunteered at an art museum now and then, but he mostly helped care for me.
Back then, I didn’t quite grasp how unusual all this was. I didn’t understand that few people even had the option to retire in their mid-50s, still able-bodied and sharp as a tack. I didn’t grasp how rare it was for people to be able to bond with their grandchildren as much as they desired, free of professional or financial obligations.
I did notice my grandfather aging as I grew up. He had a triple bypass when I was 5 years old, and he seemed a bit more fragile after that. Recurring back problems made his posture a bit more hunched as the years went on. Occasionally, he would shuffle instead of walk.
I took it all in stride, to the degree a child could. I knew I’d need to be a bit more patient with my grandfather, and that some physical activities were off the table.
But what I hadn’t considered was what things would have been like if he were still working. Would the slow physical decline have gotten in the way of his job responsibilities? Would he have been forced out of his position? And what would he have done if he had been?
I never had to consider these prospects for him. But I surely will for myself.
It’s now harder than ever to retire at an early age. A rising cost of living and shrinking safety blanket make longer career timetables a reality.
And yet, we have little acceptance for the consequences of working into our later years. Particularly the impact of aging.
We cringe when public figures – entertainers, athletes, politicians – stay in their roles too long. And we could hardly be blamed for doing so.
These prominent people can gracefully exit stage left. They’ve accumulated enough trappings of fame to sustain them for decades.
The cards are in their hands. So, when they don’t play them, we’re left wondering why.
But few of us have the same advantages. Our options are few and far between.
So, we’re often stuck hanging onto our professional positions for as long as we can. Even as our body and mind start to fade away. And even as the world tries to cast us off.
It’s terrifying. But it’s true.
Several years ago, I started running competitively.
I was well into adulthood at this point. And years removed from my high school cross-country exploits.
I wasn’t exactly pining for those long-gone days. And I wasn’t masochistic enough to crave the sensation of sore legs, burning lungs, and a sweaty brow.
So, what got me back into racing? The allure of the fountain of youth.
Now, I’m no Ponce de Leon. I realized that there was no backwoods stream in Florida to sustain me forever.
But I believed that leveling up my fitness would help me stave off the debilitations of aging. While my less-active peers would degrade physically over time, my body would operate like an advanced machine.
This theory proved true for a bit. I got into the best shape of my life. And I posted impressive times in distance races over and over.
But then, I broke.
An injury sidelined me. Then a second. And a third.
MRI scans, physical therapy sessions, and doctor’s visits became commonplace. The word surgery went from a frightening concept to reality. Yet, I persevered through it all, determined to get back on track.
Still, I couldn’t shake a feeling. The feeling that something was different.
I was struggling to recover from my workouts, even if they were a shadow of what I once breezed through with ease. I was tweaking muscles as I got up from a chair or stepped out of the shower. And I was waking up sore nearly every day.
Despite my best efforts, it seemed that aging had caught up with me. No amount of exercising would forestall the inevitable.
If anything, my fitness efforts would collide headlong with the rip current of Father Time. I’d need to fight three times as hard just to be a step below where I used to be.
I wouldn’t say I’ve made peace with this outcome as much as I’ve rationalized it. For while running is a passion of mine, it’s not my profession. My mind is what earns me my keep, and it’s shown no signs of decline.
At least not yet.
I know that my cognition will also start to slide someday. That gaps will start to form, that failures will start to mount. I’ll fade into a shell of what I once was by any measurable dimension. I’ll start hearing others referring to me as elderly.
Given the economic realities of this society, there’s a good chance I’ll still be working then. I might desire to ride off into the sunset. But I won’t have the horse to get me there, the way my grandfather did.
I’ll be trapped in a living purgatory. Taking up space in a world that wants me to move along but provides me nowhere to go.
This is the cost of inaction when it comes to aging. Collective denial allows its problems to proliferate. And to crush us all someday.
It’s time to take a different path. To embrace clairvoyance about our future. And to use that perspective to calibrate our present.
This is a big ask. But it’s a critical one.
So, let’s not drop the ball.
We all deserve a soft place to land when we’re old. Let’s make sure we have one.