Age and Health: Spooky Equalizers

Living over a hundred years isn’t rare these days, but it isn’t normal, either. Here in the United States where we believe we have the finest foods, healthcare, and life styles on earth, our average life span is 48^th in the world at 79.61. (I’ve read that our life expectancy is currently going down.) Apparently those who decry the curse of over-processed foods, alcohol, and toxins may be onto something. Of course, air pollution, water pollution, over-crowding, and stress don’t help. Neither does spending so little time enjoying good friends and family, not sleeping well, or sitting too much. (How does one write a novel standing up?) Of course, war and famine ruin the odds.

Until I reached age 70, I was noted for looking much younger—decades younger. The effect wasn’t make-up, simply genetics. But Nature prefers balance and instituted corrections. Prune lines cracked my dry face (faces are generally dry in the parched southwest). I lost hair from all over the place, and previously obedient muscles drooped and jiggled in sympathy with my once admirable chest—mitigated only by exercises I added to my daily walks. The crowd of expensive “miracle” supplements advertised in LONG videos in my over-crowded email generally turned out to be as effective long term as snake oil. (Natural healthcare requires study!)

After a certain age (to be individually determined), injuries sustained in the earlier years rise like the ghastly apparitions we mimic for Halloween. For example, I slipped on ice, put out my hand to break my fall so I didn’t land on the dogs I was walking, and broke my wrist, instead. It was the first bone or combination of bones that had ever given me a moment’s trouble. Since it was a novel occurrence, I kept my sense of humor. That was my first hospital stay since I was six. I was naively fascinated to finally experience what a severed bone and surgery felt like. After all, I felt confident I wouldn’t repeat the error. Wrong.

The next time I broke a wrist, I was running—almost skipping—across hot pitted asphalt, giddy with joy that family members I hadn’t seen in years had arrived. The toe of my trainer caught in a pothole and, as I tried to catch myself, I crushed segments of bone in my formerly intact wrist. Yes, this surgery was more serious. (A cheer for surgical teams!) At last the airport screeners had a distraction in me.

I realize I’ve gotten off easy so far and I’m grateful. These surgeries were minor next to the massive, sometimes repetitive, reconstructions many people undergo from illness or injury. Sadly, repairs are never as strong as the original—except in the case of kintsugi, Japanese ceramics mended with gold, silver, or platinum. The older we are, the more likely we are to fall victim to insults to our anatomy inside and out. Meanwhile, our anatomy itself is transforming—thinning, drying, taking personal umbrage at the follies in our diets. Foods we loved begin attacking on contact. I was admonished to avoid eating the stars of most food groups and pay better attention to my gut, my brain, my heart, and my eyes. Who gave them permission to stop operating properly?

Granted, the rich can be treated to extra years because they have access to every cutting edge treatment, but even they must finally succumb to human frailty. After spending most of a lifetime believing in their superiority, finally being on equal footing with other human beings must be depressing. For the rest of us, seeing our favorite celebrities in the grip of aging can be unsettling. They stay so young and indomitable on screen! But they, too, eventually falter. Of all the people we didn’t expect to grow gray, bald, and wrinkly, they were our beacons of perpetual youth. We feel almost betrayed when they fall victim to the same kinds of illnesses we dread for ourselves—cancer, Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, diabetes. Even our self-adored president has to face real decline. Our decrepitude reminds us to pay attention to the quality of life we’re living, the quality of person we are and the positive contributions we’ll leave in the world. I once postulated that we gradually fall apart as preparation for our final exit. And we all end—well or badly, as we’re able. We think of the people who never had a chance to age, especially loved ones. It’s easier to leave when you’re done. What comes next is a question we may or may not wish to answer.