Wrestling Fear of Aging to the Ropes

“Fear the future for it is dark! Aging will turn you into the brunt of jokes!” Who burns such nonsense upon our psyches? Who convinces us that 40 is over the hill and 50 is too old to begin a new career? Who told us we must grow useless with time? And how much worse does the universe appear if over the years we happen to develop a disease or injury that changes the ways in which we cope with life (and who doesn’t)? “Severe glaucoma,” my doctor said, emphasizing the word “severe” so he sounded almost gleeful. He wanted to make certain I didn’t harbor any false hope that “legally blind” wouldn’t eventually describe me.

The threat of blindness shook me more than a threat of death or alternate physical disability, because my favorite pastimes depend on sight: reading, writing, painting, watching films, walking along unfamiliar paths, road trips. I’m an observer of people. As someone who loves to write fiction, I can’t help envisioning myself suffering melodramatic black phantoms in my visual field accompanied by a soundtrack of heavy sighs and hidden tears. I didn’t feel old at 40, but 80 is looking bleak. Happily, I stumbled onto a truly great antidote to morbid self-pity. Those who believe we go through life accompanied by a compassionate spirit guide might say I was drawn to just the right book at just the right moment: THE BEAUTY OF DUSK, a memoir by Frank Bruni.

At first, I set the book aside after reading only a chapter or two. After all, the synopsis said Frank Bruni is an award-winning journalist who was stricken with a stroke that compromised his sight. I didn’t recognize his name—remembering names having been one of my lifelong weaknesses. The blurb promised the memoir would reveal unexpected blessings. Oh, one of those books. And then we sing. Yeah, right. I once walked regularly with a legally blind friend—and accidentally guided her into a tree limb because I was too engrossed in our conversation to attend to her limitations. As a volunteer, I recorded audio books for the blind for the Library of Congress. I didn’t want to think any level of blindness could happen to me. Now that it’s probable, I can tolerate no false rah-rah meant to artificially cheer me. I considered erasing the book from my Kindle.

But Frank Bruni writes well and I’m drawn by really good writing. (The shoddy quality of onscreen captioning depresses me.) So I kept reading. To me, the book grew more generally and personally important and colorful as it progressed. He took me beyond who he is and his past to where he is now as partially retired. He’s a man who has enjoyed an international reputation for excellence including insightful interviews with worldwide dignitaries, wisdom keepers, and celebrities. His research is impeccable in a time when people like to invent careless bluffs. He’s also someone who has reached a point in his life when he isn’t shy about sharing his fears, questions, and triumphs. No shiny, brittle ego. He includes bits of wisdom from a vast array of sources—not to impress but to clarify how to cope with adversity. He shares  insights that helped him find his footing in an adjusted self-identity. In fact, I would recommend this book to anyone who may be concerned at any age about growing older with or without impairment.

Reading his memoir was like having deep, invigorating conversation with a dear friend and his mentors whose minds can readily climb over the most difficult peaks—not unscathed but without quitting. I feel better about my life now. I fully intend to read it again—although I almost never do that. From my modest retirement (modest being real, not exaggerated) some of Bruni’s implied suggestions aren’t possible for me. I’m allowing my passport to expire out of practicality. But I’m making excuses for not daring. To quote the cowardly lion from THE WIZARD OF OZ, “What have they got that I ain’t got… courage.”