The Hands of Time - by Robin

What kind of senior will I be?

It's a hard thing to anticipate. But, I do hope to live to a ripe old age (and hopefully have a "quality" life.) But, how do you define "quality" when you're elderly?

I watched my dad this past week during our annual family vacation, and it was an example of what I hope not to become. I hate to say it, but my dad yearns unrealistically to be 40 again. OK....maybe he'd settle for 60.....but certainly some age where he doesn't feel his age. (He's told often he doesn't look it....but that doesn't offer him much consolation.)

I've said to him on countless occasions...is it truly possible at almost age 91 to feel great?! Does anyone at that age?

I don't feel as I did when I was younger....at almost 50 (I choke when I type that number....though I'm not there yet.)

Ted Kennedy sadly just passed away at age 77 after a bout of brain cancer. That couldn't have been pleasant.

Dominick Dunne, author/journalist, passed away at age 83 from bladder cancer. No doubt also not a walk in the park.

What does my dad expect?! And thank G-d, my dad is not suffering from cancer. Much of his discomfort is the result of complications from surgeries in hindsight he didn't need to have and didn't benefit from. He does not have a disease...unless old age is considered such. I think it is, in his mind.

I can't condemn him for wanting to fight the hands of time. I guess most of us do. But, does that mean your days then become full of constant complaining....bringing down those around you....especially loved ones who try to be supportive to the best of their ability, but have their our challenging lives to lead? Isn't it still possible to find happiness despite physical imperfection? Or is it that from now on the glass is perpetually 1/2 empty? How do people live with chronic illness?

My beloved mom (who passed away at age 73), may she rest in peace, was not one to complain. Even if she was suffering, she always had the presence of mind to consider the other person and try not to fill their head with negativity. Afterall, attitude does affect healing. So, no one gains from incessant crankiness.

But, how does it feel to be really old?! On one hand, a person may be viewed as blessed to have lived such a full life. After all, disease knows no age, and plenty don't make it to 80+ and then some.

Should one just flat-out be appreciative? Or do you gain the right to complain more and more as the years pass? Is that what aging is about?

My dad has become a doctors dream...in that he frequents them. Though, he's not an easy patient since he complains of so much that I imagine they often don't know where to start. My husband jokes (though it's really not funny) and says that if my father didn't have good medical insurance, he'd learn to live with feeling less than up to par instead of constantly searching for a magic healing bullet.

I hate to put my father down. On one hand, I give him credit for practicing vigilant self care, but at times, it does feel self-absorbed. And, I miss him. I miss the dad who was there for me. I know he still loves and supports me, but the tables have turned. He is no longer my caretaker and can only lend a partial ear to hear what is going on in my life. He's quite caught up in his own daily existence.

I find myself often jealous of those who have parents who are truly there for them and will even watch their kids and do things with them. We have never had that. I wonder what that is like?

At the end of the day....I do love my dad....and miss my mom...and I hope that I don't one day become an emotional burden on my son. I really don't want to turn into a whiny curmudgeon. Perhaps having that awareness is a vital starting point.

GUEST BLOG: A Grandmother's Perspective

THIS IS A SPECIAL GUEST BLOG BY A GRANDMOM, Rochelle Jewel Shapiro, author, "Miriam the Medium" (Simon & Schuster). Your comments to this blog are welcome, and may be posted below.

As hard as it is for a woman to admit she’s growing older, it seems even harder for a daughter to admit her mother is getting on in years. Last week, I took the train upstate to my daughter’s at a time of revolution. Her daughter, who had thought kindly of her baby brother when he was sedately swaddled, suddenly was faced with a sibling who crawled at top speed, knocking over her blocks, sticking her doll house figurines in his mouth. She now wanted to (and almost did) ring his neck. My daughter, holding her daughter back, called out “Get him, Mom,” as her son scooted under a computer table to yank the wires, as if I am still the young woman once again who could scoop up her ashy little brother from the fireplace. I did get him. I did everything that was needed and came home with vivid memories of snuggling my granddaughter, seeing my grandson’s gummy smile as I tickled his belly. But, although I didn’t tell my daughter, I also came home to Ace Bandages and heat packs and bed rest. My daughter loves me. She tells me so each time we talk. I can see it in the light in her eyes when she looks at me. If I bring up my physical limitations, it would be like bringing up the topic of my mortality. As grown up as she is, she’s still my child. So, even though I haven’t yet had the courage to broach this with my daughter, I want to share it with all of you. Perhaps I’m practicing for the next conversation I have with her.