I have always been achievement oriented. As a child I worked hard to get good grades. As an adult I tried to be successful in the many roles I had – student, parent, wife, research scientist, friend, and others.  Perhaps that’s why when I heard about the concept of “Successful Aging” it appealed to me. Now that I am fully along in the aging category, I certainly want to make a success of it.

But what is success in aging? It seems to me that it’s one of the few things that you shouldn’t have to work hard at to be a success… just keep living. No need to cram late at night like I did for school grades, or write research proposals like I did to be a successful research scientist, or make sure my children had their homework done as I needed to do as a parent. I just need to wake up in the morning, and know that if I make it through the day, I had another day of successfully aging.  

But wait—there has been a lot written about successful aging, so there must be more to it than that. Maybe I can learn something to help me be even more successful. Looking through some of the writings on this topic, I found a book on Successful Aging by Rowe and Kahn, and three components were described:

(1) absence of disease and disability— I agree with that. So far I am successful in this component, although  doctors’ visits and medical tests seems to be taking more of my time. But I can keep that up.

(2) high cognitive and physical functioning—“High” is relative, but I do a lot of reading, some writing (like this blog), and can discuss the terrible state of the country with knowledge of the latest outrageous headlines. In terms of physical functioning, I exercise almost every day (ok, maybe 3-4 days/week), and go for long walks several days each week (ok, once or twice).

So far, I’m a big success. That wasn’t hard.

(3) active engagement in life—I think this is a big one, and for me it is my main source of pleasure. In this time of COVID this has been challenging and changing. Visiting family and friends has been replaced by Zoom or Facetime calls. Trips to explore other countries or parts of the US have been reduced to local bus travel to shop for necessities. Enjoying the theater, museums and other entertainment in NYC has turned into Netflix, TV, and on-line shows. 

Does this mean I am a failure in this component of successful aging? No! I have redefined engagement in life as something I can do from my desk chair. That will have to do for now, and hopefully not for too much longer. So I declare I am being successful in this last item too.

But wait—success should also be sustainable. What will happen as I continue to age? I am likely to have diseases or disabilities of aging (and maybe get some that have little to do with aging). My cognitive and physical functioning may decline, as may my engagement in life, especially since it is somewhat dependent on my health and functioning.

Also, since people close to me who I love are getting older too, if they need my assistance I want to help take care of them. This no doubt will reduce the time I can spend on some of those activities that have made me successful in aging so far.

But maybe providing this care for aging others who I care about can also be part of successful aging. Also, while my activities are likely to change over time, for example trips to other countries may have to be taken virtually, I can still find many that are meaningful to me. But I think I will also hold on to my initial idea—that simply being here, every day, and looking forward to a new day doing things I enjoy, will mean that I am mastering successful aging.

As I get older, I experience changes in my body that all come down to More or Less

MORE

Growths

I used to be proud of my skin. Somewhat dark-complexioned, as a teenager I loved lying in the sun during the summer and getting tanned. I had a few dark moles on my body that my mother called beauty marks. I never minded them. Anything I had called beauty was fine with me. Forward about 50 years, my body started having many add-ons, some even look like what used to be called beauty marks. But according to my husband, they are called tags. TAGS!- like something found on an object in a yard sale and sold “as is.” I seem to have reached a new stage of fertility.

Extra Skin

I was never overweight… OK, maybe a little. But still, where did all that extra skin on my arms and thighs and face come from? I never could have filled in all that space. And who would have thought that gravity, an abstract concept, would play such a significant role in how I look.

Weight

Talking about weight, who ever said what goes up must come down? Weight loss plans work for my husband, but not for me. Between Ups and Downs, Ups are far ahead.

Comfortable Clothes

While all these changes are taking place, I have also found that comfort in clothes is more important to me. So no more high heels (except for very special occasions), and no need for tight-fitting clothes or short skirts that keep me from crossing my legs when sitting down. And I have come to appreciate elasticized waistlines, especially in this COVID time.

LESS

Hair

I always had thick, dark curly hair, typical of my eastern European Jewish heritage. It was so curly that as a pre-teen I had what was called a “poodle” cut, and in my 20s, in line with the fashion, it became an Afro. As I grow older my hair is thinning. My kindly hairdresser tells me that it was too bushy before, so now it is an improvement, but I know better. Sometimes less is not more.

Energy

I used to have three young children at home, a full-time job, and a long commute to work. Life was busy, but I had the energy for it all. Now retired, living in New York City, and with just my husband at home, I anticipated that my energy would be used for extensive day-long explorations of the city. It hasn’t turned out that way. Pre-COVID, when the City was open, I found I had less energy than I expected, and mid-day naps were sometimes needed. I expect that I will again find this post-COVID.

Acuity of senses

Vision and hearing have been declining for several years. Thankfully, unlike the energy loss, there are tools to help restore them – like glasses, hearing aids, cataract surgery, etc. Perhaps the results will make these senses better than ever, and I can move this item from the Less to the More category.

Multi-tasking

I remember days when I would push my body to exhaustion- there’s much less of that now. With children and a job, there were numerous activities to be done outside of work, sometimes two or more simultaneously, like walking the dog, helping children with homework, preparing a paper or presentation needed for work, making meals, shopping, and many more. No more- I can often plan a more leisurely day, including scheduling time for relaxing. 

So, if you ask me how I am managing the aging process I would say overall it’s not bad. Most days I feel pretty good – More or Less.

My views about my health care management started changing a few years ago. Until then, whenever I had a health problem, I felt confident that with enough rest, or medication, or even surgery, the condition would be cured, and I would return to my usual worry-free health status.

That’s not true anymore.

It started a few years ago when I went to a doctor about the pain in my right arm and shoulder. After examinations and x-rays, confirmed by a second opinion, I learned I have a torn rotator cuff that could not be repaired. As other muscles had come into play to compensate for this tear, I was advised to simply avoid heavy lifting and activities that caused pain. Although briefly sad that I was permanently  “damaged,” I was gratified by my body’s ability to adapt, and have readily followed this advice.

That was my first clue that with aging came bodily changes that might not be fixable. But I could adjust to these changes if I incorporated new management strategies.

This new view of my health status was reaffirmed when I went to physical therapy for lower back pain.   After a few sessions I asked the therapist how many more sessions were needed, and how long I would need to continue the exercises she had taught me. She responded that: The problem doesn’t really go away, you just learn to manage it. The exercise regimen would need to be incorporated into my life from then on.  As I was working with a trainer already, I integrated these exercises with my existing routine, and also do them in-between sessions.

Then I had a problem with foot pain. This led me to a podiatrist, who diagnosed plantar fascia. Injections helped the pain disappear, but he also fitted me with orthotics – inserts to put in my shoes to prevent a recurrence. And I would need to wear them from then on. They don’t fit into most of my shoes, but when they do, I wear them. So far, no pain recurrence.

So I am taking care of myself. I won’t lift heavy items so that I can avoid further shoulder problems, I will keep doing exercises to strengthen my back, and I will wear my shoe inserts when possible. So far, all these efforts have been successful. I anticipate that more adjustments and adaptations will be needed as time goes on, and I will welcome them when they provide relief from pain or keep my “equipment” in working order. It is clear that “Under New Management” has become a new way of life for me.

vestigial, adjective- retention of structures or behaviors that are no longer useful. Most often applied to biological structures such as an appendix.

During this time of COVID-19 I am doing some things that appear to be vestigial:

Zoom call preparation

• I put on perfume before a Zoom call.

This helps me feel I am ready for the call, and I do it for personal or business-related calls. I used to think of perfume as something I wore for others… I guess not.

Attention to weather reports

• I listen to the weather forecast every evening, sometimes checking it on my iPhone.

Pre COVID lock-down, I did this to know how to dress the next day. But most mornings now I don’t leave the house. Maybe I do it to remind me that there’s an outside world.

Carrying useless items

• I carry my purse when I go for a walk. I always liked organizing the multiple compartments, and they include credit cards, discount coupons and a metro card.

None of these items are useful now but I take comfort in having them with me.

Keeping things neat at home

• I make my bed every morning, keep my mail and magazines organized into neat piles, and put away all groceries (even non-perishables) as soon as I get them home.

Since I am having no visitors, I don’t have to do these things. I guess keeping my things neat and organized isn’t just for others to see.

Wearing makeup

• I put makeup on every day, even when I am not planning on leaving the house.

After wearing makeup my entire adult life, I can’t go without it. I even refresh my lipstick before I leave the house. I realize this is of no use as I put on my facemask, and that it will just result in lipstick smears on the inside of the mask. But I can’t give that up either.

Smiling

• When walking in my neighborhood, I still automatically smile to acknowledge someone I know. I quickly remember that they can’t see it through my face mask, and I wave instead.

I hope smiling doesn’t become vestigial. But in the meantime, I am working on developing more expressive eyebrows.

What’s to be done with these vestigial behaviors? I will keep doing them because they make me feel good (like the perfume) or they will be useful again (like my stuffed purse).

And perhaps they all do have some utility now- they keep me tethered to a past that I hope will soon be restored.

Being “on time” is usually considered desirable, but that’s often not possible.

When I was a child, my family celebrated Hanukkah. The holiday always came around Christmas Day, but it fell on a different date each year, in accord with the Hebrew calendar. And each year my parents would say Hanukkah was either early or late. I don’t remember it ever being “on time.”

I graduated college a month before I turned 19 – that was early. I got married a month before I turned 34 – that was considered late.

Being born in July means your birthday happens about a month after many important events, like June graduations and weddings. It also means that when you are young your school friends usually aren’t around in July to come to a birthday party, so you need to have your birthday celebration in June or September… early or late.

I had two children, my son was born when I was 35 and my daughter just a few days before I turned 38. For both children, I was told that I was having them a little late in life. But since then times have changed, and having children in one’s 30s is no longer considered “late.” By the way, in terms of their due dates, my son was born just on time, but my daughter – she came early.

I had a long and productive research career, generally getting my projects done early. I recently retired, in my early 70s – which many considered late. Since retiring I have learned of people working into their 80s- so maybe I wasn’t late for that either.

All these activities in my life were completed and successful, and being early or late didn’t matter much. But there are judgments attached to these words.

Being an early riser or an early bird is generally commendable- but not if it’s because you can’t sleep. Being a late bloomer is often seen in a positive way- but maybe not if you missed out on some opportunities.

There are also some times when the words early or late are not greeted happily. Many women know the fear that can be experienced when they think their period is late. No one wants a medical diagnosis that starts with the phrase “early onset” or “late stage.” And no one wants to be known as “the late Mr or Ms… .”

So what does this all mean? Maybe just that being early or late doesn’t matter much by itself, it all depends on the circumstances. But remember, just in case, if you have things you want to do you better get started. It’s probably later than you think.

Her smell always comforted me. It reminded me of warm, soft, freshly cleaned blankets. When I was seven and eight years old I would get into bed with her if I had had a difficult day or felt sad. She never asked me why, but she always had open arms. Only five feet tall, with long gray hair, she was my comforter and protector through most of my childhood. It seems fitting to write about her as we near Mother’s Day.

She wore her hair combed back and wound into a bun, held secure with long gray hairpins. Sometimes she let me make two braids that I pinned to the top of her head. She never seemed to mind when I fixed her hair that way, but always took out the braids and returned her hair to its usual style before leaving her bedroom.

Bubba, the word for grandmother in Yiddish, was my maternal grandmother, and lived with my family from the time she came to the US from Poland in the 1920s, when she was in her early 50s, until she entered a nursing home in her final year of life, about thirty years later. She was born in Krasneshiltz, Poland, a two-day buggy ride from Warsaw. As a child, hearing her stories, I often wondered if almost every place in Poland was a two-day buggy-ride from Warsaw.

Bubba had nine children and was widowed at thirty-nine when her husband died suddenly. She came to New York to live with my mother and our family after all her children had left home. My mother asked her to come to take care of her newborn, my older sister.

I was the youngest of three children and we lived above my father’s dry goods store in Williamsburg Brooklyn. Bubba never learned to speak English, so Yiddish was the language at home, but she did have an American-sounding given name: Dora (Devorah in Hebrew).

She helped my mother with childcare and housekeeping activities, as my parents often worked in the store together. I remember her cabbage soup and stuffed cabbage, but I never recorded those recipes. I do still make her noodle pudding, and before I entered the recipe into my computer, I kept it in my calendar book under “assets.”

Bubba enjoyed watching television in the evening and believed that because she could see the people on TV, they saw us too. She became very upset if I started to undress to change into my pajamas while watching evening TV. “Vus tist dee?” she would ask. What are you doing? “Gay arois.” Go out. She didn’t want the man on the TV to see me.

My mother bought a black upright piano when I was about four or five. Piano lessons were first given to my older sister and brother, and when they both refused to continue these lessons, it was up to me. I didn’t feel I had a choice, and in addition to the weekly lessons, I was expected to practice one hour daily. I never enjoyed practicing; I wanted to do my homework or play. If my mother thought I had not practiced for a full hour she would yell at me: “Practice.” Bubba would say, “Luhz er tsri.” Leave her alone. Then she told my mother that I had finished one full hour of practice before she came home. This appeased my mother, and I loved Bubba for her protection and the secret we shared.

For most of the time she lived with us, until walking became too difficult, Bubba went to the Orthodox Synagogue every Saturday. When she could no longer go she would sit in her rocking chair reading her prayer books, at peace in the world. She was always peaceful.

In the last two years of her life she had dementia. Although she had been our primary cook, she now began burning food on the stove. I was surprised when I saw her open the refrigerator to drink from a ketchup bottle. As her condition deteriorated, she would go out on the street and forget her way home. The police department would call and my mother went to the station to bring her home.

No longer at peace, often distressed, some evenings she would put her head out of our apartment window calling for my brother, concerned that he was out with a “shiksa,” a non-Jewish girl.

Bubba’s behavior became very difficult for my mother to manage at home, especially after my father died. About a year after his death, my mother moved Bubba to a nursing home. Although I visited Bubba in the nursing home, I only have a vague recollection of those visits. I remember that it was crowded and smelled bad. She died within a year of that move. I was fourteen.

I never told her how much she meant to me. I like to think that she knew. When my daughter was born, almost forty years ago, and more than twenty years after Bubba died, I named her Dara. Dora and Dara both have the same Hebrew name, Devorah. Dara is as loving and protective as her great-grandmother, my Bubba, Dora. Their similarities are striking and I see them every day. Dara with her family, friends, and her international work, especially in the Peace Corps. But I also realize that growing up around the turn of the 21^st century, Dara has had many advantages Dora could never have had. Still, the thread of connection is there, and although they never met, Dara has inherited the legacy of Bubba’s love, through me.

It’s not too late to say it. Thank you, Bubba. I love you. Happy Mother’s Day.