Is 80 Considered Old?

My husband just “walked” in his wheelchair to the couch so he could sit by me as close as possible. “How old are you?” he asks. I recently turned 80. When I tell him, he doesn’t believe me. “Am I old enough to sit by you?” he asks. I assure him he is. “Do something that lets me know you care about me,” he says. He leans over for a kiss.

The fact is, I don’t want to be 80. Indeed, I was celebrated in special ways, but my mind and attitude resisted the advent of a new decade, especially when I feel the changes taking place in my body. Suddenly age has become the issue that the jokesters have made it to be. The birthday cards aren’t as funny to me now. And I hate to think I’m one of those whom people are referring to when they begin a statement with “Some 80 year old woman…” as if that number might explain some aberrant or socially unacceptable behavior.

A few days ago my husband asked me how old he was. “Eight-nine,” I answered. “How’d I get so old so fast?” he asked. (A significant question for many reasons, but especially from a man with dementia.)

Truth be told, I’ve always been a bit proud of my age— not proud of the actual number of years, but of the fact that I concealed the evidence fairly well and was blessed with a young attitude. I never thought of myself as one of the old people and I seemed to be able to relate to younger people. I enjoyed teenagers and the years I spent teaching high school students. I loved the fulfilling years I spent mentoring and encouraging young women as they navigated motherhood.

In my mind, I’m energetic, capable, and relevant, but in reality I’m the one stretching my neck to see over the steering wheel, fumbling through my purse to locate some lost item, avoiding self checkouts because the “need help” light always comes on when I’m there, or the one lagging behind when everyone else walks at what seems a frantic pace. Now I’m feeling like an awkward misfit in the midst of a culture party to which I wasn’t invited. I don’t know what to wear, what to say, how to maneuver, or how to decode the lingo. I hate this feeling of insecurity and trepidation, so I look directly into the eyes of vivacious young people and implore them to extend the olive branch of kindness and acceptance.

I expect most of you reading this blog are younger than I am. You can’t really know me unless I tell you. But I know you because I’ve been in your shoes.

I’m the teenager wanting social acceptance and feeling the thrill of first-love.

I’m the 20-year-old living the freedom of college life.

I’m the young professional experiencing the first taste of independent living.

I’m the new bride.

I’m the young mother.

I’m the empty-nester.

I’m the first-time mother-in-law.

I’m the grandmother—

And I’m now the caregiver.

The difference in you and me is that I’ve read the end of many of your stories, but you haven’t read mine—and neither have I. The uncertainty and unpredictability of the coming years makes me feel anxious and insecure, even though I know and trust the One who holds my future in His divine plan.

As the Big 8-0 Day approached, my family asked me the inevitable question: how do you want to celebrate? I knew I didn’t want a party. What I craved was deepening my relationships in our own family. I wanted shared experiences and time for each of us to be heard; I wanted unhurried and meaningful conversation.

A few years ago for my birthday, my sons got together, picked up food, and came home to share lunch with me. We talked, laughed, and played cards in the afternoon and I felt emotionally stoked for years afterward. I was ready for another infusion of that same sense of connection.

Ten years ago, having lunch around our kitchen table.

This year, they took it up a notch. They whisked me away from home (and care-giving) for an overnight stay on a lake resort. For 24 hours, I was the queen. For a brief period, I didn’t feel old and irrelevant. I felt like one of the younger women living inside my head. I was the one pushing them to stay up playing games till 1:30 a.m. .

Once home, one more surprise awaited me. The boys had arranged a dinner for me at our place with a few close friends, and since they gave me no warning, I showed up wearing no make-up and one of their sweatshirts because I was chilly. The guests all looked so pretty, so “put together.” I, on the other hand looked like an 80 year old woman who didn’t know she had a surprise dinner on her agenda.

This is when I realized some things aren’t that important. The couples there were lifelong friends, some for more than 50 years. Our sons were doing something together that forced them to plan, put aside their own responsibilities for a moment and cooperate as brothers should, even when it was inconvenient and maybe even burdensome. The occasion required willingness from their wives to share their husbands and assume their family responsibilities for a couple of days. But it sealed a memory for everyone, especially for me, for a lifetime.

Even my husband, who normally would have been the one to make me feel special and pampered on my birthday, was able to participate in the festivities. He might not have understood all that was going on that night, but he knew he was a part of things, that he loved me, and that something special was happening. As a line from an old love song says, “We have these moments to remember…”

So, like it or not, I’ll embrace this age and stage of my life. I’ll make my remaining years as productive as possible; I’ll stay as relevant as I can; I’ll keep a sense of humor; I’ll do what I can to leave an imprint that will matter to as many people as possible.I want to fulfill the prediction in Isaiah 58:11 (TPT), “The Lord [Yahweh] will always guide you where to go and what to do. He will fill you with refreshment even when you are in a dry, difficult place. He will continually restore strength to you, so you will flourish like a well-watered garden and like a ever-flowing, trustworthy spring of blessing.” Amen!

I still want an orange Bronco. (Maybe when I’m 90…)