Life's Losses and Living
As I age, it would be easy to mark my life by its losses. They keep piling up. Some are small, but that doesn't mean they don't count. I don't hear as well, and cataracts are slowly getting between me and the world I want to see. I've lost sleep - and the ability to sleep through the night without bathroom breaks. I've certainly lost muscle mass, as is evident every workout day when I see the thirty-somethings (yes, even forty-somethings) bulking up with weights I would need help to even lift off the rack. I've lost the suppleness and flexibility that used to allow me to do yard work without taking Advil by the time I was done, and I've lost the ability to eat later at night without two Tums to coax my stomach into keeping its acid where it ought to stay.
Some of the losses count a lot more. I lost my Dad when I was 43, my mother four-years ago when she was 100, and my dear brother just shy of six months ago. I've lost uncles, aunts, cousins, and others I have come to know and love, to illness, old age, suicide, murder, and most recently, in the prime of his youth, a tragic accident. I've lost my mother- and father-in-law, both people who graced my life with uncountable blessings, and I've lost three pets- Cupcake, Fluffy, and Sasha, who gave me more joy than they ever imagined.
Yet, strangely for me - I'm more inclined to Eyore than Tigger - these losses don't depress me as much as they might. I have my moments, and sometimes days, of course, but I'm increasingly measuring my life by its gains, and what I still have left. I don't know if I've gained any wisdom, for example, but I like to think I've gained perspective, without which things that don't matter will always drive out things that do. I know I've gained more appreciation for what I can do - and acceptance for what I can't. The former opens moments of delight, while the latter just adds to despair. I know I've learned to slow down. Perhaps this is because age makes you slow down, but I mean the kind of slowing down that replaces rushing with savoring. I experience this every morning, before I roll (I used to jump) out of bed, as I listen to the breathing of my life's greatest gift lying next to me. If she is awake as well, I hold her in my arms for a few minutes, not impatiently seeing this as slowing me down from my daily to-do list but graciously giving me a moment more valuable than anything on that list.
I know that there is a scientific explanation for all of this. It's called positive psychology, our natural tendency to make the most of our lives and not let misfortune lead to misery. It's why even those who become paraplegic usually recover their basic level of happiness around six months after the accident that forever changed their lives. But understanding what's happening is still different than experiencing it. The former is cerebral while the latter is emotional. It's the emotion I relish and that lends meaning to my life.
I know there are devastating losses in my future. Some will come as gentle rain; others will descend with the force of thunder. It would be nice if I could prepare myself for them, being a planner who likes to soften life's setbacks with "action steps." And, being prudent, I have taken some of those steps. But for the most part, I cannot - and will not - spend my days in anxious anticipation and preventive planning. Loss is the inevitable price of aging. Overly preparing for that loss takes too much time from living. Focusing on the former will sacrifice part of each day to things I can do nothing about. Attending to the latter will open me to the gifts and gains yet to come.
I rose earlier than usual this morning to write this, and as I wait for the sun to rise - and send light through the stained glass panels my sometimes shaky hands can still craft - I have such joy in anticipation of the day to come. After all, when you sleep less, you get to experience that much more during the day to which you have awakened. Some might view this lack of sleep as a problem to be solved with a sleeping pill. That's not the prescription I want for my life. I'll take the medicine of that extra hour of life any time it's offered.
Photo Credit: Carol Donsky Newell
