Another Milestone Reached,Louise Annarino,2-10-2014
Today, I joined the medicare ranks, celebrating my sixty-fifth birthday. Like all milestones, it forced me to consider the significance of my life. Why was I born? What accomplishment did the milestone celebrate? What did reaching this milestone portend?
Over the past weeks, as my birthday approached, I consider past milestones. I am not speaking about my personal milestones; only about universal American milestones.
What are those milestones? At age 13 I became a teenager. My bobby-soxer days were finally beginning. I could claim ownership of American Bandstand, wear nylon stockings, and call my Father “Daddio”. Little did I know that wearing stockings was a miserable experience. As suspected, I managed one “Daddio” before my Father put a stop to such disrespect. Still, I felt older.
At age 16 I was allowed to date. This was a total waste in my case. Unless one was invited to be someone’s date it made no difference. The boys around me did not quite measure up to the someones of my imagination; nor I to their imaginary siren. Sixteen was not so sweet after all. Rather, a time of facing the unrealistic nature of teenage dreams. Still, I felt older.
At age 18 I could drink 3.2 beer. I was not permitted to go into any bar except the Center Cafe owned by my dad and uncles. My great-uncle George served me my first beer, perched on a Center cafe bar stool, surrounded by Angelo,Frank,Joe and John. Their advice freely flowed and took the excitement down several notches. I went back to Coca-Cola. At age 21, the scene repeated itself when Uncle George served me my first drink, Johnny Walker. After choking it down with back slaps from dad and uncles, I again returned to Coca-Cola. Still, each time, I felt older.
At age 21 I could also register to vote. I registered on my birthday, joined both the Young Republicans and Young Democrats, missing the only primary I ever missed by refusing to declare a party until I was sure which one spoke for me. The next primary, I declared myself a Democrat. It has taken a lifetime to see the changes my vote has wrought. Still, that day, I felt older.
At age 50 I entered what we commonly accept as middle age. The addition makes no sense and the event itself is more a Hallmark moment than any meaningful accomplishment. At least I became eligible for my Golden Buckeye card, and happily if guiltily use its discounts for the “aging”. I wondered how I could be middle aged and a senior citizen at the same time. Still, I felt older.
Finally, at age 65 I received my medicare card, became an official old person, turned my sneakers silver, and can freely wear purple with a red hat. I am sure that is all my parents hoped for me 65 years ago. The strangest thing is I feel younger.
It is good thing to feel younger because I have been considering what the next universal American milestone is and came to an uncomfortable conclusion. The next milestone is death, or perhaps hospice for a while. As a milestone it leaves a lot to be desired. I am not eager to reach it, I can assure you.
The beauty of 65 is that I can now pursue my personal milestones, those things one delays until any number of events occur. For some it is retirement from a job. For others, it is knowing one’s children are settled and able to care for themselves and their children. And, for many, it is the freedom to speak more freely, explore geographies of the mind and of the earth, stay up all night and sleep in the next day. At 65, it is time to live in the moment.
Age 65 allows us to become kids at play again, challenge the status quo as we did as teenagers, use our true voice for change as we did through our vote, make more mature decisions with wisdom gained through our middle years. Age 65 allows us the time and freedom to become all we can be. We are reborn. We are young again. Today, and every day after this I am younger than I was yesterday. This is going to be a fun time! Want to come along with me?
annarino writes 
Removing Cataracts,Louise Annarino,7-24-2014
Some lessons are worth learning more than once. This is true of the lessons learned from my recent and first cataract surgery. I expected that the cloudy view of the world from my left eye would be replaced by a cleaner and crisper field of vision. What I did not anticipate was the amount of light which would permeate my new, unclouded lens. When I close the left eye darkness descends. My right lens is simply grimy, eroded and covered by the detritus of all it has seen over 65 years, like a sheer curtain keeping out much of the light. I had no idea how darkened my world had become, the curtain’s descent was so gradual.
My house is so much brighter, even on the cloudy days we have been having. I don’t need more lamps or brighter bulbs, as I had thought. Light reflects from the softest, most absorbent surfaces, not merely from mirrors. Candle light does light up the dining table enough to see the food on my plate. I had forgotten how much light there is in the world. How bright a future can be. I expect even more light after my second surgery.
It is not until we open our minds and hearts, are willing to open new doors, bravely step out into unknown territory, and curiously step into unexpected experiences that we realize how limited our lives and how clouded our thoughts have become; and, how dark our futures seem.
I thought I enjoyed my garden. I had only known half of it. There is no dearth of bees as I had thought; their tiny bodies now gleam against the backlight of flowers, more colorful than I had imagined. Tiny bugs move soil around the base of each plant, opening tunnels for rain water to reach roots. I thought reading had become burdensome. I no longer struggle to pull words from the page; they leap off onto beams of light straight to the retina. I thought my skin and hair had grown dull with age; but, they glow from the energy speeding through my body, alight with oxygen and sugars to grow new and younger cells. I thought the future could only grow darker. I was wrong. The future always glows brighter.
I dreaded the first surgery, terrified it could leave me blind, or with even less vision. I feared my body might reject the new lens, or my body would suffer an allergic reaction to the medications used to make the surgical procedure physically and emotionally comfortable. My worst fear was that I would not be able to hide my fear. I feared I would have a massive panic attack, causing havoc for the dedicated caregivers working so diligently on my behalf. I feared letting them down and shaming myself.
These are the fears I carry in my bag of tricks. They sometimes keep me from bravely opening my heart, stepping into new territory, and exploring unexpected experiences. When I was young the bag of fears I carried was nearly empty, so light I barely noticed; certainly not so heavy it stopped my explorations of the unknown future. As I grew older the bag grew fuller, heavier and more burdensome. No more. I dumped out the bag’s contents this week! The more light let in by my cataract surgery, the lighter my bag became. I cannot wait for my second surgery. I know I learned this many times before; but,some lessons are worth learning more than once.
If only each of us could remember this lesson, unload our bags of fear, and open our hearts to each other. If we could open the closed doors which block us from one another and step bravely into each other’s lives with light and hope instead of fear…I can only imagine how exciting and enlightening that would be. I am so glad I had this surgery. If anyone tells you that you need cataract surgery, don’t hesitate to say, “Great, I am ready!” The truth is is we all need cataract surgery. Some lessons are worth learning more than once.
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Tagged as aging, cataract surgery, change, eyecare, fear, health care, medicine, philosophy, senior citizens