Elder, Not Elderly: Notes on My 50th Birthday
If you had asked me, a dozen years ago, how I would feel on this exact day, I think I would have responded bitterly. Back then, we were in the full swing of our nomadic travels and not yet sidelined by illness or a global pandemic. I likely viewed my half-century birthday as a sad step into old age. I might have assumed we’d be stationary by this point, but I’d have guessed it would be somewhere warm(ish) in Europe.
Fast forward to now, and I’m living a life I never would have guessed: settled back in Canada, no significant travel plans in sight, and enduring this milestone birthday in a particularly harsh winter.
But here’s an unexpected truth: I’m not even slightly bitter about it.
After so many years spent living out of a suitcase, it may come as a surprise that I’m now a happy homebody. I have a comfortable recliner, a well-used library card, and a cat that finally decided (after two years of deliberation) that my lap is acceptable.
I believe that my newfound homebodyness says two things about me. Number one: that this is absolutely where I’m meant to be right now, tucked cozily into a quiet, rural home with a view, the kind that’s perfect for introverts who enjoy the steady company of themselves and only their most beloved. Number two: that I did right by stuffing as much action as I could into my travel-filled years, even if it did include braving 24-hour bus rides, sleeping on the occasional airport floor, and enduring some other truly suspect living arrangements during our ~2,700 nomadic nights.
Nowadays, such a lifestyle is unthinkable for me, or if momentarily and nostalgically thinkable, accompanied by a painful grimace. Leukemia forced our travel stoppage and stole many days early in my fourth decade, while chronic pain has defined the latter. Last year, I was diagnosed with occipital neuralgia due to advanced osteoarthritis in my cervical spine. It’s a constant struggle to find what works to avoid or alleviate the discomfort caused by both; a day never goes by that I’m not bothered by some form of pain. I use a rotating cast of ice packs and meds. Frequent adhesion massages have helped provide some relief, but I’ve recently started getting nerve blocks as well. Exercise is beneficial, but not if I do it THAT way. Rest is important and helpful, but I can’t sit for TOO long. And when I lie down, my neck has to be tilted at a very specific angle. Sleep one inch the wrong way, and I wake up with a piercing headache.
I haven’t shied away from travel entirely, but spontaneity and “roughing it” are gone in favour of careful planning for comfort. A special pillow is tucked away in my luggage to replace the bulbous neck-crankers provided at most accommodations. In addition to my other meds, Ibuprofen becomes a staple on the road to offset the cumulative effects of more adventure and less rest.
I am so glad that I took advantage of my youth and health when I did; looking back, it feels like a divine luxury to have done so. But so is the privilege of aging, considering that there have been a couple of moments in my life where I wasn’t sure I would get here.
My first five decades may be behind me, but I don’t view that as a cause for despair. I was so fortunate to pack a full lifetime’s worth (and more) of adventure into it, and especially because I did it all with the love of my life by my side for 27 of my 50 years. I am immeasurably fortunate and grateful. And it’s that gratitude, along with the wisdom I’ve gained, that I’m carrying into my next 50.
The Next Half-Century
Here’s the thing that women before me have known, and that I’m just catching up to now: reaching this stage of your life, even with all its physical aches and body mutations, is actually pretty awesome. Our youth-obsessed culture tells us otherwise, that at age 50, we should spend our time fretting over the tinsel in our hair and the lines on our face. That we should melt into corners and out of sight, because we’re no longer worth paying mind to.
To all of that, I say: fuck it.
(And that’s not just me becoming an irascible old crone…it’s science, baby. Read more about the “Great Unfuckening” here.)
The anxieties that plagued my youth are dissipating, and some are completely gone. I care much less about what others think and am becoming more vocal about what matters to me. For all my years, I felt unworthy to speak out on many things because I never thought I could do so from a place of full knowledge and authority. I can finally feel myself blossoming into the fact that YEAH, I know some shit. I’ve seen some things. I’ve survived. I’ve already lived a very full life and gained a worldly perspective that few others have. ASK ME ALL YOUR QUESTIONS, YOUNG ONES.
I am endlessly bothered by white, Western culture’s insistence that aging women are defined as elderly and not elders*. Though the words are similar, there is a distinct difference between them: The first implies insignificance and frailty, and the second, wisdom. Western society dismisses older women and their hard-earned authority, at its own peril. Have you seen the state of the world? It’s high time that more competent women are in charge.
No, I’m not running for political office (I’m not wired for that), but you can bet that I’m not going to accept that melting in a corner is henceforth my lot in life. What is my lot, then? Good question, and it would have been undeniably timely to have reached that answer in time for this milestone day, but I didn’t.
What I do know is this: I feel activated. I feel confident. I feel ready to get shout-y about some things. I am starting by using all these energies and my wisdom to further our business, but I am still figuring out what other purpose(s) they serve.
But with the right pillow under my head at night, I know I’ll get there.
~ Dalene
* Before you dudes come at me with your insistence that men are referred to as elderly as well, read this book and this article first.
