I never imagined myself at age 60. As a child it seemed like the age when you became really old. It was also my father’s age when he died of cancer in the spring of 1974, so it was the age I dreaded the most. My mother had turned 60 less than two months before his death. For her, life was about survival, not celebration, and he wasn’t going to make it.
With my brothers Bob and Terry
Now, decades later, I’m confused about my own path to 60 in just a few months. When I faced cancer surgery last fall I was afraid that, like my father, I wouldn’t make it past 60. It felt like my destiny because I had been so connected to him emotionally and spiritually. My frequent tears were for both of us. His life had ended far too early and unfairly and I was bitter that I didn’t have him anymore. I couldn’t stop dwelling on those feelings of fear and loss. But then some amazing things happened. My friend Wendy, who had just had cancer surgery, convinced me that my life did matter and that it would continue. We talked about the shock of hearing the word “cancer” and the fear surrounding it. Amazingly, we were experiencing cancer at the same time. “Now Lynda, remember. . . Wendy often said. Those simple comforting words still resonate in my ears. In addition, my daughter and I talked about the symbolism of age 60. She listened to all of my fears and was there for me at every doctor’s appointment. She encouraged me to have my feelings and never allowed me to feel minimized. Another friend supported me in countless ways that I will never forget. She had once had the same type of cancer and had a great deal to share about her experience. And I greatly appreciated the loving support of my sons; they couldn’t have been more kind or caring.
Me
And now, crisis passed, I’m taking on 60 in a new way and acknowledging at the same time some sadness about leaving my 50’s behind. Knowing that each advancing birthday has often left me feeling different levels of depression, I sought out something new and challenging for myself—to write a series of stories about my life and my connections, as well as places and events of significance. I was helped along by ancestors who left traces of their lives, consciously or not. There was my remarkable Aunt Ellen, who created incredible yearbooks and scrapbooks of her life and those she knew. I will be forever grateful to her, as well as my mother, who created a scrapbook about her life with my father from 1938-1974. I wrote their story because I wanted to honor their life together. In addition, my mother’s touching letters from her childhood re-surfaced along with hospital notes concerning her from the 1920’s and I was compelled to write her story. Ironically, because I had nothing my father had written over the years, I vowed to leave behind stories about him for my children and grandchildren. He was the kindest, gentlest, most patient man I had ever known, and I wanted them to know him.
Writing these stories has been a journey of love. One discovery often led to many others. In researching my mother’s 1931 high school yearbook I discovered a 93-year old classmate of hers who was still living. An article had been written about her on the Clark County, Wisconsin genealogical site and I wanted to get to know her. I called her and asked if I could come for a visit. She was surprised to hear from me and looked forward to my visit. We had a wonderful chat about my mother and Aunt Ellen. She knew both of them well, from volunteer work she had done with my aunt to reunions she had attended with my mother. I drove back to Minneapolis feeling incredibly blessed that I had met Ottillie. Because of her, I had taken another step on my life’s journey. Even at 93, she was enthusiastic about life. How could I be anything less?
With my brother Bob
As 60 approaches, I remind myself that 8,000 others reach that milestone every day of the year. Somehow it feels less lonely knowing that, although I chuckle and relate to blogger Charlotte Weybright and her words: “It’s funny how over the years my idea of “old” has changed. When I hit a milestone such as each decade, I just add 25 or 30 years to it and that is my new definition of “old.”
I am more than ever subscribing to an old expression by Abraham Lincoln: “It’s not the years in your life that matter; it’s the life in your years.” I feel like I have a lot of life left in my years, and although I don’t know the twists and turns it might take, I remind myself of Ottillie, who at 93 still inspires fellow nursing home residents and workers, and Pat Sajak, game show host who said, “I’m not arguing there is no melancholy to moving closer to the end than the beginning, and I’m not discounting the difficulties age can produce, but it’s a boat in which we all sail. When you’ve been 59 for a year, you have two choices; turn 60 or die. I’m still here at 60. I like that.” I’m starting to embrace 60 as well.
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