Navigating the Fear of Aging and the Loss of Self

I felt drowned in brightness, sterile sanctuary that this dentist's office was-home to raw fear under the white gleam of tile and the acrid scent of disinfectant. I sat, waiting for the inevitable drill, flipping through a dog-eared magazine without really seeing the pages. A soft buzz came from a TV in the corner-morning show, one of those all-fluff-and-smiles things. I wasn't paying attention until a segment caught my ear-a birthday shoutout to viewers over 95.

They were featuring Mabel, 103 years young and, in the words of the moderator, "still going strong." Yet the woman on that screen was a shadow of life-strapped into a wheel chair, head hunched foward, chin buried into the artificial bloom pinned on her chest. It was a body that had betrayed her-skinned sags, breasts drooping low enough to have hidden a secret in the fold, tubes burrowed from underneath the clothes, disappearing into unseen places.

There was a pause, and then, as the camera focussed on her expressionless face, the host filled in the dead air with sickly sweet words: "Well, bless your heart, dear!"-the words as hollow as Mabel's stare. I got ready for my appointment called by the dental assistant and tried to shake off that unease, but the image of Mabel just clung on, a warning of sorts I couldn't shake off.

The sound of the drill humming in my ears, I sat in the dentist's chair, able to conjure up but one image of myself as Mabel-strapped down, lifeless, bracing the praise of strangers who had no idea who I once was. If ever I reached that age, would I hope for the years to take me instead of leaving me trapped in a shell of a body that could no longer feel joy?

The drill roared to life, but my mind was elsewhere. My own birthday was imminent, and the weight of the years had begun settling upon me. Those invincible days were behind me, replaced by knees that groaned despite the surgeries, and a hip that occasionally threatened mutiny. I was going to be 72, and all these little vexations of age were incrementally gathering, with each one reminding me that time spares no one.

Not long ago, the fact of my age became more real than ever. Returning my husband and me from a very long flight, we struggled with our luggage to join the line waiting to declare the items. The journey had caused my knees to ache, and an attendant offered me a wheelchair. I declined. The word popped from my mouth before I could think, propelled by pride. But when the attendant added possibly save some of the line, my husband agreed before I could voice my protest further.

"Is that the cute elderly couple in the corner?" a woman's voice rang out above the din. I looked around expecting to see someone else, but the attendant was waving at us. My husband squeezed my hand in a silent plea for me to say nothing, but inside, I seethed. Cute? Elderly? The words were barbs, digging into the last shreds of my dignity.

And infantilized-reduced to stereotype-because of a limp and a head of white hair.

I fumed the entire cab ride home, raging at my husband, who tried to calm me down. The cabbie, another man not much younger than us, piped up, too, sharing his own peeve about people speaking to the elderly. It was some small consolation, the acknowledgment that wasn't singularly nuts this enraged me.

But my anger was rooted in something deeper-something I hadn't, actually, acknowledged until now. I was scared-scared of what was next. The women in my family lived a very long life, often to their late 90s, sometimes to the age of 100. But those additional years brought physical decline, and I wasn't so sure I wanted that gift.

She was brilliant and creative, a force of nature who could talk to anyone. Then she had a birthday, her 90th. And something changed. She forgot the words first, then the thoughts, then everything. Her mind disappeared bit by bit, until there was nothing left of the woman who had been. It was like a slow-motion disaster that I couldn't stop. And now, with my own brain finally starting to bear its share of scrapes and bruises, I had begun to worry that I was following suit. Mild cognitive impairments, the doctors called it. Little lapses in memory, difficulty with words-the sort of things that were easy to explain away until they weren't. Writing-my lifelong passion-was becoming harder work. I had to relearn simple things and look up many things that I once knew by heart. It is a paralyzing fear to think that one day I will also lose my ability to write.

It was much more than a skill; it was part of me, one of the last pieces I couldn't bear losing. As my birthday approached, I promised myself:. I'd relish what was left of the time I still had, bask in the acuity of my mind as long as that was there. I'd be all there: both the nurturing, caring woman my family knew and the feisty, opinionated one who could still hold her own in any argument.

And when I blew out the candles, I would wish for the strength to hold onto that version of myself for as long as possible. Perhaps, if I was lucky, those words of my mother had returned to her in whatever place she existed now. Maybe, if I was even luckier, I wouldn't lose mine.