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Happy Aging after the Age of Eighty
The Man Who Refused to Pass Away a Novel (21)
In the months after my eightieth birthday, the contemplation of time and its enigmatic nature consumed me. I paid little heed to the prospect of celebrating my future birthdays; the numerical significance of my advanced age held little appeal for me. Nevertheless, I was happy with the family’s traditions, as we had always placed great emphasis on commemorating important milestones.
My belief in the importance of such celebrations persisted, as they served as markers of the inexorable progression of time and, more crucially, as testaments to our enduring unity. The joy derived from witnessing our children and, particularly, our grandchildren celebrate their birthdays was a source of profound happiness.
Upon reflection, these celebrations encapsulated the art of infusing life with meaning. When we create meaning in our lives, it endures even after we depart from this world. Our existence is not in vain, and our departure is not devoid of significance.
Nonetheless, the aging process is not devoid of tribulations, and the prospect of growing old is a source of trepidation for many. Contemplating the notion that we’ve reached an advanced age and that life will inevitably draw to a close is a reflection that comes naturally. Elsa and I engaged in such musings in the years after my eightieth birthday.
“It all seems so devoid of meaning,” I had remarked. “First, we are born, then we traverse the stages of childhood and youth, and ultimately we arrive at adulthood.”
“Yes, I’ve pondered that,” Elsa had responded.
“We journey through various facets of life, accumulating knowledge and experience,” I continued.
“Yes, we encounter conflicts and experience love,” she added.
“Yes, and we endure loss and grief—all the rich tapestry of human existence,” I concluded.
Elsa had regarded me with a solemn expression. Yet beneath that solemnity, I detected a glimmer of light in her countenance. Was it the hint of a smile, an expression of trust? I couldn’t be certain.
“We experience loss and grief,” she acknowledged, “and anxiety. We don’t know what the future holds.”
“Yes, there is so much. So much more, spanning the entire spectrum. The joy of success, the pleasure of accomplishment—everything that we can revel in.”
I gazed at her, and she returned my gaze. It was evident that both of us were wrestling with profound thoughts. I contemplated how, as we age, we accumulate knowledge and wisdom, deepening our understanding and amassing a wealth of insight that we can pass down to future generations.
Yet rather than contemplating the prospect of enjoying many years of wisdom, insight, and tranquility in our seventies or eighties, we were confronted with the inevitability of death. It was this realization that fueled the concept of protest—the revolt against the absurdity of life’s circumstances.
The paradox was palpable—everyone acknowledges death, yet few are willing to engage in discourse about it. We are averse to the contemplation of our own mortality, preferring instead to shield ourselves from the thought.
“Yes,” Elsa concurred, “it’s challenging to grasp.”
I looked at Elsa. I could not share with her the thoughts I had at that moment. She sat there before me, so vivid and looking so healthy. I sighed. After a moment, I said:
“Yes, what is the meaning behind it all? It appears so intricate.”
“But it’s also somewhat straightforward.”
“How so?”
“We can view it as the task of creating meaning in life. When we accomplish this, our existence assumes enduring significance, even in the face of death. We do not live in vain, and our deaths are not futile.”
“I see,” I responded, and Elsa nodded thoughtfully.
“Yes,” she stated, “we can perceive it in this manner, but it doesn’t alleviate the pain.”
“Yes, that’s the nature of it,” I acknowledged.
“It is painful when I contemplate that in a few years, I will depart from here, leaving behind everyone I know and everyone who has known me.”
“You could say that we are all in the same boat, all confronting the same situation.”
She nodded and said, “That would be a way to put it.”
“Time flows at the same pace, whether quickly or slowly, for all. It is merely our individual perception of time that varies.”
“Yes,” Elsa responded, “but there are many other aspects that differ from person to person.”
“Yes, indeed. People think and feel differently. Some resign themselves, surrender.”
“Yes, and it’s disheartening to witness.”
“We won’t surrender, Elsa!”
“No, absolutely not!”
“But have you considered this—why don’t we surrender?”
“No, I believe it’s something each individual discerns in their own time.”
“People age in distinctly varied ways.”
“Yes, some fight with unwavering determination.”
“Yes, I’ve observed that. And others sail peacefully, guided by a gentle breeze toward the horizon.”
“Or they ride magnificently into the sunset atop a noble steed.”
She smiled but offered no response.
“Others,” I continued, "remain in perpetual motion, never at rest.”
“Yes, forever on their way to another destination.”
“Exactly. They are always progressing toward something they wish to achieve, reach, or experience.”
“And you—where do you place yourself within this panorama?”
“Well, I’m not entirely sure; perhaps somewhere here or somewhere there.”
“You don’t wish to confine yourself to a specific category, is that it? Quite typical of you, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Especially because I don’t neatly fit into one box or the other.”