Month: March 2024

March 2024

By Richard Fleming

Photo courtesy of Nikoline Arns

“Me, myself, and I” is a well-known expression. It first appeared in a classic 1937 Billie Holiday song written by Allen Roberts and Alvin Kaufman. The song’s first two stanzas are:

Me, myself and I
Are all in love with you
We all think you’re wonderful
We do

Me, myself and I
Have just one point of view
We’re convinced there’s no one else like you

Holiday’s song is powerful and heartfelt. The phrasing shows how deeply her emotions run. Every part of her is in love.

But there are other ways to understand the words “me, myself, and I,” especially when considering seniors. For us, these three pronouns are not simply different representations of the same thing. Rather, they can be seen as symbolizing the three dimensions in which seniors’ lives unfold.

Here is how I see it: “Me” means my physical body. “Myself” refers to my mind and what is going on inside my thick skull. And “I” represents how society views me.

Let’s look at each pronoun – each dimension of growing old – in turn.

First, me. Me refers to my body. This body is clearly growing older. Though I am lucky to have dodged some serious ravages of time, the corpus is deteriorating. Whether it be my joints or my muscles, my hearing or my vision, my metabolism or my skin, all have seen better days. Which aspects of physical decline I find most bothersome varies from one season to the next. This spring, I dislike how quickly my stamina fails me, how easily I grow tired. In the past, I could accomplish multiple projects with energy to spare. Not anymore. Even completing a couple of chores like watering the plants and cleaning the garage can require a time out. When summer comes, perhaps I will be more bothered by my declining hearing. Hopefully a hearing aid tuneup at Costco will help. By the time autumn arrives, my irritation may turn towards my knees getting stiffer. The slowing down of the human body affects all old folks, including me.

Next, myself. While my body is declining, my mind still lingers under the illusion I’m much younger. Some days I feel I’m in my early 40s. Other days I’m in my late 50s. Rarely do I think of myself as being in my 70s. The brain is funny that way. It can play tricks on us. We live our lives day by day, year after year, and we move  forward through time. But our minds often fail to appreciate how far we have traveled and the toll it has taken. After spending five or six decades living vigorously and ignoring the prospect of growing old, it is hard to adopt a self-image of being gray haired, wrinkled, and slower of step. This disconnect between mind and body causes confusion and consternation as I move further into old age. Something does not seem right. My mind cannot fully grasp the reality of how many years I myself have lived on planet earth.

Lastly, I. This third pronoun puts focus on how society views me. When I am out in public, I am unmistakably viewed as a senior. And treated as one too. Often, when I’m in the hardware store, I’m the oldest person there. The clerks sometimes seem a bit surprised to see me foraging in drawers for the right sized screws I need for a home project. In the grocery, I am clearly viewed by young customers as a card-carrying member of the cohort of seniors shuffling down the aisles like a troupe of zombies. Though I feel no different than other customers, young folks are eager to briskly push past me. When I’m spending time deciding what type of pasta to purchase, youthful shoppers try not to show impatience as they quickly grab a box of organic whole wheat penne. And I can’t help but notice that young shoppers tend to avoid the checkout line I’m standing in, no doubt thinking I will have a hard time at the payment terminal, slowing things down interminably. No matter how young my brain feels, I find that society always treats me as an old person.

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So “me, myself, and I” carries different meanings depending on one’s age. For the young, it serves as a statement of emphasis. For old folks, this trio of first-person pronouns can aptly characterize the complex levels on which we grow old: physical, mental, and social. Thus: Me. Myself. And I. The added periods are intentional.

With apologies to Billie Holiday, Allen Roberts, and Alvin Kaufman, I want to humbly offer a rephrasing of the first part of their song so it can appropriately be sung by an oldster:

Me. Myself. And I.
Are all in love with you
We all think you’re wonderful
We do

Me. Myself. And I
Have three points of view

For me, your love makes me young again

For myself, being with you makes my mind blossom anew

And I don’t care if society views us as two old turtle doves

Me. Myself. And I. We’re all convinced there’s no one else like you.

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March 2024

By Richard Fleming

Photo courtesy of Jeremy Wong

The human body is comprised of 78 remarkable organs which help sustain normal life. Five – the heart, brain, lungs, kidneys, and liver – are particularly crucial and are commonly referred to as “vital organs.” Other body parts, while important, are not as essential as our vital organs. We can live without our tonsils or appendix. Even our gall bladder is dispensable. But we cannot live without our heart.

In the hierarchy of importance, one internal organ gets short shrift. It is not labeled a vital organ in any medical textbook. I feel it is past time to give this body part more respect. The organ I am referring to is the lacrimal gland, commonly known as the tear gland. We have two of these magical organs, one above each eye. In my view, our lacrimal glands can make a viable claim to be vital organs. Granted, they may not be as important as our heart or lungs. But without functioning lacrimal glands, our quality of life would suffer. And this is especially true for seniors.

Why is tear production so important? And why is it especially valuable for old folks? Tears serve two principal functions, one physiologic, the other emotional.

Physiologically, tears lubricate our eyes. Maintaining moist eyes is crucial for normal vision and eye health. Our lacrimal glands work 24 hours a day to keep our eyes from drying out. If our eyes are not kept moist, we cannot clearly see the world around us and the road ahead.

And lacrimal glands serve an important role in our emotional well-being because they enable us to cry. Emotional crying is critical to healthy living. It is a uniquely human activity. Tears can express feelings of overwhelming joy or consuming sorrow. Crying can be a powerful affirmation of love or a plaintive request for support. Tears communicate with our fellow humans in ways that words alone cannot. Crying can release emotional tension. Without crying, we would tend to keep feelings bottled up inside, contributing to problems like hypertension, depression, and a weakened immune system.

*    *    *

People of all ages benefit from tear production, but this is especially true for seniors. Our lacrimal glands assume greater importance over time, both physiologically and emotionally.

As we age, our eyes also grow old. Our eyeballs stiffen and our vision becomes less sharp. Ironically, this happens at the same time that font sizes on medication bottles and food packages start shrinking. Tear production can help slow the anatomical decline of our eyes, so hopefully we know whether to take that blue capsule twice or three times a day.

And emotions frequently become more intense as we grow older. Aging can be accompanied by feelings of profound happiness. Children get married. Grandchildren are born. We witness the upcoming generations establishing themselves, leaving childhood behind, and taking the baton to work for a better future. Seniors often celebrate these happy milestones with tears of joy.

But a fundamental part of growing old is also the certainty of increasing loss. The toll of family members passing mounts. Friends fall by the wayside. The winding down of our bodies and the unavoidable truth of what lies ahead cannot be denied.

So we older folks also cry tears of sadness. Sometimes we cry in the presence of our family and friends. And sometimes we cry alone, sitting quietly in a bedroom or at the kitchen table. As our years accumulate and our horizons draw closer, tears tend to more frequently reflect grief than joy. But these tears of sadness can be therapeutic and help us deal with the mysterious and uncertain challenges of growing old.

*    *    *

As I think back on my years in medical practice, I recall many memories of old people crying. Rare was the clinic day untouched by tears. So many seniors feeling loss. So many seniors feeling lost.

And I remember the poignant tears of my own aging family members.

My father approaching death from cancer at age 68. He could barely move from bed, and on one visit I leaned in and gave him a long hug. When I finally sat back, he was crying and said, “This is what I am going to miss the most. Hugging.” I had to look away.

My mother-in-law sitting mutely on our family room sofa, unable to speak after a stroke. She sat stiffly, quietly, and then tears began to trickle down her cheeks. She must have known what was to come a few days later. Crying was the only way she could express herself.

My mother, lying in bed at a skilled nursing facility after a stroke left her so incapacitated she could not read. She could not watch TV. She could not bathe or dress herself. As tears ran down her face one day, she said, “Please make me the happiest mom in the world and help this end.”

A few months ago, my 60 year old brother with Down syndrome and dementia, sitting at our kitchen table drinking his morning coffee. After my wife asked him a question, he paused, hit the side of his head a few times, then started crying. “I can’t remember things so good,” he said. Then he took another sip of coffee and stared quietly into space.

*    *    *

We are all traveling further into the dappled light of the deep woods. We each take different paths and face unique challenges, though we share much. As we journey forward, it can become increasingly difficult to recall the beauty and to smile at the satisfactions of a life well lived. Loss envelops us more and more, year by year. Its grip grows tighter. The pain is real.

And our lacrimal glands respond as designed. The need to cry does not diminish. The production of tears is a necessary part of growing old. Crying provides validation, and confirmation, that our lives are filled with love. And with sadness. Love and sadness are interwined. If we did not know love, we would never feel sad. And if we did not know grief, we would never experience the magic of love. As we get older, the connection between love and loss grows deeper and tighter.

And so the tearfall of the old is a necessary part of coming to terms with life, helping us understand our past and accept our future.

Doesn’t it make sense to see our lacrimal glands as vital organs?

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