Category: Aging (Page 4 of 6)

June 2023

By Richard Fleming

Photo courtesy of Ales Krivec

We older folks have a hard time with many activities young and middle-aged people take for granted. I have discussed several previously, like household repairs or driving. With warm weather upon us, now is a good time to examine the challenges gardening presents to folks traversing their golden years.

My wife and I live in a house with a small yard, less than a tenth of an acre. During our 30 years here we have had average success cultivating trees, bushes, shrubs, succulents, and various flowering plants. We kept putting off the concept of vegetable gardening until “next year.” But after so many “next years,” I doubt we will ever venture into that realm. The reasons will be clear shortly.

Three decades is sufficient time to witness many plants growing old and ending up in the yard waste container. Some age more rapidly than others, especially if they are mismanaged. I have learned that plants do not enjoy being over-watered or under-watered. They can succumb when infected with fungi, powdery mildew, aphids, whiteflies, spider mites, and assorted other infections. Over many years my best efforts to treat plant diseases rarely proved successful. I’ve come to the realization that I am not a good plant doctor. Actually I’m not a good plant nurse, physical therapist, pharmacist, or orderly either.

Fortunately we have a landscaping service. They come every two weeks and perform some basic upkeep but much remains to be done. These tasks are becoming more challenging as the years pass by. The bending movement required to pull weeds or trim dead flowers is increasingly taxing. Climbing a tall ladder to clip dead tree branches is becoming a  bit dicey. Two weeks ago, my wife and I undertook our annual ritual of stringing Bhutanese prayer flags between trees in our back yard. Suffice it to say that next year these colorful flags will be strung from lower branches. Though they look peaceful and protective, prayer flags provide no guarantees against trauma from falling off high ladders.

I am coming to learn the key to successful golden years gardening is tempering my expectations. Why should I be bothered by some weeds growing in our artificial turf? Or between paving stones in our backyard? Or other weird places? They are living objects doing their best to survive in a hostile world and I suspect they play a positive role in our yard’s ecosystem. And those dead branches 20 feet up in the sky? Well, birds don’t seem to be bothered by them so why should I?

There is a weed growing out of the gutter on the second floor of our house. How exactly am I supposed to deal with this? Should I even try?

Photo by Richard Fleming

But there is one aspect of yard maintenance where tempering my expectations is difficult. I’m referring to what happens when a dead tree or plant needs replacement. Now that I’m in my 70s, the horizon grows closer every year. The reality is that new plants can take many years before they attain a pleasing size. And most nurseries only sell young plants and trees. Several years ago we had to replace the 25-year-old maple tree in our front yard. It was never large and the poor thing had become very ill. We asked some tree experts about replacing it with a mature tree that already had some height to it. This request was met with some not-so-subtle eye rolling. We were told mature trees are very expensive, hard to find, and they often fail to establish their root systems when transplanted. Such trees are more subject to disease and may not survive. “Besides,” the tree guy said, “trees grow, and in 10 or 15 years it will be starting to look nice and tall. And it’ll be healthy.”

I tend to defer to experts in fields I know little about, but the 10-15 years concept stuck in my craw. It is easy for a 30-year-old tree guy to casually talk about so many years in the future. But for me, that time frame is questionable. I may not be around when the tree is starting to look “nice and tall.” I’m all for planting trees my grandchildren can enjoy when they become adults, but I would not mind enjoying them also. Our ultimate decision was rooted, so to speak, in the lack of mature trees available to buy. So we planted a one-year-old pistache. It is now a six-year-old tree, cute, filling out, and maybe 8 feet high. I hope my grandkids will appreciate this tree as they grow old.

Succulents are supposed to be easy to care for. But I never got that memo. This plant will soon find itself in the yard waste bin.

Photo by Richard Fleming

Shortening time frames come in to play with other plants. Last year we had to take out a hedge that was a hedge in name only. Each plant was seriously infested with some kind of disease that could not be eradicated. At our request, the gardening service replaced the sick plants with ten rose bushes that will allegedly grow into a hedge over the next five years or so. Currently, after a year of growth, the bushes are a bit larger. They look nice, but it will clearly take some time for them to link together into a hedgerow. I keep telling myself to remain patient. And I keep reminding myself that five years is much better than 10-15.

So, when it comes to gardening during the golden years, my recommendation is to keep your expectations low. Remember that deferred gratification is a virtue. I am learning that enjoyment can be found in small trees and tiny bushes. When I look at them, they spur my imagination to think of what they will look like in the distant future. And having an active imagination is an important key to graceful aging.

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May 2023

By Richard Fleming

Photo courtesy of Nigel Tadyanehondo

I have decided to spill one of my peer group’s most closely guarded secrets. I do so hesitantly. I am afraid making it public might increase inter-generational conflict. But as a long time advocate for open communication, I think we boomers need to acknowledge one of our truths.

What I confess today is this: when we seniors wake up in the mornings, we often do not know what day of the week it is.

No doubt this idea seems unfathomable to those inhabiting Gen X and younger – the reliable, trustworthy folks who must go to work every day to make a living and contribute to the Social Security trust fund. For working people, each day of the week carries unique significance and high meaning. Each day feels distinct because of the work schedule.

For those working a Monday-through-Friday day job, for example, they wake up Monday morning acutely aware of what day of the week they are entering. Mondays herald a long and tiring work week ahead.

Tuesday mornings are slightly less jarring since only four days remain before the weekend.

On Wednesdays, folks wake up with a small sense of relief, knowing they’ve arrived at Hump Day, halfway through the week.

On Thursday mornings, the coming relief is palpable.

And no working-age person would ever wake up on a Friday morning, wondering what day it is. Not with the weekend ahead.

Saturday and Sunday mornings are celebratory. The alarm clock is less demanding. Breakfast can expand. Though time with kids and completing errands occupy many hours of the weekend, people’s time is usually more flexible than during the week.

Folks with other varieties of work schedules view each day of the week from the context of their own particular labor calendar. But they are never in doubt about what day it is when they awake.

Why is it so different for seniors, especially those of us further into retirement? Our focus upon awakening is not on what day of the week it is. Our attention is directed at trying to get out of bed, empty our bladders, and find our way into the kitchen to put on some coffee. Whether it is Monday or Thursday or even Saturday does not really matter. Each day loses its unique “feel” and significance. Life’s weekly periodicity ebbs.

There are some markers which distinguish one day from the next. Putting recycle and trash bins at the curb always comes on a specific day, so that helps keep us oriented in time and space. Regular weekly volunteer activities and babysitting responsibilities can also serve as identifiers for specific days. Holidays like Mother’s Day and Thanksgiving which take place on specified days of the week are very useful. But there is no denying that for older folks, the week’s seven days grow increasingly homogenized.

If I may be so bold, I will expand my revelation even further. For many of us seniors, not only are we often unaware of what day it is upon awakening, we often don’t know what day we’re living through in the mid-afternoon. Even night time can be kind of dicey. And the older we get, the more the days blend together. I have a harder time recalling what day it is now than I did two years ago, and I doubt the situation will improve two years from now. After all, why is it important to know whether today is Monday or Friday? Or some other day for that matter?

I do not consider my waning awareness of what day it is to be a problem. For seniors, this phenomenon is a feature, not a bug. With no work schedule looming over our heads, we can accurately consider each day to be a Saturday.

Of course young, working-age people would never mistake a Tuesday for a Saturday. These two days have less in common than cod liver oil and ice cream. And it’s cute how working people are so happy when approaching one of those three-day weekends that occur about 10 times per year. I get it. I used to feel the same way. Those long weekends were rare and special.

So the truth is now out. My peers and I have the privilege – and the responsibility – of enjoying recurring seven-day weekends. I understand this may be tough for Gen Xers, Millennials, and Zennials to learn about. But I will not allow myself to feel guilty. Unending weekends are one of the few and diminishing perks of reaching old age.

Since I now detect some rising intergenerational tension, I want to offer up one more reveal which I hope will lower the temperature and perhaps yield an armistice. Most seniors would gladly give up our endless weekends if it meant we could avoid the many and expanding disadvantages of growing old. Younger folks should not envy our seven-day weekends. As enjoyable as they are, they are far from idyllic. A year filled with Saturdays can become ordinary, even dull. Living through work weeks is what makes weekends so enjoyable.

I hope this final reveal is viewed by the laboring generations as an olive branch. Younger folks should be in no rush to live the way we older folks do. Young people need to keep working to maintain their own happiness. We seniors need them to always know what day of the week it is. It helps ensure our retirement benefits remain intact.

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May 2023

By Richard Fleming

We are each accompanied by our personal crew as we travel down the road. By crew, I am not talking about family, friends, and loved ones. These folks are our anchors. By crew, I’m referring to the people who provide expertise and logistical support as we navigate the path ahead. You know who I mean. Our team. Our plumbers and electricians. Our doctors and dentists. Our physical therapists. The photographers we hire for special occasions and the auto mechanics who keep us mobile. The pest control experts we call in when ants survive every elimination method known to Google. These folks make up our crew. We rely on them. None of us can hike this trail alone.

A peculiar facet of aging is that as we grow older, our crew grows younger. I don’t intend this statement to be humorous or metaphorical. It is simple mathematics. There is an inverse relationship between our upward trajectory in age and the downward trajectory of our crew members’ ages. It can be plotted on a graph.

When I was young, my crew consisted of folks much older than me. I still remember my pediatrician, Dr. Greene, who had graying hair, appeared to be very smart, and smelled like cologne. Dr. Welch, my dentist, did the best he could, considering he had arthritic fingers and I rarely brushed my teeth. My school teachers were knowledgeable, many decades my senior, and taught me well. My crew’s advanced years were reassuring virtues.

As I journeyed onward, my crew seemed to grow a little younger. In retrospect I now realize this was an optical illusion created because I was growing a little older. I still needed my crew. My wizened college advisors and medical school faculty did their best to help me chart a course forward. After I graduated, my senior work mentors distilled lessons that saved me years of effort.

My crew provided invaluable help in other areas of daily living as well. When my land line was on the fritz, I called in a telephone repair person. When my car’s warning light turned on, I relied on an auto mechanic. Backed-up toilets which resisted my fraught attempts at plunging and snaking required a plumber. Whenever I needed my crew, they would show up. Most of them were older men. A frequent phenomenon was that after completing the work, the repair person would end the visit by cracking a joke about old codgers or referencing some cultural quirks from two decades before I was born. I did not find their jokes funny. Apparently I was too young to understand them. Even though I was in my 30s.

It was when I reached my 40s and 50s that I discovered my crew had mysteriously become about the same age I was. My personal physician and dentist were both around my age. When I needed a plumber or electrician, the person who showed up usually looked to be similar to me in age. The upslope of my aging line appeared to cross the downslope of my crew’s aging line. And I now began to understand the jokes that crew members liked to tell after finishing their work. Their sense of humor was generationally concordant with my stage of life.

During those years I was occasionally surprised when a crew member looking a couple of decades younger than me showed up. These folks made me nervous. I was skeptical about their expertise and knowledge. How could a gastroenterologist that youthful possibly perform a competent colonoscopy on me? When I had to see an oral surgeon to remove a lesion, he was clearly too young to have completed dental school, much less specialty training. It was disorienting. Where were the crew members around my own age? The ones with the right balance of education and experience.

But life is filled with twists and turns. As I grew even older, my crew continued dropping in age. Simple mathematics, remember. Addition and subtraction. And this is where things get strange – in my 60s I began to feel more confident and secure with younger crew members than with the older ones. I became mistrustful of auto mechanics, window cleaners, and other crew members who looked to be as old as me. I was worried not only about their stamina and skill, but their cognitive abilities as well. If a dentist had as much gray hair as I did, how competent could they be, after all? Surely that older plumber’s agility was questionable, so how would they be able to fix my garbage disposal? (My older brother, a psychiatrist, would label my mistrust a form of projection.)

Now that I’m in my 70s, I no longer encounter any crew members who are around my age. To a person, they are younger. Some much younger. But I have confidence in them. My prior skepticism of young crew members has disappeared. My youthful team has the requisite vigor. Their cognitive abilities are intact and likely better than mine. I am happy to engage with these youngsters. They help me navigate as I move forward.

My about-face in who I most trust to support my journey reflects my maturation as the years tick by, one after the other.

But there is a downside to this evolution. I find that once again I do not understand my crew’s end-of-visit jokes. Apparently I am now too old. It is hard to find memes comical when I don’t even know what a meme is. How can I understand humor directed at celebrities or musicians I’ve never heard of? And how I can be expected to laugh about funny trends on TikTok that apparently everyone has heard of except me?

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April 2023

By Richard Fleming

Growing old is confusing and confounding. And it can be peculiar.

For me, an odd part of the journey is how my curiosity has evolved in a morbid direction. The further I travel down the road, the more interest I have in obituaries. I want to know who is dying, how old they were when they passed, and what led to their demise. Don’t get me wrong, I do not spend oodles of time perusing death announcements. A wide array of other subjects – social, political, medical, cultural, and others – intrigue me more. But I must acknowledge my curiosity about who is dying is expanding.

There are many opportunities to indulge this interest. I receive a quarterly newsletter for retired physicians of The Permanente Medical Group, where I worked for three decades. It offers many interesting articles but I first look to the back of each issue to review who has died. I want to see if I recognize any names. I look at their year of retirement to see how long they lived after hanging up their stethoscope. Only after reviewing the death announcements do I delve into the newsletter’s other pieces.

I also receive a quarterly newsletter from the Topeka High School Historical Society. My approach is the same. I first turn to the “In Memorium” list which is thankfully arranged by year of graduation. I look at who died from my class and from the classes a few years ahead and behind. I usually know some of the names. Only later do I digest the newsletter’s other articles.

Friends contact me on occasion to let me know of a mutual acquaintance who died. And newspapers are always a rich source of obituaries for well-known people – politicians, celebrities, or other notables.  

Each time a colleague, classmate, or friend dies, it feels like a chapter of my life has ended. When public figures I grew up with pass on, it feels like part of my past has slipped away.

Deaths of others lead me to ponder the brevity of my stay on planet Earth.

I feel fairly confident I’m not the only senior whose interest in peeking at obituaries is peaking. It is an understandable phenomenon. We older folks live in uncertain times. The Grim Reaper might move into the neighborhood anytime. Once he does, we know he will come knocking on our door some day. This is inevitable. For me, scanning death lists feels like a useful way to audit the Reaper’s activities. It helps me anticipate what lies ahead. I become a one-person Neighborhood Watch program focused on threats to my own mortality.

Deaths carry different implications, depending on the person’s age. When I learn of people in their 90s or older dying, it offers a small measure of comfort. Every death is sad. But when a person succeeded in traveling far down the road, their passing feels less threatening. It offers hope the knock on my door may be decades away. And when people in this age group die, I’m not as curious about the cause of death. “Old age” suffices.

But when I learn of people dying in their 60s, 50s, or even younger, it gives me pause. It makes me nervous. Am I am living on borrowed time? I need to know the cause of death, to understand why the person died at such a young age. If their death was due to an accident, it feels less threatening somehow. But when someone younger than me dies from a medical problem, like cancer or a heart attack, it generates concern. On a strictly rational level, I know the death of a young person has no bearing on when the Grim Reaper will come for me. But it makes me wonder if my odds are worsening. I do a quick review of any symptoms I have recently experienced, just in case.

A few days ago, I was startled by a sharp knock on the front door. Who could it be? Why didn’t they ring the doorbell? But after a moment’s reflection, my anxiety dissipated. I had just read about Al Jaffee, the lead cartoonist for Mad Magazine, dying at age 102. I loved that magazine when I was a teenager. Since Al Jaffee had lived that long, I had no reason to worry about who was knocking. Sure enough, when I opened the door there was a FedEx package lying on the porch, and I breathed a small sigh of relief. Events like this confirm my curiosity about obituaries is not that weird after all.

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April 2023

By Richard Fleming

One of the keys to successful aging is maintaining a positive attitude. A sunny disposition. We need to seek any rays of light piercing the darkening clouds, even if they are few and far between. Thankfully, at least one sunbeam shines brighter for older folks than for the young. We should value it. We should cherish it. I am referring, of course, to the ease of decluttering.

Many activities of daily living become harder as we age. Cooking. Cleaning. Fixing broken items. Maintaining our health. Driving. Exercising. But getting rid of unused, unneeded items becomes much easier.

Clutter is the bane of everyday existence. High-quality medical studies confirm living in a cluttered environment creates mental stress. For example a study in the Journal of Neuroscience in 2011 found: “Multiple stimuli present in the visual field at the same time compete for neural representation by mutually suppressing their evoked activity throughout the visual cortex, providing a neural correlate for the limited processing capacity of the visual system.” Translated into English, clutter causes anxiety.

Clutter also adversely affects physical health. An untidy home disrupts sleep patterns and lowers energy levels. While no study has examined a messy environment’s effect on life expectancy, clutter increases stress hormone release. This leads to increased blood pressure and worse immune function. We can reasonably conclude that more clutter today means fewer tomorrows.

But for young and middle-aged people, getting rid of rarely-used items can be difficult and stressful. What if they give away something they may need one day? Like those sneakers they bought 15 years ago. The last time their feet occupied those shoes might have been 12 years ago, but it is always possible the urge to jog may arise. What about the pressure cooker languishing at the back of a kitchen shelf for the last two decades? It might be needed to whip up a pot of beef stew a few years from now. And that can of caulk that has lived on a garage shelf since the Bush Administration. Bush the senior, that is. The caulk may be useful some day, even though it’s probably hardened into a rock.

I feel sympathy for the non-elderly living among us. For them decluttering is so challenging books are written about it. TV shows explore techniques to tidy up and dispose of unneeded items. Experts offer advice on how to get rid of useless stuff occupying space in cabinets, closets, garages, attics, under staircases, and on random table tops. Most importantly for the younger generation, decluttering techniques are offered by respected influencers on TikTok and Instagram.

Thankfully decluttering is – or should be – a cinch for us Boomers. We can simply and safely ignore the various “rules” experts proclaim should guide the decluttering process. Many of these recommendations use time-based criteria for deciding what to eliminate from one’s home. For example, there is the popular “5 By 5 Rule” which says if you don’t anticipate using something in the next five years, don’t spend more than five minutes thinking about whether to get rid of it. Maybe this rule is helpful for Millennials and Gen X’ers. (Gen Z has not had enough time to build up their clutter inventory.) But when it comes to us older folks, five years is overly optimistic. For me at age 71, if I don’t anticipate using something in the next two years, it is time to say goodbye. And the older I get, the shorter the time window will become. If I make it to my early 80s, one year will be more than adequate as a cutoff. If I see 85, a six-month horizon will be generous.

But I understand that future usability is not the only factor in decluttering. There are items you may want to keep despite knowing you will never need them. Like your high school diploma. Or an old but familiar sweater. That ancient yellowed newspaper clipping where you were mentioned as a participant in some civic event. Emotional ties to such things run deep. I get it. But these things are cluttering up our lives.

The way to reduce anxiety about getting rid of keepsakes is to think of our poor children and grandchildren. If we’re being honest, we know they have absolutely no interest in holding onto our mementos. They will remember and love us after we’re gone, but not because they inherited a bunch of junk they have no use for. They will remember and love us for the lives we shared and the love we provided. Actually, our kids and grandkids will probably love us a little more after we die if they don’t have to spend weeks cleaning stuff out of our homes. This is why my wife keeps telling me to start clearing the garage. So our kids and grandkids don’t have to.

Photographs fall into a special category. Our heirs may want to hold onto them. But they are not interested in inheriting boxes of print photos. They have no enthusiasm for photo albums. They only want digital images on a thumb drive. So my recommendation is to digitize all those family photographs from the past century. If doing this is too challenging, your kids will be happy to explain the process. Or they can use social media to identify someone nearby who can do it for you.

To wrap up, decluttering is the key to a healthy, happy, long retirement. We don’t need books to explain why. We don’t need influencers to explain how. We just need to get started, and fairly soon. While we still can. At least that’s what I keep telling myself when I think about our garage. There are times I even start walking towards it, but then I recall the 30-year accumulation of clutter in there. At that point I usually find several good reasons to veer off in another direction. My personal experience is forcing me to accept one other crucial fact about aging. Growing old has little impact on the eminently human trait known as procrastination.

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March 2023

By Richard Fleming

I am captivated by porch lights. At twilight their soft glow is magical. As night deepens their radiance enchants. They offer a peaceful symbol of serenity. A quiet welcome to the night traveler.

It may seem strange for an old guy to be enamored with porch lights, but hear me out.

My fascination started when growing up in Potwin, one of Topeka’s oldest neighborhoods. Potwin encompassed a dozen blocks of Victorian and Queen Anne homes built in the late 1800s. From my earliest days I remember my parents turning on our porch light at dusk. They said it kept the house secure and the neighborhood welcoming. Around age eight, I took over flipping the porch light switch when the sun set. It felt like I was taking responsibility for insuring a peaceful night for my family. I would look out the front door to see the glow embracing the porch and steps. As evening darkened, the light seemed to brighten, spilling into our front yard.

In summer my friends and I played outside after the sun dropped below the prairie west of town. In the gloaming, Potwin’s porch lights illumined the neighborhood, setting the perfect stage for hide and seek. Some nights we ventured out to catch fireflies in glass jars, seeking darkened areas free of porch lights’ shine. Other times we sat on one of our porches and talked, looking beyond the warm patches of light and gazing into the night. We parked ourselves on a front porch swing, reminiscing about our recently-concluded fourth grade class and speculating on what the upcoming fifth grade year would bring. Sometimes we walked down Greenwood Ave., moving through alternating pools of dark and light, house by house, and we wished that summer would never end.

Each season yielded a different glow from the porch lights of Potwin. In autumn the puddles of light revealed leaves of red and orange shed by maple and elm, blowing to and fro. In winter nightfall came earlier. Porch lights blinked on in the late afternoons, their glow transformed from warm into cool. But they still offered calm comfort. Spring time saw porch lights grow slowly warmer, encouraging flower buds and the newly-awakened insects of the night to continue their pursuits.

As my years in Potwin went by, I continued my role as the designated light switchman. Even after we moved across the street to live in an older, bigger house.

Eventually I left Topeka for college. My journey took me to Chicago, then to California’s Bay Area where I still live today. There were times I lived in dorms or apartment buildings. While these structures possessed their own character, they shared a fundamental flaw. Their front lights were on auto-timers and required no human intervention. Some of the places I lived had no porches, but this was OK as long as they had front door lights which someone needed to turn on. At each stop in my journey, I always made sure the front light turned on at the necessary time.

It may seem quirky or quaint, but I have always felt the act of a simple human touch turning on the front light turns a house into a home. It is a gesture of welcome and an affirmation of community.

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As my journey through life proceeded, evenings continued to be times of wonder. The most enjoyable parts of my days frequently occurred during my nights. Movies. Parties. Reading in a comfortable chair. Spending time with family. Dinners with friends. Community meetings working toward creating a more just society.

But after living through seven decades of nightfall, evenings now seem more subdued. Quieter. They are still pleasant, though in a gentler way. I no longer sit on a porch swing – our current porch is quite small – but night times now echo my nights in Potwin. The darkness once again prompts me to reflect on life. To consider what will happen with however much time is still allotted. Today, as I think back and think ahead, my field of view is far more expansive, and far more limited. I have far more experience with life to draw from, and far less time to apply the lessons.

Thankfully, as I grow older porch lights continue to resonate warmly. They imbue me with a sense of comfort and home. They are small beacons, calmly illuminating our paths through the darkness. At some point we each become a night traveler. When that good time comes, our journey will be eased by the magic of porch lights. This is why, when each evening arrives, I must always ensure the front light is warmly aglow.

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March 2023

By Richard Fleming

Efficient time management is an important life skill for adults. When we enter the workforce we must perform effectively and productively. Marriage and child-rearing amplify the need to insure every waking hour accomplishes at least one measurable goal. Grocery shopping. Cooking. Cleaning. Laundry. Helping the kids with their homework. Spending quality time with family. Every hour of every day counts.

But as we age we eventually reach a point where efficient time management becomes less possible and less important. We enter a stage of life where maximal productivity becomes counter-productive.

Seniors’ loss of efficiency stems from a variety of reasons, tangible and intangible. Our changing physical condition is a prominent factor. As our bodies age we are simply less capable of speeding through each day. Our capacity for accomplishment tapers and our need for rest expands. Another factor is that after leaving the workforce, deadlines are usually more flexible. And when the children leave home, demands on our time tend to loosen up.

In a previous post I wrote about how time speeds up as we age. Each day seems shorter, each week briefer. In a few blinks of the eye it is no longer March. We are suddenly navigating our way through April Fool’s Day. Because time is moving so quickly, it simply becomes harder to get as much done.

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A few weeks ago on a sunny Tuesday morning my stepdaughter innocently asked my wife and I, “What are you doing today?” I immediately felt a little defensive. After spending fifty years striving for maximum productivity, I retain a deep-seated need to avoid inefficiency. What should I offer to prove I wouldn’t be wasting time? Organizing the garage is a righteous activity. Picking up some items at the hardware store. Doing a half hour on the elliptical. Helping my sister with some chores. Reading my book club book. Reviewing our family budget for 2023. I blurted out a handful of these activities, hoping it would prove I wasn’t lazy.

My step-daughter nodded approvingly, then asked, “What about you, mom?”

My wife unhesitatingly replied, “Not much. Relaxing, mostly.”

In that moment, I realized my wife had the better answer. She usually accomplishes far more in any given day than I do. But she had no qualms about claiming relaxation as a viable goal for the day. Why did I feel compelled to prove I was having a maximally productive Tuesday? Why not lean into the benefits of slowing the pace down?

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Let me clarify I do not equate inefficient time management with laziness. I do not advocate for sloth.

During my years in practice, hundreds of my patients transitioned into retirement. They followed two general paths. Many folks decided to sit and rest. After long years at difficult demanding jobs, the desire to sit on the couch, watch TV, and take it easy was understandable. But many others opted for an active retirement. They embraced volunteer work, helping at the food bank, delivering for Meals on Wheels, getting involved in political activities. They joined book clubs, did more babysitting of the grandkids, started an exercise program, re-engaged in hobbies.

People who chose the first path tended to age more rapidly than those traveling down the second. As the years went by, the first group generally had less energy, less joy, and higher blood pressure. The second group had more energy, more joy, and lower blood pressure.

Taking the second path does not require maximum productivity in one’s daily schedule. Success does not rest on expert time management. In fact, traversing this second path will be more productive if some inefficiency is accepted. There is nothing wrong with seniors spending more time doing less, as long as we are doing something. We will be happier than if we try to accomplish too much in too short a period of time. Accepting some inefficiency can lessen pressure and clear the mind. It preserves our stamina.

I realize my advocacy of inefficiency as a virtue may seem counter-intuitive. The older we get, the less time we have to complete our goals, to check off bucket list items. At first blush one might think the compression of time mandates greater efficiency for seniors. With the horizon growing closer, we should strive to continuously improve our time management skills, right?

My answer to this question is, “No.”

The best response to the compression of time is to whittle our bucket lists. Pare down the goals we have set for ourselves. Maybe we only need to do one volunteer activity per week, as long we continue engaging. Perhaps consuming one book a month is easier to sustain than two, as long we keep reading. If going out for coffee with a friend once a week is hard to maintain, aiming for once a month should be achievable. And there is nothing wrong with spending some time looking blankly out the window, slowly sipping a cup of tea. Or sitting quietly alone on a park bench, thinking random thoughts about the past and the future.

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Sometimes after the sun goes down I look back on my day and have a hard time remembering what I achieved. I lived, of course. And there is something to be said for living. I can usually recall a few things I accomplished. But there is no doubt my waking hours now are less productive than before. And I’m on the verge of realizing this is OK.

It is time we learn to embrace the virtues of inefficiency in our senior years.

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February 2023

By Richard Fleming

During my years in medical practice, one of the most common complaints shared by my older patients was stiff and painful joints and muscles. I tried to approach such problems with sympathy and concern. But I can now confidently state if I was still in practice today, I would approach these complaints with empathy and vehement affirmation. Oh my goodness.

Now that I am in my early 70s, my understanding of joint and muscle stiffness has advanced dramatically. Not because I have read more deeply in medical texts. My knowledge has expanded through personal experience.

Fortunately I do not have much arthritis, as far as I can tell. Unfortunately my knees tend to get stiff and painful. When going to the bathroom in the middle of the night – a possible topic for a future post – it sometimes feels like I’m walking on stilts. My right wrist has started protesting any attempts to embark on home repair projects. And in the mornings I now find I must put my pants on without bending at the waist. (Important disclaimer: if you do not face this problem yet, don’t attempt this activity at home. It puts you at high risk of falling.) My lower back simply refuses to bend until I have at least two cups of coffee.

Does any of this sound familiar?

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As humans age, our joints and muscles tend to become stiff and sore. This happens for various reasons. Arthritis – inflammation in the joints – is a common cause. But we can also develop stiffness and pain without arthritis. The tendons and ligaments which surround our joints grow less flexible as they age. Older muscles become infiltrated by increasing amounts of fat and a pigment of aging called lipofuscin, both of which limit muscle contraction. Muscle fibers shrink. Add these things together and what do you get? Stiff muscles and joints.

While stiffness is a near-universal component of growing old, we need not succumb to it. Useful methods can help counter this scourge. Using our muscles and flexing our joints frequently is important. Exercise helps. Regular stretching and walking can improve flexibility.

I’ve never been one for assuming awkward postures or posing like a clown, but I am told yoga is a useful technique for slowing down the aging of joints and muscles. Truth be told, yoga is on my bucket list. But it is down around #37 or so, below projects like cleaning the garage and doing paint touchups around the house. I may come to regret yoga’s low ranking and really should consider moving it up to the single-digit category.

Other useful measures are ice or heat. An interesting phenomenon is that some people do better with cold and others do better with warmth. What accounts for the difference? This is one of the great unsolved mysteries of aging. I hope some smart research team can obtain funding to investigate this important problem.

Of course, massage can be therapeutic. Massage helps not only stiff muscles but pretty much all other human ailments as well.

And a good night’s sleep never hurts, though for many that concept is, shall we say, a stretch goal.

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I do my best not to feel victimized by aging. Why should I resent seeing young people out running rapidly through the park? By moving more slowly, I get to see the birds and flowers they miss because they move too quickly. There is no reason for me to begrudge kids playing a vigorous game of tennis. I simply recall my own embarrassing efforts to play that game when I was their age, and I am suffused with feelings of contentment.

But – if I’m being honest – it is hard to avoid feeling a mite resentful at times about the creeping infirmities which accompany a maturing body. When I feel this way, I put myself on another time-out. I try to force myself to remember and then count my blessings. I tell myself that growing old is so much better than the alternative.

And I keep repeating this simple mantra: stiff happens.

My comments here are intended for folks experiencing the common stiffness and soreness of aging muscles. If you are having significant muscle or joint pains which are new or seem in any way unusual, please contact your doctor for evaluation.

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February 2023

By Richard Fleming

If you are tired of hearing about covid-19, I get it. I’m tired too. Isn’t three years of this pandemic enough? A brief look back into history justifies our frustration. The deadly 1918 influenza pandemic lasted only two years. Two! Going further back, the Plague of Justinian which killed millions lasted from 541-542. One year.

OK, I can hear my historian friends starting to grumble about selective facts and confirmation bias. I grant you the Black Plague lasted seven years. But it took place in the 1300’s, long before we had a scientific understanding of infectious diseases.

In these early years of the 21^st Century we understand a lot about viruses. We know how to reduce covid’s spread. We have effective therapeutics for those who become infected. Nonetheless the pandemic persists. It is too early to look away. Especially for us seniors. While mortality figures have dropped substantially, hundreds of people in the U.S. continue to die from covid every day. Thousands get sick enough to require hospitalization.

It is notable that the proportion of covid-19 deaths among seniors is higher now – in 2023 – than at any previous time during this pandemic. In the first year 80% of covid deaths occurred in those over age 65. Today it is 90%. And seniors are being hospitalized at four times the rate of the general population.

Black and Latino seniors experience even higher mortality. In California, for example, covid deaths among Black seniors are about 30% higher than would be expected if deaths occurred equally among seniors of all races. For Latinos, covid deaths are about 80% higher. These differences have nothing to do with biology. They are due to social and environmental factors. People of color have less access to healthcare services. Their work and living situations often put them at disproportionate risk of acquiring this virus. And informed, relevant communication to communities of color about prevention and treatment options has been inconsistent.

*    *    *

Although opinions vary about many aspects of this pandemic, everyone agrees on one fact: covid hits the elderly the hardest.

Yet this basic truth has not led our society to follow simple, easy steps to counter the virus. A significant current of public opinion feels wearing a mask in public indoor spaces and staying updated on vaccines is asking too much. It is too big a burden.

Loud voices angrily denounce covid prevention measures. They shrilly push a political agenda, not public health policies. These voices mock expertise. Their subtext is clear: if covid is culling the herd, that’s not necessarily bad. After all, folks in their 70s, 80s, and 90s are close to dying anyway. Maybe the Social Security Trust Fund will last longer if we let more current recipients move on.

Thankfully, not everyone feels this way. But there is significant sentiment that the time for small sacrifices is over. Personal freedom and individual liberty trump community welfare. Especially the welfare of those who have lived in the community the longest.

Where does this leave us? With the clear understanding that when it comes to covid-19, boomers bear the biggest burden. And for many people this is just fine.

If I seem a tad irritated you are reading me correctly.

*    *    *

I acknowledge that seniors bear some responsibility for the increased problems we face from the pandemic. We have not all stayed up-to-date with vaccines. Not all of us wear masks while shopping. We sometimes go to indoor gatherings where unmasked people are milling about in close quarters. We need to be more careful. We need to be more cautious.

But I also want to ask folks of all ages to be more careful. More cautious. And more compassionate.

I have always put a premium on empathy. It is one of the most beautiful human traits. I try to understand where other people are coming from. But I am befuddled by why so many people seem unwilling to take small steps to help protect others.

When I’m in our local grocery store, three years into this pandemic, roughly 75% of the seniors and 2% of the young people are masked. People of all ages are coughing into their hands, sneezing at their sleeves, and standing close together in the checkout lines. This creates a covid playground.

I do not spend much time on social media. But when I read comments about covid on FaceBook or NextDoor, many say something to the effect of, “Leave me alone. If you’re afraid of the virus, then you can wear a mask.”

I know of several people in my age group who were themselves very careful and took all the right precautions. But they acquired covid from young adult family members who probably caught the virus at a party or a bar. The older family members became very sick, and I know of one who died. Of course the young people felt horrible. But their empathy arrived a little late.

I wish everyone would understand that when it comes to a still-lethal virus spread easily by respiratory transmission, we are all in this together. No one is an island. We are a community. And as a community, are we willing to tolerate losing the equivalent of a plane load of seniors every day? Are these deaths an acceptable cost to preserve some tarnished liberty?

Is it unreasonable to ask folks at low risk of complications from covid to think about others? To consider the health and the lives of those at higher risk?

Do old people matter?

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January 2023

By Richard Fleming

Driving a car these days is not what it used to be. The culture of driving has transformed. Getting behind the wheel feels more like a competitive video game than an exercise in safe transport. Driving a mile to the grocery store or 25 miles to visit the grandkids in Berkeley has become more Mario Kart and less SimCity.

When I navigate the roadways in 2023 I feel like a tortoise. Drivers routinely zip past. They cut me off at the last second to take an exit ramp. And they tailgate, even when I’m going 70 in the slow lane. I used to think right-of-way meant the car on the right had priority at a 4-way stop. I must have missed the memo when the DMV changed this rule. Now the youngest person at the intersection can dash through first. Right-of-way priority is determined by who executes the briefest rolling stop.

I am so nostalgic for the good old days when driving was a communal activity and we were all communards.

I can’t figure out what led to this change, which started 4-5 years ago. Early on, I assumed it was external factors. Perhaps driver ed classes had declined in quality. Maybe drivers didn’t realize how fast they were going because they were focused on their traffic-enabled, real-time-route-adjusting, fancy-colored-map GPS navigation systems with myriad streaming music options. Or they were caught up in multi-tasking, doing their IG (Instagram) while driving.

But I recently started to reconsider. I wonder whether the change may not be external. Maybe it is me. I don’t need a complete physical exam to know I am saddled with poorer vision, slowing reflexes, and a less flexible neck than five years ago. For much of my life, I considered senior drivers to be pokey, unsafe, risky specimens. Lo, I now meet the definition of being a senior driver.

Mind you, I’m not one of those fogeys who mosey along at 50 MPH on the freeway. I do maintain certain standards, after all.

But I tend to obey traffic regulations more carefully than I used to. Nowadays I rarely exceed the speed limit by 5 MPH, in town or on the freeway. After a few too many close calls with pedestrians in the crosswalks, my rolling stops have become primarily a historical phenomenon.

I have decided to accept the title of Mr. Tortoise as a badge of maturity. Maybe even of honor. I understand and recognize my role in the driving ecosystem has evolved. And that is why my car insurance payment is lower than my kids’.

My current approach to driving approximates Aesop’s story of The Tortoise and the Hare. I tootle along, ignoring the jackrabbits darting behind me, in front, and to my side. Let them risk life and limb. I’m on a mission. I have purpose. I motor down the road with confidence and assurance. I could care less about swooping in and out of traffic. I know the hares will run into the same number of red lights and stop signs as me. They’ll encounter just as many delays. They will find it impossible to avoid stopping at drive-through coffee shops. I much prefer consorting with the fellow tortoises in my bale than trying to emulate the denizens of a husk of hares.

Aesop’s conclusion in his fable was, “The race is not always to the swift.” I offer a slight edit: “The race is not always to the young.”

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