I’ve heard it said more than a few times, that when a person reaches a ripe ole age, it’s time to let go. But who determines that age, and where is the button that says exit now?
My first husband used to needle a good friend of ours with this topic. We’d get into the age conversation time and time again and Jay would say, “Why are people so afraid to die? Good Lord, people can’t stick around forever. When you reach a certain age, it’s time to go.” Then our friend would shoot back, “And just what is that magical age, Jay?” He never hesitated. “Eighty-two.” He only chose that number because her mother was approaching it, and he knew that would get her goat. It worked.
Although my current husband is an OB/GYN by day, he does some ER locum work on the side. He’ll come home after a shift and tell me stories – like the 90-plus year-olds who come in and when asked what brings them in, they respond, “Oh, I don’t know, Doc, I just don’t feel like I use to.”
I can only imagine the ER staff smiling sweetly, thinking to themselves, “I’m sure you don’t. You’re 98.” Your body’s probably whispering, “We’re done here.”
More often than not, that person wants everything done. Run the tests. Give me the meds. Why? My theory: because the soul is ageless.
Can we not all agree that while our bodies slowly deteriorate, our souls feel no different than when we were twenty? That’s why letting go is so hard – its survival instinct wrapped in spirit.
I’m sitting here in a chair that feels good on my back, biscotti in one hand and a cup of caramel coffee in the other – it’s my 3pm treat. Every muscle from my lower back down, hurts. Building a Pickleball Palace has been no easy feat. And because we needed a kitchen in it – well, that had my name written all over it. Decorating!
I found kitchen cupboards on Marketplace, hitched up the trailer, drove to get them, took off the doors, pulled out the drawers, and did the whole paint-and-pray routine. There must be at least a dozen steps to painting cupboards. The carpenter who removed them from the kitchen in Garner, kindly offered to help reinstall them.
I thought I scored a deal – $600 for the whole kitchen, including countertops and sink/faucet. Little did I know I’d be paying twice that amount to have them hung. Still, a good deal, but my body is not convinced.
I’ve been up and down ladders, bending, squatting and stretching in ways this body hasn’t attempted for decades. And now it’s screaming havoc.
I find myself chuckling at the irony. We’re building an indoor pickleball arena and I won’t even be able to play.
While wallpapering over plywood – because that’s what you do to cover ugly plywood, I remembered a moment many moons ago. My mom had asked me to come into town and help her with something. I probably rolled my eyes at least once, but I showed up. She needed someone to climb a ladder and paint the top foot near the ceiling.
I remember her sighing, “Oh honey, you have no idea what it’s like when you can no longer do the things you use to do so easily.
I smirked, shrugged, said, “You’re welcome,” and thought, That’ll never happen to me!
Never say never.
It’s happening. Loud and clear. And I swear my mother is laughing on the other side.
I remember vividly – if Mom was sitting during a conversation, she’d have both hands on her knees, rubbing them like she was trying to summon a genie – one for each knee. Not long ago, I smugly said, “I’m so glad I don’t have my mother’s knees.”
That came back to bite me.
My knees now sound like popcorn and feel like they’ve been personally insulted by every rung on the ladder.
But do I stop for a day and give it a rest? Heck no. I’ve got a court to finish before Thanksgiving – because that’s where we’re hosting it this year.
Painting and wallpapering give you a lot of thinking time. I remembered when I called my mother-in-law the “Sigh Queen” because she was always sighing. I wondered what she was reacting to. It wasn’t like she was powerlifting in the pantry.
Now? I get it. These days half my exhales come with a sound. I’ve found myself sighing in solidarity and sending her quiet apologies in the great beyond.
Turns out, sighs aren’t complaints – they’re just little release valves for living.
Back to the soul… I think we all agree: our minds, our personalities, what I call our soul – are ageless. But bodies? They wear down. They tire out.
My current mother-in-law is now 101 years old. She lost most of her sight to macular degeneration and is only now showing signs of dementia. On one visit she said, “Let’s go into the living room to talk. The men can talk out here.” I led the way, and not long after, what she said left me in awe. She said in her soft voice, “I’m ready to go.”
I didn’t reply with the usual, “What? No, no, no! We’d miss you. We love you. You don’t want to go.”
I knew what she meant.
I just nodded.
She said, “Life is meant to be joyful and there’s no joy in it for me anymore.” I simply replied, “I understand. I get it.”
If there was an eject button, she’d of surely found it.
It does leave us wondering why some people live to be 100 and wish they could push the button while others die young wishing they had more time.
Life isn’t fair and I don’t believe it was ever meant to be.
Our bodies ache. Our knees sound like popcorn. But every breath, every step, every conversation is another day we were meant to be here – maybe not for ourselves, but for someone else.
My ex said there should be a button to exit life. I say maybe there is, but it’s not what he thinks. It’s not a switch. It’s humor. It’s grace. It’s how we stay in the room even when it’s hard.
It’s buying secondhand cupboards with glee and limping onto the pickleball court like a queen. I don’t need to eject – I just need to rescript. And every ache, every absurd moment, every Marketplace miracle is part of the new storyline.
Life is meant to be joyous. It’s up to us to find the joy.
So grab your favorite cocktail, it’s time for a toast:
To the souls that never age.
To the knees that sound like a symphony of their own.
To the mothers who laugh from the other side.
To the Pickleball Palace that may never see me play, but damn, it’s going to look good!
May we keep our humor, our grace, and our biscotti stash full.
May we ache with purpose, sigh with wisdom, and show up for joy – even if we limp.
Cheers.
