The Gift of Perspective: It's As Plain As The Nose On Your Face.

I've mentioned my former client "Charlotte" in several posts. She's 95. She's wise. And she's dying.

Quite literally, Charlotte is in physical decline that limits her to her home and relatively mundane activities like watching TV and reading. This, quite a change for a woman who, in the not-so-distant past drove herself to current events meetings, luncheons, history classes, church meetings, family gatherings. therapy groups and poker games.

Charlotte's lot is not unusual. Charlotte is a social being who, through aging, has been reduced to a life of limitations.

We speak of these limitations in our weekly visits. She muses on her limitations and the hereafter. I counter with, "It could be worse." And she rolls her eyes in mock disdain.

It could be worse.

No one, especially someone who is captive to the limitiations of  life, wants to hear that phrase.

Now, I don't mean to minimize the frustrations and disappointments that aging brings. I watched my mother's gradual--and might I add graceful--decline from age 80-92. There just comes a day when 18 holes of golf turns to nine. When walking becomes a chore, not a recreation. When the physical effort required to go out to dinner outweighs the usual enjoyment of the ritual.  And, gradually, napping, resting, turning down invitations, saying "no" to a host of previous enjoyments begins to become more the norm than the exception. Isolation and depression can result.

Or... perspective can take hold.

In the case of Charlotte, we recently talked about her actual limitations and abilities. On the minus side, she can't venture out of the house without assitance and lots of trepidation. On the plus side, she still can get up every morning, dress herself, talk on the phone, receive visitors and do some simple cooking. On the minus side, she needs daily assitance from a home healthcare worker. On the plus side, Charlotte likes her helper, and Charlotte can still live in her own home. Minus: Charlotte tires easily and is often lonely. Plus: she can still enjoy a good book, understands world affairs and can hold her own in almost any discussion.

A time-backward comparision to her fomer life leaves Charlotte a bit sad, lamenting all she has lost.

And here's the perspective part...a lateral look--to each side--may prove both illuminating and encouraging: when you look at what could be in your minus column...it could be worse.

Some call this Pollyanna thinking. If it is, I'm guilty. So be it. But I truly believe that, if we decide to perform the occasional assessment of lives, we are bound to be thorough. Which means looking at our lives from all angles, possibilities and perspectives.

When I used to be stumped by the obvious, my mother used to laugh and remind me the solution as "as plain as the nose on your face."  Looking back, I realize that sometimes, we need to step back a little to see the obvious. I can't see the nose on my own face. But, with the help of a mirror or a photograph, there it is! It just takes another perspective.

So, if, regardless of your age,  you're facing up to the limitiations in your life, remember to be fair to yourself. Hold up a mirror. Take a good look. Find your nose--and a broader, fairer, and kinder perspective.

Until next time, thanks for listening.

My First Sip of "Senior" Coffee, or Acceptance: Caf or Decaf?

It's almost impossible to believe that three months have passed since my last post. As with all lapses, it feels difficult to re-start after a long absence, but here goes....

I never imagined that a major life milestone would come to pass in a local McDonald's. But it did.

According to the tall lanky, gap-toothed server pinned with the "Michael" name tag, I am officially a "senior."

One morning several weeks ago,  I stopped in a convenient McDonald's for a cup of  coffee on the way to work. Coffee snobs, take note: I like their coffee. It's always hot. They always get my order right (half decaf, 2 creams, 1 Equal). And they do it with a smile.

This particular morning, coffee in hand and preparing to pay, Michael announced that I owed 55 cents. "Wow," I said. "Have you cut your prices?" "No," he cheerily replied. "Senior Coffee is only 55 cents."

Senior Coffee.

It took me a second or two to realize He's talking to you. You're the senior who just got the discounted cup of coffee. Pay the man.

And that's what I did. I had saved 60 cents, and lost my middle age--all in a single transaction.

Now, I've never been sensitive about my age. But I, vainly, have always thought that I look--at least a little bit--younger than my age.  But, here it was: without so much as asking me, Michael had made the determination--on looks alone--that I qualified as a "senior."

I've written in past posts about the work of acceptance, and the therapeutic value in accepting what cannot be changed. Certainly, my age cannot be changed--except with the addition of minutes, hours, days and years. Older is one option. Death is the other. Going backwards is not.

My father's favorite quip about turning 80 was, "It's a helluva lot better than not turning 80."  It's often been said, jokingly (or is it?) that the alternative to aging is pretty grim. And, while death does carry a grim reputation, I have had some deep and engaging conversations with my 95-year-old client "Charlotte" about the hereafter. Whether or not death is a preferable state is a debate left for another time.

All this being said, I now embrace my seniorhood. Well, not exactly--I embrace my cup of Senior Coffee--and my 60-cent savings--every time I go to McDonald's. I must admit that, I secretly harbor the faint dream that one morning some fresh-faced young thing at the counter will take my order, pause for a moment,  look at me quizzically and offer up those magic words: Are you sure you're a senior?

Hasn't happened yet.

But back to that fateful morning with Michael. As I took my first cup of Senior Coffee and turned to leave, I stopped and asked Michael, as casually as I could muster, "So, by the way, just how old do seniors have to be, you know, to get Senior Coffee?"

Without blinking he said breezily, "Fifty-five."

I brightened just a little, secure--at least in my imagination--that at least Michael had taken me for 55. And not a day older. Two years younger than my birth certificate will attest. And that is my acceptance, half decaf, two creams, and one Equal.

Until next time, thanks for listening.