Hell Getting Old

A Casual Comment

My father was a man of few words. Quiet. Reserved. Unless I caught his ire. Then he could be articulate! One day, he was getting into the car and bent down to buckle himself into the driver’s seat. As he reached for the door, I heard him moan.

“Ugh.”

It was a heavy sigh—perhaps slightly exaggerated. So I called him on it: “Jeez, Dad, what’s with you? Did you hurt yourself?”

“No. Just aches and pains. It is hell getting old, Bri.

I never forgot that line. Ironically, Dad never got the chance to grow old. He died at sixty-one; that was well over three decades ago. Now I am approaching age sixty-five. NOW!

Dad, I get it.

Getting Old

Born on the tail end of the Baby Boomer Generation. Now comes the interesting part. We and all the Baby Boomers - it’s here !

My parents and two of my four siblings are many years ago deceased. My sorrows are no different from those of many Baby Boomers. My siblings and I were born on the backend of that generation. Me in 1961. “Getting old” and “being old” are here. Both losses and gains "add up" so to speak because my story gets longer by each day -- sixty-five years and counting---long story!

Stuff happens. Life brings loss, disappointment, love, laughter and ordinary moments that become far more important to hold dear after someone is gone. “Dying is part of living,” my mother once said.

More parental wisdom for the ages.

There is always a price to pay for choosing extreme awesome as a way of life. But the ride— oh the wild ride— it’s wondrous!

Truth be told, it is amazing—damn near miraculous—that I have made it this far, given my adventurous, work-hard/play-hard lifestyle and occasional bouts of reckless stupidity. I have been very lucky. And yes, I’ve had fun being me. But you do not get away with a work-hard, play-hard life completely unscarred.

There is always a price to pay for choosing extreme awesome as a way of life. But the ride— oh the wild ride— it’s wondrous!

Writing

In 2011, profound hearing loss entered my life. Nobody sends you an instruction manual for that. My shooting-star career fizzled at its zenith. I lost the corporate six-figure job and bonus and never got another. I was scared. Angry. Frustrated. More isolated than I wanted to admit. When life changes dramatically, people often withdraw. I certainly did.

I was trying to stay connected to the part of me that still felt like me.

I started writing about hearing loss and made Perseverance a major theme. At first, writing was simply a way to process what was happening—to make sense of the confusion and preserve my thoughts. I was not building a business. I was not creating a brand. I was not chasing followers.

I was trying to muddle through. And if I’m honest, I was also trying to stay connected to the part of me that still felt like me.

When we share our stories honestly they no longer belong only to us.

But it was the responses from people that helped me through it. Friends reached out. Readers left comments. And surprisingly, many of their responses were not really about hearing loss. They were about loss—of health, relationships, careers, dreams and certainty. The details were different. The emotions were the same.

When we share our stories honestly they no longer belong only to us. I began to understand that honest stories become mirrors. People recognize pieces of themselves. Sharing the journey made the burden lighter. And somewhere in there, I realized it was still fun to be me—just a different version than before.

And Then…

I survived the pandemic, but not unscathed. My sister Kathy told me our kids’ generation call Covid the “Boomer Remover.” Damn. Poets in the generation after mine can be cruel!

During the pandemic, I suffered a badly detached retina requiring multiple surgeries. Combined with profound hearing loss, the vision impairment caused problems with balance, fear of falling and heights, and—worst of all—a period when I could not write or even complete a web form.

Another Hell Getting Old experience. They add up.

Still Here

Yet here I am, approaching sixty-five.

I can walk, talk, breathe and write. I remain active, curious and fortunate—even when I cannot hear anything or see clearly where the hell I am going sometimes.

Actually, I am fine. Energized even. And still, in my own way, having fun being me. I try to be grateful. I stay active, eat reasonably well and attempt to watch my weight. Writing, sharing and preserving memories of loved ones—past and present—keeps me connected to a family of gentle, good and honest people who sacrificed everything for their own kin. That inspires me; their voices inspire me.

Their voices inspire me.

Looking back, the accomplishments are not what shaped me most. Loss did. Fear did. Loved ones did. Memorable moments did. Resilience did. So did my many adventures and occasional flashes of breathtaking stupidity. Those became my greatest teachers. And they gave me something worth writing about. Fortunately, there are plenty of more stories past and present to share.

Still standing. Still writing. Still sharing stories.

And every once in a while, when something aches that did not ache yesterday, I hear my father again.

“It is hell getting old, Bri.”

Uhg, Dad.

You were right!