Yesterday I chuckled to myself as I walked past a window display of caskets and urns across from the entrance to a hospital in Brussels. Perhaps Belgians are more comfortable with mortality than Americans.
I was listening to Catherine Newman's We All Want Impossible Things, a story of friendship that unfolds in a hospice center, so I'd already been feeling very aware that we're all approaching death at various speeds. I also found my first gray hair the other day. I haven’t experienced the panic about being 39 that most of my friends seem to be going through. When I turned 30 lecherous creeps suddenly transformed into polite men. I imagine now I will enjoy a similar transformation of a certain kind of middle aged women morphing from bullies into compatriots, at least until I drop off the other side of this plateau of looking like a respectable adult.
The way ageism and ableism warps our culture breaks my heart sometimes. The Guardian recently reeled off the ways various readers have changed their behavior in order to reduce their risk of dementia: making friends for the cognitive benefits, only listening to music they dislike, forcing themselves to write with their non-dominant hand, and working out even though they hate it.
“I refuse to get old!” said one reader, who sent a glorious picture of herself skydiving at almost 80, but preferred to stay anonymous.”
What does it mean for a 79 year old to refuse to get old? Given that she's still breathing, this requires delusion fueled by internalized ableism. Why must she imagine she's not old in order to do what she wants? This old lady who skydives still somehow thinks that old ladies can't skydive.
So, being old is bad. And avoiding getting old, without dying, requires a daily regime of mild suffering and denial of reality. Okay, cool, got it. I’ll add that to the list of things I try to ignore but find perversely fascinating, like the ads Instagram shows me for ‘face yoga’ to reduce my neck jowls.
The other day an NPR article that had me muttering about how ridiculous health journalism is announced that NEAT, non-exercise activity thermogenesis, plays a role in health. Did you know that movement that is not done for the express purpose of fitness inside of a gym also has health benefits? As someone who was still sweaty from carrying groceries up a hill and then several flights of stairs, I was very well aware of this fact. Anyone who describes mowing the lawn as 'seemingly trivial movements' and compares it to chewing gum has never used a hand push mower.
It's so sad to think that people who hate going to the gym feel like they have to do that, rather than finding something they actually enjoy. Especially if that enjoyable activity also serves a purpose, like gardening, playing with kids, woodworking, or buying my groceries at a charming local market while subjecting people to my horrendous French.
Think of how powerful someone’s fear of dementia needs to be to do something every day or every week just to nudge some theoretical number down a few points. What kind of friend or volunteer is someone if they're begrudgingly showing up out of fear of dementia rather than, you know, because they enjoy seeing their friends and being involved in their community? It's like those miserable dates who have been forced into it by well meaning friends, sullenly offering up one word responses while looking for signs that you're a serial killer. No thanks.
I hope this is just people telling researchers what they want to hear and really dementia risk is some tiny factor that’s getting them to tie their shoes and go out and they’re really driven by actual desire.
The thing about reducing risk factors is that it doesn't eliminate your risk. I think of how many people collapse with rage and a deep sense of betrayal when they have done everything right and yet things did not work out the way they'd hoped. What happens when someone eats food they hate, does exercise they hate, listens to music they hate, and hangs out with people out of a sense of obligation, only to still be diagnosed with dementia?
One man I met who had young onset dementia, who patiently showed me how to shoot a basket back in Calgary, didn't check any of the high risk boxes. He was fit. He loved to hike and play sports. He would cook healthy meals at home, always trying out new recipes. He had been a pilot and spoke six languages. He had an adoring wife, kids he was immensely proud of, and lots of friends. He developed dementia before retirement age. He remains handsome and charming. The last time I saw him he was living a good life, even if it wasn’t the life he planned for.
I joked with a fellow traveler that I'm feeling increasingly prepared to live with dementia. Sure, bumbling my way through a new language, navigating a foreign city, and eating the produce neighbors bring from their garden all supposedly reduce my risk factors. That's not what I was referring to, though. I was talking about the way I had spent 15 minutes struggling to get into the laundry room and then figure out the mysterious symbols on the machine in a friend’s building, how last week I nearly cried because I couldn't figure out how to use a coffee maker, how I get at least a little lost most days, how I often forget where I'm even trying to go, how small children regularly instruct me in basic tasks I can't manage, and how I use improv to fill the numerous gaps in my vocabulary and grammar.
I'll admit that I often feel foolish and sheepish about the things I struggle with. I'm slowly learning to let go and embrace the adventure, the potential for play, the way it forces me to meet the neighbors and chat with strangers on the street. My days are never boring, even if all I do is try to run errands.
Before I moved to Europe I imagined that I'd quickly become a travel expert. I'd seamlessly navigate new cities and systems. I'd quickly pick up the basics of languages as I went. Instead, I'm learning that planning is a direction, not a dictate, and that control is an illusion. I'm discovering the way needing help opens doors to new experiences and connections. I'm seeing how my attitude can't remove problems, but it can make them a heck of a lot more fun.
The Guardian is quoting people who are turning life into a series of tribulations before anything has the chance to actually go wrong. I worry that lifestyle changes motivated by fear are reinforcing the idea that anything good for you must be unpleasant. I worry that their life is being extended by boring hours of activities they don't enjoy or find meaningful, rather than the blur of glimpsing the sublime. By designing their life around avoiding dementia they're missing the whole point. To fear aging is to fear life itself, to fear reality.
Thankfully, not everyone in the article is trudging their way to reduced risk. Some of them are discovering new passions. A life full of passion and meaning is going to be worth living at any age.
I’ve linked to Oldster plenty of times, but it seems remiss to not mention it here
“It is not giving up if you are a human being and focus on being with your loved one as dementia progresses.”
How to get more comfortable with death
"Go to therapy" is not the solution we all need
Why are US states so resistant to medicaid coverage for assisted living?