Celebrating Senior Women

Yesterday, while on my walk, I met up with a senior neighbor-lady-friend, walking her pooch. That woman is so bright, so articulate, so impressive—even the decade of her age is impossible to guess. She’s made it through thick and thin! I thought. A perfect candidate for a “turning point” post! When I suggested it, she tried to hurry away. “The only one I tell my turning point stories to is my little dog,” she said. “I’ve made so many mistakes in my life, it’s embarrassing!” With that, she described one trauma after another—all “her own fault.” “But look at you today,” I insisted. “You’ve made it! How?” She looked at me, her eyes wide. “I did make it, didn’t I? I’ll have to give that some thought.” At our ages, it’s easy to focus on regrets. The turning point stories I want for Bright Ideas are the moments we jumped those hurdles and kept going. I’ll bet there are a bunch of little dogs out there who would love to hear those stories, too! Email me today. I’m waiting for your story.

If you look closely at a dandelion, you’ll see that each petal is actually hundreds of tiny, separate little flowers—flowers that fly in every direction with one puff of air. Linda Fazo and Pam Nelson believe in dandelions—only their wishes are always for someone else. “We were looking for volunteer stuff to do last December,” Pam said, “when we met Stephanie, founder of the local, non-profit organization, Silver Wishes (symbolized by a dandelion.) “As volunteers,” Linda added, “we invite people to nominate themselves or another senior to have a wish considered by the ‘Silver Wishes’ board. The wish can be a necessity, like a house repair or hearing aides, or something fun—like a manicure and haircut. Every wish granted is so heartwarming.” Thank you, Linda and Pam. I took you up on it and saw my friend’s happy smile as her wish came true. I’ll never look at dandelions the same again! Nominate yourself or another senior by going online at www.silverwishes.org or calling 916-287-7172.

In my world of senior women, I watch wives accompany their husbands to the doctor and stick with him through thick and thin…all with a loving smile. My widowed neighbor’s sister-in-law faithfully drives her to cancer treatments, week after week. Another senior friend transports her friend to macular treatments, sitting by the hour in the waiting room. Kudos to the friend who assumed the sad duties of  healthcare power of attorney, working to find a safe bed and keeping a close watch to make sure her friend is comfortable. In my mobile home community, women nurture everyone by organizing get-togethers: planning menus, cooking food, then cleaning up—simply for the joy of watching their neighbors and friends have fun.  In Gold Country Writers, women run the business meetings  then set tables at celebrations—all in a day’s work.      Witnessing senior women with so much generosity of spirit is a bonus of aging. As Mom would say: “Bless their hearts!!” 

People are often shy about admitting they need hearing aids. Wendy is the exception—she volunteered to share her story:    “I started noticing I couldn’t hear well, but I ignored it. Then, when people told me I was missing some of what was being said, I took notice. A free hearing test confirmed it: I became one of the lucky seniors who wear hearing aids. I say, ‘lucky,’ because modern hearing aids are almost invisible—yet so functional! True, it took some time to get used to hearing in a different way—and true, background noise can be a hindrance. Still, they’re amazing little gadgets. Batteries are no longer required. No more blasting the TV—it speaks into my ear. I can answer my phone in complete privacy. They’re even waterproof. From what I hear (so to speak,) part of our brain can go dormant if we avoid using hearing aids when we need them. Why would anyone risk that—and miss out on so much?” That’s a good question, Wendy!

Karen has a multitude of friends. Who wouldn’t admire someone so interesting, with a history of such unusual adventures … anyone else been bucked off a rodeo bull? It makes sense that even her medical emergencies have been examples of resilience. Each time Karen was transported by ambulance from Rock Creek Mobile Home Park, we all sadly wondered if this would be the last time, but she always bounced back, giving us many more hours to sit on her deck, laughing and sharing our lives. This time is different. As Karen struggles to regain her mobility after that last ambulance ride, she knows there will be no more deck-sitting at home. “I’m so glad I hired a fiduciary,” she said. “What would I have done with all my stuff?”  “But you loved your stuff,” I answered, with a catch in my throat. She smiled her “Karen” smile. “It’s called acceptance,” she said, simply. Acceptance—that is something Karen is an expert at.  She has proven it throughout her life. 

“When we were in our late 20’s, my friend Andrea and I were nurses in my hometown of Philadelphia. She accidentally became pregnant and the baby’s father convinced her to drive cross-country to San Francisco, where his wealthy mother would take her in and help her give the baby up for adoption. Since I had toured Europe in the past, Andrea thought I might have the nerve to leave my familiar roots in Philly and accompany her to the scary streets of “The City.” All I could say was: Boy, will I! California, here I come! Andrea’s story is a familiar one. She had the baby, couldn’t bear to give her up, and returned with a pink bundle to her family’s open arms in Philly. As for me, I fell in love–with a whole new, primitive, unsavory, free-thinking world. While I was still ‘straight and sober Ruth,’ I became much more ‘cool.’  Helping Andrea through her crisis became a lifelong turning point for me, and I am still living happily ever after in my forever home, California!”  

Recently, while cleaning out a cupboard, I found a world map. I unfolded it and realized: although I listen to and watch upsetting news every day, I didn’t know where Russia is in relation to the United States! I didn’t know how tiny Ukraine is, especially compared to Russia. Then, there’s Israel—so small, yet so loud on the world stage. As essayist Brian Lewis wrote: Our nervous system was never designed to carry the grief of an entire planet. Yet, here we are. How true! Lewis continues by saying: The soul speaks … when one human being feels the reality of another. And so, I vow: hatred will not make me hate. Violence will not make me violent. And scenes of hopelessness will not make me lose hope for humanity. I will maintain my capacity to feel and to care. Now, each day, I unfold my crumpled map and send out a heartfelt prayer to wherever in the world today’s travesty happened.  How do you cope as you carry “the grief of an entire planet?” 

“When I was young,” Margaret began, “I expected to graduate from college, get married, and have adorable babies. What I didn’t expect were the turning points that led to raising our children in a series of funeral homes! I was a P.E. teacher when a friend introduced me to a cute mortician—my future husband, Chuck. Chuck was not only cute, he was ambitious, so right away we bought our first funeral home. Then, as the children came along, we lived in one funeral home after another, in multiple states. I admit, it was sometimes a little tricky to keep our happy children quiet in one part of our house while the solemn sounds of a funeral were happening in the other part, but eventually our son and daughter learned it was “quiet time” when the organ was playing. Actually, living in funeral homes gave our family an atmosphere of serenity and calm. Our quiet “guests” never disturbed us … and, no, we never saw a ghost! 

The most shocked  reaction I’ve heard from a parent to the sight of a tattoo on her daughter’s body is:  Would you put a bumper sticker on a Porche?   Back in the day, without birth control or any wisdom whatsoever, I shocked my parents in a way just as permanent as a tattoo, by becoming a divorced single mother with two daughters, by age 19. It took years for me to discover the true woman living inside the person my kids just knew as “Mom.” Fortunately, I found her.  According to … you know … Google, in our day there were 89 births per 1000 teen girls and 85% of us were married. Today, that rate is only 13 births per 1000—but 90% of those are births to unmarried  mothers. (Not really bad news, since being married to another teenager didn’t work that well anyway.)   Admit it—all those young women nowadays with tattoos? They would probably shake their pretty heads in dismay if they heard some of our stories! 

On the 4th of July we often hear the question: Is the American Dream real? Here is one American girl’s story—you be the judge. In 1970, I lived in the “projects” with my daughters, ages 7 & 8. Their father had never been in our lives and I had tried to support us, but despite my best efforts, even when I was employed as a typist for the state, we were nearly homeless and often hungry. Depressed, ashamed, and defeated, I gave up and went on welfare. A social worker who believed in me referred me to the Family Services Agency for free counseling. It was there that I asked myself: What if I went to six years of college and became a psychotherapist?  What an impossible dream! But with government programs such as Aide to Families with Dependent Children, the college Work Study program, low-income housing and low-income childcare, in 1977 I graduated with a master’s degree. From Welfare to a 30-year career as a Licensed Clinical Social Worker? Only in America!