The Gero-Punk Project

Right after I dropped Isobel at school this morning and as I was driving back home to do a bit of work before heading to campus the song that came on the radio was Overkill by Men at Work. The year the song came out was 1983, and I was sixteen, a junior in high school, just as my daughter is sixteen and a junior in high school thirty years later, in 2013. 

In the 1980s, Men at Work was one of my favorite bands (along with the then nascent but much longer-lasting bands U2 and REM. Oh, wow, guess what song just came on as I am writing? Wire by U2!!!). I knew – still know — all the lyrics to Overkill:

I can’t get to sleep/I think about the implications /Of diving in too deep/
And possibly the complications/Especially at night/ I worry over situations/ I know will be alright/Perhaps it’s just imagination….ghosts appear and fade away.

As I drove and sang Overkill serenaded by the radio I was time-traveling – I was sixteen year-old Jenny (I think I was “Jen” then) and newly-turned forty-six year-old Jenny. I am a winter creature, and the timing of my birth has always seemed liminal to me: 12:23 a.m. on 12/23/1966. And this time of year in general for me almost always seems to be about taking-stock, thresholds, transitions…

Right before the winter holidays something unexpected and deeply shocking happened in my life and the experience really knocked the wind out of me.  Running some days, walking on others, contemplation and meditation, hot baths, listening to music (and watching cheesy old-school Christmas cartoons) and time with my closest-in creatures (human, canine, and avian) are the self-care practices that supported me over the past 26 days.

The one crucial practice that I’ve not been able to engage in over the past almost four weeks, not until today – and not until I heard Overkill on the radio–is writing.

Actually, it would be more accurate to say that I haven’t been able to write any words to offer up to others in a public environment such as this blog, nor have I been able to concentrate my energy on formal projects such as the two book chapters soon coming due to publishers. It isn’t that I’ve been without words (though sometimes these past few weeks I have actually been unable to find words to describe how I feel) – I’ve captured some fragments of ideas in my journal, I added a new page to my birthday book, and you should see some of the epic texts I’ve composed!

Over the past week I’ve been trying to make my way back into a more robust writing practice.  I printed every essay I wrote and  published on this blog during 2012, as well as the essays offered by guest gero-punks (Jennifer, Lorie, Helen), as well as a couple of essays I and two guests (Erica and Susan) wrote for the Intentional Aging Collective blog, as well as two manuscript-length essays I either wrote or revised last year.  By last night I had re-read all 121 single spaced pages, highlighting bits of text that arrested my attention. The next step in this process as I have been conceptualizing it would be to take all of the highlighted bits and reassemble them, or, rather, let them reassemble themselves into a new kind of form. 

Do you get a sense of what I’ve had in mind, of what I had hoped to do? I wanted to assemble a sort of gero-punk project “collage” to mark the transition into this new year by creating a mash-up of fragments from all or most of the writing I and my guest gero-punks have produced in the past year.

As I observe how I feel as I describe this project, a project that I can so clearly describe but which remains only partially realized, I think that what dwells at the heart of my intentions for the project is the aspiration that through the process of creating the gero-punk collage I might enact (celebrate and re-commit myself to) the principles that I hold so dear and aspire to practice (and as often as not fail to practice) as I travel through the life course:  honesty; reflection; contemplation; intentionality; collaboration; compassion; and courage.

For now, the gero-punk collage will remain in the state that it is in–emergent,  partially realized, a sweet dream.

So, thank you for you for reading what I managed to write on this day. And thank you for reading what I had to write throughout the past year.  I look forward to our future gero-punk adventures together.

By guest Gero-punk Lorie Bailey

I turned 41 this past Monday. Beginning a few years back, I’ve taken on a new perspective regarding birthdays: rather than thinking of how many years I’ve been alive (which for me can produce self-critical feelings of having not accomplished enough, grown knowledgeable enough, figured out how to be happy, etc.), I think about how much more time I have (or at least I hope I will have) to live. It all started as a joke, when one of my friends made the theme for my 35^th birthday party “Halfway to 70.” The joke was to place emphasis on how much closer I was to being an old lady (70—yikes!); but, instead, I was hit with the realization that there was/is so much more time to live out this human life of mine, to travel along my life course: I was only halfway to 70, imagine! This new perspective is one I’ve carried with me ever since, especially at birthdays.

Some might say that I shouldn’tthink of a birthday in terms of the past or of the future, but only as the now. I can’t do a thing to change the past (I can make reparations, but what’s happened has happened), and I might be struck by a falling tree during a trail run tomorrow; therefore, I should focus on the now. The Power of Now sits on my bookshelf in the ‘must read soon’ section right next to Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and life. It’s been there since my ex-therapist insisted that I read it immediately (five years ago). Books have a way of hanging out on my bookshelf waiting for the right time, even going from bookshelf to cardboard box to bookshelf a few times, until I finally pick it up and read it and realize that it is the perfect book for what I need right now. I had Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek for over 10 years before I finally plucked it from its place on the shelf and read it. My guess is, if I’d have tried to read it when it was given to me as a gift 10 years ago, I would’ve been unlikely to persevere beyond the first few pages. I needed to read it at 40, not 30, halfway to 80, not to 60. Who knows when the timing will be right for The Power of Now, maybe next week, maybe in 10 years, maybe in 40.

Now, as I approach my 41st, halfway on my journey to 82, rather than focus on what I haven’t done (finish my degree, figure out what I want “to be” when I finish, read The Power of Now), I’m instead inspired by how much there is I might do in the next 41 years. Even just the number of books that can be read in that amount of time is exciting. The only big bummer about being halfway to 82 is the truth that my best more-than-human friend, Daisy, a beautiful hound-mix, will not be accompanying me for most of these yet-to-be-lived years. I might have her by my side for another 10 to 12 years if I’m lucky. This is, I believe, a glitch in the evolutionary process: why two species who have evolved to share such intertwined life courses would have such disparate life expectancies. Thus, I live knowing that in the next 10 to 12 years, my heart will be broken. Another book on my “must read soon” shelf: The Denial of Death, by Ernest Becker. Is it that I haven’t yet fully acknowledged my own mortality that I find it so hard to acknowledge that of my dog? Or is this yet another reminder about living in the present, the now; Daisy rests curled by my side, snoring softly as I finish up this little essay, resting up before our next adventure in the great outdoors. This moment is the now, and maybe that’s the point. I do hope, however, to keep traveling along this life course as long as possible; I’d like to meet my 82 year-old-self. I’ll bet she’d tell me to get my butt off this sofa now and go get some outdoor exercise—I’ve got a long journey ahead.

By guest Gero-Punk: Helen Fern

Dad died last week.  We were there, sitting by his side, holding his hands and telling him how much we loved him.  He hadn’t been well and we had expected this for nearly a year, but it was so much more than I anticipated.  The night he died it was late.  We had been sitting with him for nearly 24 hours and we were exhausted.  We knew the time was near and didn’t want him to be alone and yet we could barely stand.  My sister suggested maybe that was what he wanted, for us to leave.  He was always so private with his emotions.  So I kissed his cheek and told him I was going to go get some sleep, but I’d be back.  We headed out to the parking lot only to be called by the nurses before we even reached the car.  Dad took his last breath just moments after we left the room.  We ran back inside and I saw him, quiet and peaceful, no longer struggling to breath, and I cried.  His eyes were closed so tight and I remembered those beautiful, sky blue eyes.

I was always a daddy’s girl.  My earliest memory is from my infancy.  I know the memory is correct because my mother confirmed it.  She had set me down on a rock in an icy cold river.  I remember the chilly water rushing over my body and I screamed.  I did not like it!  Daddy picked me up and held me close.  I could feel his heart beating and his soothing voice; his strong arms holding me close.  The next memory is looking up into those blue eyes while he changed my wet clothing into something dry.  I was six months old.

I did everything with my dad.  He joined a model airplane club and I went with him.  He flew remote control planes and I got the one held together with rubber bands that you guided with a long string.  I crashed a lot.  We joined a slot car club.  He helped me build my car and we took them to the track to race them.  It had to be frustrating for him because, again, I crashed a lot!  But dad’s gentle blue eyes always told me it was OK.  It was just important to be together.

Our family enjoyed activities together a lot.  We camped; we hiked, fished and just enjoyed being together.  I remember living up in the hills of California near Frazier Park.  Dad worked for the forestry then and my parents were year-round camp councilors at the YMCA.  We were having dinner when my mother noticed a mountain lion walking through our front yard.  It was a huge, majestic and yet frightening animal.  Dad yelled, “Hey” out the window.  It froze for a moment then ran back into the hills.  My sister was afraid it would come back so dad gathered his shot gun and took us out for a walk to show us it had left the scene and wasn’t coming back.  He had steel determination in his sky blue eyes.  Later he confessed that was one of the most foolish things he’d ever done!  But that was my dad.  He cared about how we felt.

And daddy loved to dance.  Being of Czechoslovakian and German descent, polkas were always played at family gatherings.  When I was really little, dad would hold me to his chest and dance me around the room.  I felt safe and happy in his arms.  As I grew I moved to standing on his feet while we danced.   Dancing was just part of him and his eyes sparkled with joy and excitement every time he moved.

I remember the time I realized dad could no longer dance.  I lived in Oregon and went to California to visit him.  We always went to one of his “lodges” for dinner and drinks and there was always dancing.  On all my other visits, dad and I would dance.  He danced with all the women – he danced every dance.  But this visit was different.  Dad just sat and watched.

Let me explain a little history about dad.  He fought in the Korean War and while he was there he got severe frost bite in his feet.  The nerves were damaged and he never had full feeling after that.  As he aged he was diagnosed with type II diabetes and over time the lack of circulation coupled with the past damage affected his ability to feel his feet.  He needed a cane to walk.  He stepped on his own feet if he didn’t watch and fell.  He ignored it for a long time using his dance partner to support him, but time took its toll.

And so dad sat. He watched everyone around him dancing and laughing and I saw the sadness in his beautiful, sky blue eyes.  It made my heart ache.  There were several visits after that and each time I watched the spark die slowly in my dad’s eyes.  Then came the day he called.  It was time to move in with someone.  He kept falling and couldn’t live alone.  My sister moved dad in with her.  At first he was happy and loved being close to family, but slowly the lack of independence ate away at his motivation to be mobile and fight.  Again, time took its toll.

Last October dad had his first heart attack.   They said by rights he should not have survived!  But my dad was a strong man.  He was told he needed bypass surgery, but his lungs were diseased from many years of smoking and that put him at risk.  (He quit eight years ago, but the damage was done).  He chose not to have the surgery.  At that time we were told the next heart attack would kill him – and to expect it soon.  But dad looked squarely with those steely blue eyes and said, “I’m not ready yet”.  I saw just a little sparkle back in those eyes.

Over the last year, dad suffered many health problems, the worst being a sore that developed on his leg.  Diabetes affects the circulation in your limbs making healing difficult.  Six month of trying and the wound would not heal.  It just got worse.  The decision was made to amputate the leg.  He had that surgery on a Wednesday in October.  One week later he had another heart attack.  I rushed down to my sister’s house and we waited.

Two days after the initial attack we received the test results.  Dad’s heart was too damaged.  There was nothing more they could do.  He would most likely die in less than 48 hours.  My mind simply stopped.  It felt like everything inside of me froze for a moment and the world became foggy and confusing.  Life went on around me but my world just came to a screeching halt.  I saw sadness in my father’s beautiful blue eyes.

We did little else for the next day and half except for sitting with dad or sleeping in the waiting room.  The nurses kept him on so much morphine most of the time his eyes were closed.  On the occasion that he opened them, he frantically searched the room and when he was my sister or me, his eyes showed a joy and relief.  I know my father loved us with all of his heart, and we loved him as well.  We stayed with him until he wanted us to leave, and then he left us.

These last few days I’ve felt more like a child than the 56 year old woman that I am.  I may be a grown up, but I was always a daddy’s girl.  I will always be a daddy’s girl.  And I will always miss those beautiful, sky blue eyes.