What growing old means to me
As I approach the midway point of my life, I have been thinking a lot about growing older. In 2016, after living through a period of depressive illness, I began to be ever conscious of my own mortality.
My father was diagnosed with throat cancer that year and I flew to New York to be with him. I had taken a period of stress leave from work after 18 years. I could now do what I had never done at any other point- be there for someone else at a moment’s notice — and it felt so incredibly freeing. A grueling schedule I self imposed, work, kids, kids, work no breaks as such. With no work schedule and my kids at an age that felt a lot easier for them to be looked after, I felt at a strange sort of loose end, but one where I could be there for others.
During my time at the Priory, as shocking as it may seem, I spent a lot of time evaluating how I wanted my own life to be before it came to an end, and what I wanted to have achieved by the end of that journey. That time, when very little else would matter to me apart from the memories I had or the things that I had been through. I wanted to collect them one by one and place them in neat squares like a quilted blanket I could wrap over my own sub-consciousness, when I sank into that next state of delivery from this world to the next.
Like pearls on a string, each memory would be polished and placed in safe place around my neck, diagonally right of my heart : memories of ideas and people, small acts of kindness, achievements and milestones. But also everyday mundane moments : textures worn, holidays taken, foods I had tasted and meals I had cooked to bring me satisfaction once life began to get smaller and smaller and perhaps, my days narrower and narrower. When that time came, I knew it would be enough : for my string of shiny “pearl memories” and my quilted coat of many colors would fill me with joy and leave no room for regret.
Don’t fritter away your time, whispered that kind, firm voice. That voice I began to hear following my course of treatment. That followed me into the streets, allowing me to see the world in brighter colors than I had previously. It was like waking up from a long sleep and seeing things clearly for the first time. Your life is a gift, every moment a rare one, don’t waste it on guilt, regrets or remorse. Again, back to my learning at the Priory- what we have is now. The quality of our present sets the overall quality of the life we have lived.
Back to New York. January, bitter winter weather. Frozen streets and post Christmas light cast a solemn pall across the wide avenues, with the seasonal festivities behind us. Everyday, at 8 am my father and I would walk down the six blocks from his serviced apartment in midtown to The Memorial Sloane Kettering Hospital for his treatment. I would sit in the waiting room, reading back copies of Reader’s Digest and the New Yorker magazine, anxiously checking the door every few minutes.
Along the way home, our favorite pitstop was The Magnolia cafe : inside the safe, welcoming haven that is Bloomingdale’s department store. A child of the eighties, walking in always felt like coming home. The pale vanilla light from gold lamps, reassuring pastel walls, shiny marble counters; the aroma of fresh baking and coffee. We would line up behind the thick glass display counters, marveling at the Red Velvet cupcakes and Snickerdoodle cookies, feeling warm inside. My father would always insist on a spot by the windows overlooking the wide promenade of 3rd Avenue- to people watch. Together we would perch on matching mint leatherette bar stools with identical cups of coffee- mine a Venti with half and half and two sugars and his a more frugal cup always with semi skim milk topped with froth.
We talked about many things. I wanted to understand from him how he felt at 78, having lived 38 years longer than me. What did he regret, what did he cherish, how did he want to live in the next 5, 10, 15 years? How did he feel about growing older? These thoughts and his perspective helped me craft my own vision of what I wanted my life to look like at his age. More importantly I suppose, it helped me to sort through all the things that I did not want it to be.
This is one of the best memories I have of being with my dad.
We learn from the experiences of others how to be successful, but also how to be different. My father as a younger person was in many ways too hard working and definitely, too altruistic to think selfishly perhaps how my generation does now- about the present moment, taking time to “thrive”. Today we are told to “stop and smell the roses”- to try to slow down and to start “enjoying every phase”. Apart from my mum, my dad is the most ambitious and driven person that I know; he has given me the values I even now, live by and I feel exceptionally lucky to be his daughter. He lives to work and by his need to succeed and do better. Even so, I wish like hell, that I could blow a bit of my Gen X -Millennial fairy dust on him, to get him to start enjoying his present moment. If only!
“That’s my dad!” I would tell my friends at 7- the one reading the Wall Street Journal in the beat up blue Chevy Nova, who always held my hand when I crossed the street, always held my arm tighter than I could bear. Waiting in the car every night after gymnastics lessons, always awake at night if I needed help revising. Ready to make me vegetable soup or scrambled eggs on toast when I came home from Uni even though he could barely cook. On my wedding day, more concerned about my makeup and saree than I was. Always there to support and never judge. A friend, advisor and mentor. A best friend to my husband. A loving grandfather to my daughter. Always proud of me and on my side, no matter what.
My dad.
