Pop 89: The Liberation of Limitations
By Madonna Hamel
At 60, you are forced to realize you are no longer middle-aged; you are old. There’s no getting around it. At 50, you can entertain the possibility of living until the age of a hundred. But at 60, there’s no possibility of making it until 120. I phoned my younger siblings to share this little insight on their sixtieth birthdays. It wasn’t the cheeriest of well-wishes, I admit, but I meant it to be a head’s up as to how the shock of mortality can hit like a brick. And then, this past year, three of the men in my family were suddenly faced with serious health issues, and we are all still reeling from the triple dose of hard reality.
I’m not looking for sympathy - such is life. What is happening to us happens to us all - if we are lucky to live this long. This is the time of life where more and more aches and pains and sudden shocks will mess with our days and plans. I was warned by friends in their seventies and eighties who are further out to sea. They’ve been navigating the choppy waters of aging that much longer, facing life as is, not as it “shoulda” “woulda” “coulda” been. Learn to live within your limitations rather than whine about how much life has changed, they say.
“Have you noticed that old people don’t cry at funerals?” asks Ervin. He drives through the early morning fog into the rising sunlight, and for hours, driving to and from Regina, we bring each other up to speed on our lives and our opinions. We rant and laugh, segue and interrupt our way through the day in a fashion that has become familiar, expected. “It’s because they’ve been to so many,” he continues, answering his own question. “They’re all done crying.”
He’s right. But not so long ago, I had a more idealized notion; I believed they had physically integrated the truth of death; it was all part of the package. Meanwhile, the rest of us had been to so few funerals we still experienced them as unnatural ruptures in an otherwise fairly lively life. We were brought up short by them. But now, ten years later, obituaries, if not funerals, are becoming routine. Each of us can recite a litany of dearly beloveds friends and, neighbours and relatives we just saw a month, even a week ago.
We are headed to Regina for a CT scan I’ve been putting off for months. Without pausing, Ervin offered to take me to my appointment and take me home again, all in one day. His kindness brings tears to my eyes. It’s a long haul, and yet he claims it will be an opportunity to catch up on a year fraught with mishaps and events. It’s true - we do have much to talk about - but most people, especially on a cold February morning, would suggest a coffee at the hotel for a chinwag.
As the fog bank creeps over the highway, we speak of the odd ways we hope to make a mark in life and yet how life makes its mark on us. I know I’ve had all sorts of plans, projects I’m still working on, planned to get around to, really should focus on etc. But now, so many of those just aren’t going to happen. It’s a fact, I tell myself. It’s not meant as a chastisement, nor is it cruel fate. It’s a reality check: life is only so long, and you are definitely on the downward slope, with more behind you than in front of you. You can only squeeze in so much in one lifetime. So, assess what can be done. And let the rest go.
Over the years, we’ve covered a lot of territory - in his truck, driving to Calgary, Medicine Hat, Regina, Montana and the Hawaiian coast- and in our conversations. We’ve covered the plights and passions of the young people in our lives - their Christmas pageants, volleyball tourneys, difficult subjects in school, recalling our own childhood gains and losses, hits and near misses along the way. We’ve covered our theories on what bits of history keep repeating themselves. We’ve covered the urban-rural divide and the delights that present themselves when people unexpectedly surprise you by being not at all what you presumed. We’ve listed the places in the world we plan to visit before travel becomes a pain and a risk. Of course, we’ve covered the rise of Trump and the concurrent demise of manners and civil conversation. There’s always plenty to cover, and it turns out there is never enough time.
The surprise of aging is the daily inescapable humiliations it necessarily bequeaths us. There’s no getting around the fact that “things break down”, as a seventy-seven-year-old colleague at art school informed me over thirty years ago. “Nothing lasts forever - you may be “special” you may think you are unique, but you ain’t that unique.” What surprises me is how, along with my knees and my stamina, I find my prejudices and pet peeves breaking down, too.
My mom used to say to me: “You can do anything.” And though it reflected her unconditional faith in me as a promising youth with several abilities, I rode on that faith far too long, using it as insurance for the future. I could dabble and dream on that faith for a long while, but the day would come when I’d comprehend there are only so many left me to finish that book, that CD, that performance. Now, I think back, and I wonder why I didn’t hear the proviso to my mother’s promise: “As long as you apply yourself - consistently, daily, and when you least want to.”
As we pull into the driveway at sunset, I am refreshed by the long conversation and not at all saddened by the fact that time is limited. I promise myself to engage myself fully in what I do. Now.