At 80, I learned how to use a screwdriver and pump my own gas, chase scary spiders in the bathroom and adjust the house thermostat — among many other hands-on tasks I took on after my husband died. These newfound talents were born out of necessity, not choice. Though I was relieved that I could handle such things, I was not surprised.
Handling things is part of my character, but being comfortable with change is definitely not. I have come to believe that the secret to aging well has a lot to do with how easily we change and grow. So, this became my mission — to learn how to change from who I was to who I am now at 85 and at 86 and onward.
As we age, change is inevitable. Our bodies demand more and may give less. Once, I was a blonde. Now, my hair is gray. Once, I did all my errands on a bicycle with a basket on the handlebars, dodging traffic up and down narrow city streets. Now, my young neighbors marvel at how quickly I walk up the few steps to my front door.
Yes, aging changes us, and for many, that means not only what we do and how we look, but also how and where we live. Very often a move late in life results in bits and pieces of our old selves disappearing, like loose items falling off the back of the moving truck.
When I moved to my present home, I was part of a couple, and my husband, Marv, and I established a single identity. No one in our New York country town had ever known either of us without the other. So, when Marv died in February 2020, just three weeks short of the pandemic lockdown, it felt as if I had moved once more, this time from the “we” to just me.
For the first time, I was responsible for the outcomes alone, negotiating the lockdown on my own and doing those chores that filled the role of husband to myself. Credit or blame, it was all up to me, and frankly, I was not used to it.
In the beginning, I admit, I got a lot of help by “playing the widow card." If I forgot to pay a bill on time, I’d try to get some extra consideration by using my unhappy status. When something went well, people often pointed out how Marv’s spirit had helped. “He’s watching over you,” they said, as if he were somehow giving me a helping hand.
But somewhere around the five-year mark, I began to wonder how long I could claim the title of “widow” as an identity. And who would I be in the aftermath?
Socially no longer part of a pair, I was not comfortable going out with other couples. First step? I forced myself to go. Things we used to do together, like a trip to the farmer’s market or berry picking, were even harder, but eventually (with the help of my dog, Pete) I did those too, and found strength, even pleasure, in doing them.