I belong to a book club where most members are over 50.  Someone suggested we re-read a classic that we’d read as a young person, to see how our view of it has changed. We chose Catcher in the Rye. It has been an interesting journey, starting and ending with fragility.

When I first met Holden Caulfield, I was a college freshman. I thought he was a potty-mouthed loser. He flunked out of one fancy private school after another. Only sixteen, he smoked and drank and tried to pass for an adult. He had no friends his own age. I didn’t like him and couldn’t figure out why on earth my professor assigned this reading.

Now I know. Holden’s cursing, which then shocked me, now seems tame. I now notice his parents are physically and emotionally distanced. They don’t mind his smoking and drinking because it’s a firm part of their lifestyle and, if anything, they seem to encourage it. 

Now I understand the tough-guy language is a screen to hide Holden’s sensitivity and vulnerability. (Do tattoos and piercings serve that purpose today?) 

Then, I thought he disliked everyone else, calling them “phonies.” Now I recognize he has an uncanny knack of seeing another’s “false self,” but simultaneously piercing through it with compassion to the pain it’s designed to hide. 

Holden has more trouble seeing his own inner kindness and courage. He believes he’s a coward because he doesn’t like to fight. But in fact he stands up to bullies even when he takes a beating for it. He defends acne-covered misfit Ackly. He confronts his popular, sophisticated roommate, Stradlater, who brags about seducing a girl Holden admires. He dances with a pretty “older” woman who is graceful, but then also invites her clumsy, unattractive friends to dance so they won’t feel left out.

Holden seems to be completely himself only when with his ten-year-old sister Phoebe.

When I was young, I’d have said this book was about a teenage boy killing time for a couple of days on his own in New York, to avoid going home and confronting his disappointed parents who would learn he’s been expelled. I don’t recall noticing that he seems to be telling his story to a therapist in an institution. This doesn’t become explicit until the very end, although there are strong hints of depression and maybe even suicidal thoughts. As the story ends, Holden expects to return home soon and then, it’s implied, to another private school. 

Now I understand why Catcher in the Rye continues to be assigned to young people and to sell millions of copies. But it may be more appropriate for readers with a lifetime of experience. It’s really about our universal longing for human connections – and how our egos and defenses get in the way.

“Reentry” has become shorthand for life after Covid. We thought everything would return to 2019-style normal with the arrival of the vaccine. Schools would reopen. We could root for our favorite sports teams – in person. We could see movies in a real theater instead of the living room couch. Broadway lights would be relit. We could eat in restaurants again, shop in stores without fear. We could worship together again and attend large gatherings like weddings and funerals.

As expected, everything did begin to open up. But then the Delta variant struck, and once again hospitals are overwhelmed, unvaccinated people are dying, and breakthrough infections are slowing reentry down. Masks are back, at least for indoor functions.

And it’s not just Covid. Since 2019 phrases like “Black lives matter” and “white privilege” entered the lexicon. Climate change is torching our forests, flooding cities, and shredding houses, schools, and churches with tornados that just keep coming. Hurricanes, droughts, and melting icebergs are creating massive migrations of human refugees.

Nobody feels safe. Almost daily we have to reinvent how we worship, earn, learn, get medical care, and live in peace with neighbors who don’t look like us. “Reentry” is forcing us to also reinvent our individual lives.

You can wear a lot of hats by the time you reach my age. I’d been a stay-at-home mom fourteen years when I became a law student at age thirty-six. I was a lawyer at forty, then a federal tax judge for sixteen years. While I was on the bench my late husband Jerry and I were ordained and both served – at separate times – as volunteer co-pastors of a small multicultural faith community in Washington, DC. When I retired from the court in 2002 I became a mediator and nonprofit organizer.

These identities were all primarily chosen.

But our agency is limited by the seeming randomness of life. Some reinventions are thrust on us by life events. Jerry chose to finish college and join the U.S. Secret Service. But he became a national hero when he saved President Reagan’s life on March 30, 1981. This is an example of reinvention as improv.

When Jerry died in 2015 I became a widow. My new identity was neither chosen nor unexpected. Life events – like retirement or sickness or family tragedies – happen that we can’t control. These reinventions are what I call necessities.

Now it seems to me that’s where current events have brought us. To a smaller or greater degree, we are all reinventing ourselves in response to the historical changes at play now, whether we think of them as necessities or improv. The question is to what extent will we choose to direct the flow of our lives, even if we can’t choose the circumstances?

What happens when friends, acquaintances, just about anyone you know learns you’re sick? Or that a family member has died? Or another tragedy has struck?

If you’re like most recipients of others’ concern, phones ring, get well and/or sympathy cards arrive, and in some cases you’re deluged with an outpouring of heartfelt support, along with expressions of prayers and thoughts.

Offers of foods, transportation, whatever, can be overwhelming. In some cases there is a cascade of casseroles. 

What happens a few weeks later? “Thoughts and prayers” fade to radio silence. Written expressions of sympathy slow to a trickle and then to dry up.

Life returns to normal. The survivor of a loved one’s death or of a serious illness is expected to “be over it.”

In the media this is called “the news hole.” As soon as one momentous event is overshadowed by a newer one, the first drops out of sight into the “news hole.”

Same with sympathy. Its half-life is a few weeks at best. Then zap! It’s disappeared.  

But what if the survivor or the patient doesn’t recover? What if the loss is so great it has permanently scarred the survivor? Or a patient’s illness worsens, or is terminal? What then?

The sympathy curve has completed its cycle. Obligatory expressions of concern may crop up if we happen to physically encounter the survivor or the patient. Otherwise, nothing.

Maybe it behooves us to keep the survivor in our thoughts and prayers a little longer. Continue offers of support. Don’t take the survivor’s bravado at face value, but genuinely CHECK IN.

Some people don’t recover. Their illness persists. Or the loss of a loved one is a permanent wound, a crippling psychological handicap, or morphs into a chronic (even terminal) condition.

Let’s stop taking “she’ll-get-over-it-itus” for granted.  

Check in. Make that call. Send that text. Be present.

When a new book, Love After 50, launched on July 13, 2021 it had my full attention. After all, I was in it. The author, Francine Russo, interviewed Jim and me after learning of our marriage just before we turned 80.

This book is full of practical wisdom, born of the twice-widowed author’s two marriages and current long-term partnership, as well as true stories of many other couples she interviewed. 

Jim and I knew each other nearly fifty years when we married in 2017, so I hadn’t needed to explore online dating sites and protocol to find a trustworthy mate. Still, I found those chapters fun to read. But what really engaged me about the book were the communication tips throughout. 

As a journalist, Russo understands the impact of words. She identifies sensitive topics that may/will come up and offers clear model conversations.  What should you talk about (and avoid) on a first date?  (Hint: Don’t talk about your former spouse.) 

What if you meet for coffee, and you know right away you’re not interested? If he asks to see you again, Russo suggests saying, in a kindly manner, “I’ve enjoyed meeting you, but the chemistry doesn’t feel right for a romantic relationship.” If he insists he wants to be a “friend,” Russo advises, “That’s never worked for me, I’m afraid.” (p. 107)

Russo says to be clear, firm, and as kind as possible. In her opinion, “ghosting” (just disappearing and not returning calls with no explanation) isn’t fair.

If the date is going so badly that you don’t want to finish your coffee, she advises, just look at your watch and say, “Oh, I’m afraid I have to go now.”

Those are the easy conversations. Some are much more sensitive.

For instance, if you’ve begun to date, you really like each other, and it seems like sex is on the horizon – how do you suggest you both get tested for STDs? Even tougher, what if you know you have one? How and when do you reveal it? (You MUST reveal it before you have sex.) 

What if you’ve dated for several months, and now you’re sure it’s not right? She gives examples of four things you can say – without criticizing the partner. You know your partner will be hurt, so you have to summon courage. “Say kindly but firmly whatever your truth is.” She gives examples.

Russo also gives tips on how to accept rejection if you’re the one with unrequited love.

A chapter on senior sexuality is encouraging. That topic also requires sensitive talks, too. 

There will be necessary conversations about other topics: where you will live, how you’ll handle money, relationships with each other’s children. How do you tell your own children there’s a new person in your life, when they may still be grieving a lost parent? What are each other’s caregiving expectations? 

When Sig and I began Tough Conversations and wrote our book, Love’s Way: Living Peacefully With Your Family As Your Parents Age, we focused on intergenerational talk between aging parents and their adult kids. Love After 50, on the other hand, describes conversations within the same generation – that of the older parents. 

The circumstances differ but the principles are the same: listen generously to understand the other, and share your own truth with clarity and kindness. 

For more takes on the book, see the following (very different) articles: 

Older Singles Have Found a New Way to Partner Up: Living Apart

Better Sex Through Cartoons

It’s ironic that my last, yes last, blog for Tough Conversations should be about my becoming a caregiver. Writing about it, including ‘remote’ caregiving, is easy. It’s way different when you’re caregiving up close and personal.

Short story: In February my wife fell and broke her femur…in two places. Two days after a surgeon put it back together with a steel rod, she was about to begin physical therapy. Then she had a stroke.  Her third. After a week lying on her back in the stroke unit, the hospital (thankfully) moved her to its Acute Rehabilitation Unit where she received intensive therapy and learned how to walk again. Not too strongly, but enough to be discharged safely.  

What the hospital couldn’t treat was her 24/7 dizziness.  She had had dizziness from an earlier stroke, but this time it really whacked her.

She’s been home about two months and is receiving vestibular therapy which (we hope) will diminish, if not eliminate, her dizziness. For those of you who live with this condition, you know that it impacts everything you do. And it saps one’s energy.  

I have to admit that my wife’s condition is not half as serious as most persons who need family care giving.  She’s can manage her ADLs.* We go for walks and share some household chores. But like others who need support, she can’t be left alone…for now.

I am not complaining. I am thankful she’s getting stronger.  We have a network of willing friends, ready to help out, visit, and run errands.  We’re members of a Village (For those of you who don’t know about Villages check www.vtvnetwork.org.). But I want to share some of the lessons most other caregivers already know:

1. Attitude is all. It’s easy to understand why some caregivers become bitter.  There’s little time for oneself.  But maintaining a positive attitude can sweeten the sourest of moments.  

2. Know how and when to advocate. Google all those medical terms the professionals throw at you. Study up on your loved one’s medications, especially if they have adverse effects (most do). Go to doctor’s appointments armed every question you can conjure. 

3. Accept help. At first I thought I could do it all. A few days later that illusion disappeared. 

4. And ask for help. This is not the time for Stoic self-reliance. If you have sources of support, enlist them.

No doubt you out there who care give can think of oodles of others. This is just for starters.

I’ve enjoyed our correspondence over the past ten years. Thank you for reading our blogs and for sharing your thoughts.

Sig

*ADL = Activities of Daily Living

Dianne Rehm is the recently retired host of NPR’s “All Things Considered,” a talk show from Washington, DC. John Hagedorn is a retired Lutheran minister. The Washington Post dubbed their Washington Cathedral wedding on October 14, 2017 ”a sign of hope.”

The gorgeous, adoring couple exchanged traditional vows surrounded by friends. What drew attention was the ages of the bride and groom. She’s 81, he’s 78. The Rev. Canon Jerry Anderson said they are the oldest couple he has married in 49 years.

The news made me smile. In many respects, their story is my story. Last April I married an old friend, Jim Le Gette. A few months after the wedding, we both turned eighty.

Like Dianne and John, Jim and I knew each other for many years (thirty in their case, fifty in ours). Like them, we’d lost mates after long, happy marriages. Like theirs, our friends were delighted but surprised.

It’s not unusual for older people to get together, even to live together. But it is rare for them to marry. Why? One reason may be more about their children than themselves.

[Read more…]

Transparency… with Conditions

For years we have advocated greater transparency among family members when addressing issues, such as:
— the location of a parent’s will and other important documents;
— how a parent intends to bequeath her assets;
— whom the parent designates as executor of his will and his powers of attorney;
— the terms of their living will and who will make healthcare decisions for them should they lack capacity to voice their preferences; and where they would reside if they can no longer live independently.

We consistently urge parents to share this information with ALL their adult children. No exceptions. To exclude an adult child risks troubled relations among their children long after they’ve left this life for the next.

Worthy counsel indeed. But let’s remember that transparency is not an end in itself. The goal is family harmony, ensuring adult children understand their parents’ wishes, that they are willing to take the helm if a crisis affects their parents’ well-being, and honoring their wishes should they suffer a life threatening illness.

But what happens if these good intentions go awry? What if an adult child resents that another of his siblings is named financial power of attorney? Or a family member objects to an older adult’s aging in place rather than entering assisted living? Or a sibling takes issue with a parent who opts for hospice care rather than undergo high-risk medical treatment for a chronic illness?

[Read more…]

We’d like to share an article written by Carolyn, and published in this month’s Redbud Post, which reflects on the life-long nature of parenting.

Parenting: A Life-Long Calling

When my girls were tiny Jerry and I cherished every new miracle. The first baby tooth! Eating finger food! Crawling, walking brought applause and cheers. I loved watching their little minds work as they began to talk and figure out new experiences. (At first sight of Georgia clay, two-year-old Dede sang out, “Look, Mommy! Sunburned dirt!”) We were starved for sleep but filled with awe, wonder, and gratitude.

Their school years flash across my vision in stop-time photography. Trish in her ballet tutu. Kim sprawled on the floor, pen in hand, fingers flying across the paper creating edgy cartoons. Dede shyly offering me her gift of a pair of gargoyles—mugs she designed and created from potter’s clay. They’re on my desk as I write and never fail to evoke a smile.

Read the entire article on the Redbud Post.