When we get older we often suffer from a kind of invisibility. Heads do not turn when we walk in a room, even though we may be wearing our new spring clothes. Sometimes in the locker room at the gym young women have conversations around me as if I am not there at all.
This all seems to come with the territory of getting older and although I have noticed, it has not troubled me much.
Then came a new set of experiences that brought on a whole new level of invisibility.
We decided to sell our large, long-time home and downsize to the condo of our dreams. Yes, we had to act fast, and fortunately a family member had told us for years “If you ever decide to sell your house I would really like to buy it.” So we asked her how serious she was and within a month’s time our house was sold and our condo bought. We arranged to rent the house back for four months while we reasonably prepared to move and renovated the condo. Four months sounded like a long enough time for the transition but it was not enough physically or psychologically. We built our home forty years ago and it was an embodiment of us. We underestimated the whole process. We felt overwhelmed and numb.
The next thing that happened was I had hip replacement surgery. At the end of my first week of recovery our buyer wants to show the house to friends visiting from California. I welcome them. Four very vibrant young women come into the house and as I scrape along behind them with my walker they are so excited for their friend’s new home. I am having an almost out of body experience seeing my life being taken over by others as if I am deceased. “This is what it must feel like to be dead,” I think. Life moves on without you. You are replaced.
At this point in my story some kind soul reminds me that “this is the natural order of things and aren’t I glad it is family taking over our home?” This comment has no place to land in me. I am consumed with my feelings. Words like feeble, erasure, melancholy and loss come to mind.
The next thing that happens is a decluttering process. We are not hoarders but, oh my, we did have a lot of space to fill up with things in our house. I challenge myself to get rid of old clothes. My daughter-in-law wears my size, even the same shoe size. We have a fun afternoon. I pull things out of my closet, she tries them on, we walk to the mirror and agree yes or no. She leaves with an armload of my clothes. What I did not consider was, how I would feel as I started to see her wearing my clothes. Clothes that she put together into unique outfits I never dreamed of. Clothes that looked so good on her. One day she must have caught me staring. She said, “You can have any of the clothes you gave me back, seriously, whatever you want.” How did I feel then? Words like old, replaced, sad and bittersweet come to mind. And of course I was happy to see my clothes enjoyed and appreciated by her and later some of my friends as well. But still, part of me was disappearing.
The next thing that happened was the 2nd Annual Women’s Wellness Weekend. The First Annual Women’s Wellness Weekend, last year, had been my project. I had spearheaded the effort to get this event started on the Eastern Shore, devoted hundreds of hours to it, a huge accomplishment. This year, it was taken over by my younger, energetic Co-Chair from last year. I was there as the founder and also as a faculty member teaching a class — called Women in Transition, of course! It was mostly delightful to see her shine in the spotlight of her creativity, fixing all the logistical issues we had last year and being so confident and poised. She was very careful not to erase me and I appreciated the care she took to reinforce my significant role. At the ending I had planned a small little speech to acknowledge what a wonderful job she had done and step into the role of passing the torch, when another faculty member stepped in and did this instead. I went into a kind of shock. I was overlooked in such a small way but it hit me so hard. Perhaps all the erasures began to catch up to me in that moment. I was not well. I spent a week in emotional turmoil. On one hand it was no big deal and on another it was another example of losing my place. What I know now is that each one of these experiences was a kind of death. A death of who I was, a death of what I created, a death of an identity and orientation. In transitions there is an in-between place like jumping off the cliff before you land again on solid ground. I can tell you this place was very dis-stabilizing for me.
We have settled in our new condo and had our first family meal there. It is gradually becoming our home I am forging a new identity. We have landed on the solid ground of a funky, charming neighborhood called Belmont which surprisingly suits us. I have an in-person office in downtown that I can walk to and we can actually walk everywhere downtown. Our grandchildren have had their first sleep over. Lucas, 10, wants to know, “Mimi, what is on the other side of this wall?’ I say, “Our neighbor,” with some disbelief because none of us have ever lived in an apartment before. We walk for ice cream after dinner and donuts for breakfast. We establish a new routine together.
In the research I have done about transitions I learned that if a transition is mindfully gone through attending to all the feelings transformation is promised. On the other side is a new you. Perhaps I am no longer so afraid of death. Perhaps I feel some resilience to remake myself as this aging requires on a daily basis. Life does go on without us. It is beautiful, tragic, terrifying and true.
