A Lifetime of Loss
WE SUFFER LOSSES throughout our life. During our youth, we might leave old chums behind when our family starts fresh in a new town or when we go away to college. Later, a job loss or a divorce could leave us drained both financially and emotionally. But for most of us, our senior years are when loss hits hardest.
Our body is often the first casualty, especially the face we see in the mirror each morning. At some point, the dents and dings of time take their toll on that image. My own visage is covered with sun-damaged skin and topped by silver hair. I’ve grown used to the view, but occasionally I’m startled by the realization I look old.
Achy joints and stiff muscles add another dimension to the picture. My complaints are minor, usually no more than a nuisance, but probably portend more serious problems down the road. Vision and hearing deficits have already arrived. The ophthalmologist is keeping an eye on my cataracts, and my wife says I’m overdue for hearing aids.
Meanwhile, gravity is beginning to win—again. We all start life held fast to the earth, staying put where we’re placed. As our strength grows, most of us commence to roll, then progress to sitting and crawling, until we eventually lift ourselves to our feet and begin to walk.
We may stay in motion for decades, never thinking of life without mobility. Young bodies generally do our bidding. They run all day until we drop into bed with exhaustion, then jump up at dawn to begin the race again. But one day, our strength begins to fade, or we’re laid low by injury or disease.
As a physical therapist, the core of my practice is helping folks either remain in motion or get moving again. Whether pain, weakness or some other ailment hinders movement, we join forces to combat whatever is stopping them or slowing them down. Often, we win, but many times the victory is incomplete, especially for older bodies. When that happens, we’re both forced to face the pain of loss.
As a therapist, I’m a spectator to this real-life drama. But for my patients, it can be a constant companion that haunts their waking hours and robs them of sleep.
Grappling with injury or illness is physically demanding. The cost in pain, money and time away from our lives is dear. Add to this the mental struggle, which can be even more severe, especially the realization that life afterward may never be the same. Even if we escape experiencing a single debilitating event during a long life, we may still be cognizant of the creeping loss of vigor that comes with age.
Many mourn the loss, but others seem to take the slowdown in stride. Consider a gentleman I met a few months back: He’s in his late 80s, with health issues beginning to curtail his once active lifestyle. From all appearances, he accepts his decline with grace. He’s cheerful, witty and expresses gratitude for his life. But I discovered that, underneath a veneer of contentment, he carries a different kind of burden.
When we first met, he told me of his first marriage, and of a daughter born with cognitive deficiency. He was a strong advocate for her and others like her, lobbying his state legislature for favorable laws and helping to found a special school. But she died in middle age, and his wife’s death followed several years later. He was resigned to spending his remaining years in solitude, but instead met and married a vibrant woman a few years his junior. With a beaming face, he told me, “I’m lucky I found her.” He seemed satisfied with his life.
At our last meeting, though, some of the façade fell away. He briefly recounted the family history I’d heard before. This time, however, as he brushed over memories of the past, instead of a smile, his eyes welled up with tears. I was mostly mute as he told me, in halting words, how he still grieves for his deceased wife and daughter. What words could I offer as salve for such a painful recollection?
More recently, at a chance reunion with an old acquaintance, another loss that often comes with age came up in the conversation. This man is a retired physician, age 86. I ran into him, accompanied by his wife, during a checkup at my ophthalmologist’s office. I told his wife I had good memories of him as a respected physician in our hospital, as well as a disciplined physical therapy patient in my clinic.
I could see that the doctor was getting around well, and asked if he had visited his home in India. He confirmed that he had, but that airports are confusing. “It’s dementia,” he said matter-of-factly, and added that his waning cognition also keeps him from driving farther afield than our little town. I glanced at his wife, and saw the same stoic expression that her husband wore. Though I can’t be sure, I departed our meeting feeling they both accepted his decline as just the natural course of life.
Both of these men are more than two decades my senior, and I observed at least a part of my future in them. Even at 62, I already feel the inevitable downward pull of gravity on my body. Though I still have the hardiness to dig my garden and split firewood by hand, I’m slower getting it finished. And the last hour or two of my 10-hour workday is a little more taxing than it once was.
How do we equip ourselves for the losses that inevitably come our way? Prudent financial planning is part of the answer. Life insurance won’t take the sting out of a loved one’s death, but it can replace income that’s vital for the family that remains. Likewise, disability insurance can mitigate the financial pain of illness or injury. In the retirement years, a robust cushion of savings can remove worry and cover practical solutions for the challenges that come with aging.
But money can’t replace companionship. It also won’t buy a cure for the heartbreak that comes with dementia. And what about dealing with the reality of our own physical decline?
I’m no expert on the subject. As I indicated above, I'm a spectator to a drama, with my patients occupying the stage. Perhaps a more accurate metaphor is player-coach, sharing the same hazards and headwinds we all face as we try—usually unsuccessfully—to make it to the end of the game with all parts of our life intact.
Despite a picture that may seem bleak, there’s plenty of space for hope. When life is harsh, we humans seem to draw on a resilience that can handle all manner of misery. And those with religious faith know the comfort and strength it can offer. We don’t know what troubles tomorrow will bring, but there’s no profit in worrying about them today, though I sometimes do. That said, I pray we realize our turn will eventually come and that, when it does, we’re given the grace to face it.
Ed Marsh is a physical therapist who lives and works in a small community near Atlanta. He likes to spend time with his church, with his family and in his garden thinking about retirement. His favorite question to ask a young person is, "Are you saving for retirement?" Check out Ed's earlier articles.
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