My Last Cartwheel: Thoughts on Turning Eighty by Wendy Gilbert Gronbeck
In my twenties, I waged a war against invisibility with the phone company; they were shocked I wanted my name in the phone book. Wives were not listed in the early 1970s. They told me that adding “and Wendy” made our listing too long, but they didn’t seem to think “attorney-at-law” made my neighbor’s listing too long. On the other end of life’s teeter totter is a different kind of invisibility––a world relentlessly reminding me I am well past my sell-by date.
I first experienced this at a furniture store a decade ago when balking at the outrageous price of a chest of drawers. The sales associate shivered with anticipation, because he was about to deliver some exciting news. “It has a lifetime guarantee!”
“Do you have any idea how meaningless a lifetime guarantee is at my age?” I asked. I was making a joke.
“Yes, but one day your children will appreciate the workmanship,” he countered.
Eventually, I purchased a lesser dresser at another store, and when it came time for the receipt, the young saleswoman asked, “Do you by any chance use email?” She said it in a tone one might use when asking, “And will you be needing silverware with your dinner, dear?” I asked her what year she’d been born, and she said 2002. I got my first computer in 1984, so yes, I told her, I had indeed figured out this new-fangled emaily thing. On to the grocery store where a nice young fellow asked if I needed help carrying out my bag of salad fixings.
“I cleaned my gutters this morning on a twelve-foot ladder, so I reckon I can wrangle my arugula to the car without suffering a hernia––but thanks,” I said. Okay, a bit grumpy, but do I look that frail?
Unless I pass a window or mirror, I toddle through life having no idea how old I am. I do nearly everything I’ve always done.
There was that sobering moment recently when I asked my friends, “Do you suppose I have turned my last cartwheel?” and without hesitation, they all yelled, “Yes!” It wasn’t so much an opinion as a command. It made me wonder how many things I’ve done without knowing it was the last time, and would I have done things differently had I known? I never thought this is the last time I’ll jump on a trampoline or never again will I parasail over a school of barracudas (or buy a chest of drawers). I’ve just jumped and sailed, clueless to the absurd notion of doing something to “make memories.” And I am fully aware this isn’t the last time I’ll be cranky.
One day, I was permanently jerked out of my state of denial. I wanted to adopt a cat from the shelter. Wow—they were packed with cats! I chose a petite, multicolored female with blue-green eyes, about a year old. Because she was just one and I apparently look a hundred and one, we had a problem: she would outlive me. I had to have a co-adopter, because the shelter didn’t want her back when I began to wither on the vine. Too old to adopt a cat—that my friends, is a reality check. Better for her to live in a crowded shelter than with a disintegrating crone like me. My generous, animal-loving niece agreed to be a back-up adopter. She had to travel across the state for an in-person interview. I named my alleged kitty Vera and visited her every day for two weeks while the system investigated me. I had less trouble adopting a child. Finally, I wondered aloud, “Do you suppose this is the only place one can get a cat?” and things moved along more quickly. When Vera was stowed in the cat carrier for the trip home, a sad-looking volunteer nodded at the portly cat watching from a perch above us. He was twice Vera’s size—a mountain of red fur with gold eyes.
“I’m sure they’ll be okay,” she said, her face melting like the silent-scream guy.
“What?” I said.
“They’ve never been apart before. They’re from the same litter, and he’s always looked after his sister and protected her.” Somehow, my dainty girl and this big, befuddled nubble were twins. Clearly, their mom had enjoyed a long night out with a variety of suitors—something else I’ve likely done for the last time.
“Oh, throw him in,” I said. Three weeks to adopt one cat and thirty seconds for the second cat. Best to leave before they locate the rest of the litter. I’d break it to my niece later. The local liquor store checks my ID before I can buy a bottle of wine; I think it’s because they found out I’m young enough to have two cats.
As I age, I try to be informed and proactive regarding my health. The government does, too; it’s especially concerned that any time now I may take up coal mining and develop black lung disease. Every visit, the doctor checks that one off on the Medicare form and assumes that concludes my physical. Two years ago, when I inquired about a colonoscopy and a mammogram, he replied, “Well, you are seventy-eight.” I guess an avoidable, miserable, protracted death is okay at my age. He viewed me as an epidemiological dot on a y-axis, somewhere in time where it’s too late for prevention. I don’t think he rolled his eyes when I persisted; I’m not sure, because he sat slack jawed, glued to his computer screen.
I try to ignore the invisibility of old age. It’s not the judgements of others that concern me; it’s my own internal debates about my dwindling choices. I want to live in the country again, but maybe I’ll be in and out of hospitals and my eyes will fail and I won’t be able to drive. On the other hand, what if I have fifteen more years of passable function and have thrown in the towel for no good reason? I want to live in upstate New York and Maine and in the Hebrides, but I have an accessible house and good friends and the big lake nearby for my final kayak ride. I worry about clinging to my favorite black, above-the-knee skirt. Do my desiccated knees look like dried apricots hanging below the hem? These battling thoughts are a waste of time and energy, and I resent them infiltrating my brain. Throwing in the towel isn’t my way, but am I mindlessly picking away at loosening threads until the towel disappears without me realizing it? Have I become invisible to myself?
Since the cats are settled in, I began to peruse dog-rescue sites. I am skilled at decoding those clever descriptions under pictures of pooches with sad eyes. “Bubba will be happiest in a home where his owner’s livelihood doesn’t depend on a full set of fingers.” Even as I looked at dogs, I debated: I love dogs, it’s not fair to a dog, I miss having a dog, what will happen to the dog if I end up in a nursing home? Then, this gentle girl appeared before my eyes. She was all my favorite breeds in one dog: Springer, Aussie, Border Collie. I scrolled down, looking for a reason such a lovely lass was on a rescue site, and I found it: she was old. Now, I had to confess to friends and family that I was getting a dog. They all pictured me hog-tied to a walker by a leash, the dog dragging me down the street on my back. I, however, embrace Edith Wharton’s lovely phrase, “my dog, a little heartbeat at my feet.” So please welcome Nellie, another old geezer with hair on her chin, mindlessly chewing away on her towel, but never throwing it in.
Wendy Gilbert Gronbeck lives and writes on the dunes above Lake Michigan. She writes memoir, short stories, flash, and essays. Ms. Gronbeck has worked as a video producer and writer, an oncology nurse, and hospice nurse. These varied careers provided experience with trauma and grief, heroism, and humor; her themes are born of that experience.