Finding Meaning in Being One of the Oldest-Old
I began reading studies of loss and aging as though my life depended on the answers. Then I put the books down and looked inward.
By Robert W. Goldfarb
At 94, I’m one of the oldest-old. I think about how I earned that distinction and what I must do to ascend to the next level, if there is one.
I’ve tasted joy and sorrow on my journey deeper into old age. When my wife of 66 years died suddenly and unexpectedly four years ago, grief was a snake that locked its fangs around my throat. Breathing felt more like gasping.
As days, months and now years have passed, grief sheathed its fangs. Now it is a shapeless mass that occasionally slumps onto my chest to remind me it’s still there.
I’ve begun to heal largely because I’m surrounded by the love of my children, grandchildren and great-grandchild. Two close friends have remained alongside me through most of my journey. I’m well enough to run three-mile races, always finishing last, but always finishing. Hopefully some of that well-being will remain as I approach the ultimate finish line.
Studying Loneliness
To ease the pain of my loss and find meaning in old age, I began reading studies of loss, loneliness and aging as though my life depended on the answers I hoped to find.
I was assured my loneliness would soften once I developed new relationships and reestablished old ones. Younger people I began speaking with express interest in the activities of a 94-year-old widower, but soon have heard enough.
Most friends my age have moved closer to their children or to assisted living communities. More names have been torn from our old address book than remain. Friends Muriel and I frequently dined with gather at tables set for couples, not for odd numbers, and three is proving to be an especially odd number.
The studies I was reading saw loss, loneliness and aging as problems practical people solve. Everything I read chilled me with its clinical remoteness. I was told to remain mentally and physically active, but not how to get out of bed in the morning. Didn’t they know that instead of awakening to Muriel’s soft touch, I stepped onto a floor that felt littered with shattered glass?
If I did, the answers would lie deep inside me and not written on pages. Yes, I would eat leafy vegetables, walk 10,000 steps and volunteer to mentor women and minority aspiring entrepreneurs. But I would also sit quietly alone, hoping to hear in the stillness words leading me to where healing began.
Looking for Courage
In those quiet moments, I began to sense my solitary journey would call upon both the man I am and the man I would have to become. As old as I was, could I create ways to carry myself along a road that seem paved with obstacles designed to thwart elders? I would begin by learning if the young man I was long ago could impart strength to the old man I had become.
I decided to put down the books and turn inward. Would I find within me the will and resources to endure these final years without Muriel?
When I needed courage in the past, Muriel was there to share hers with me. But sometimes she would say, “You’re hoping to hear your sergeant’s voice, aren’t you?” She was referring to something I told her when I returned from the Korean War. The men who trained and later led me had jumped into Normandy six years earlier. They were quiet men who spoke to young soldiers only when giving orders.
It startled me when my platoon sergeant beckoned to me, put his hand on my shoulder, and said “Goldfarb, you’ve become one of us.” That was all he said, but from that moment I stood taller and carried myself differently. Barely out of my teens, I had earned the trust of men I held in awe. I needed to hear words like that again.
Seeking Wisdom
My family showers me with love and support. My closest friend several times has called and said “Bob, I don’t like the sound of your voice; I’m coming over.” As crucial as these acts of kindness are to my survival, there was something else I needed. No one had to tell me Muriel was no longer physically alongside me. But I was desperate to hear that her presence remained within my being. I would have to hear that from someone more spiritual than I was.
While running one morning, I passed a Hasidic rabbi and stopped as though I struck a wall. I’m not a religious person but asked if I could speak with him and told him of my loss. He listened silently before saying, “Your wife’s soul has gone to a higher place, but also remains present for you. She’s here for you. She hasn’t left you.”
Muriel knew the boy I was and the man she helped me become. I hear her voice, urging me to think not of what I lost, but of all we had together for all those years. Both of us eagerly looked for doors that opened onto new possibilities, sometimes to adventure. She would want me keep opening those doors. I can do that with confidence now that I know she is with me on that journey.
Robert W. Goldfarb served as founder and president of Urban Directions, Inc. (UDI), a management consulting firm that mentored managers and management teams to achieve their fullest potential. His articles have appeared in The New York Times, The San Francisco Chronicle and elsewhere. His book, “What’s Stopping Me From Getting Ahead” was published by McGraw-Hill.
Editor’s Note: This essay was originally published on www.nextavenue.org and is being reprinted with their permission.