Adviser Spring 2017 Vol 1 | Page 37

we learned to embrace the time that was just for us. All of a sudden this ailment or that disability warned us that the third stage of life loomed large. It might be that I’m fearful of being overlooked. I think it comes from being alone…no family anymore to come to my aid or fight my battles. Here’s how I think of the stages in life: In the first stage, we are nurtured and cared for. We chafe at the bit until we finish our education and get married. It is all so wonderful to be young, cocky and ambitious. I keep feelings to myself, for the most part. Sometimes I notice anger creeping into my comments. I really want to shout: Please hear me. Listen to me. Understand me. In the second stage, we rear our families. Under watchful eyes, our children mature. In a flash, we become the empty nesters. Where does my impatience come from? Perhaps it is because I am a resident among many, and who I am, who I was, is not known. It upsets me that I am perceived as just one of the others. In our third stage, all goes well, until the unexpected happens. Physical or mental changes alter our independence. It means we must depend on our children or someone else. This we cannot bear. I don’t remember when my hearing loss began--it was gradual. By the time I retired, though, I had much difficulty hearing. Nowadays, my eyesight suffers, too. Striking a balance between the two is what I must do. As a widow, I adjusted to living alone. I was in my own world. It’s as though I got used to not hearing well. I didn’t socialize much and now, I realize it might have been because I couldn’t hear. A bit of stubbornness comes with aging. Our independence is connected with wanting to live in our homes. “It’s just a house,” they say, but I know it’s more. A home isn’t where you hang your hat. It’s where you leave your imprint. It’s where traditions form; where families and memories grow. Now I am in assisted living. I’m glad cherished possessions came with me. I didn’t bargain for all the regulations and interruptions. I’m just learning new ways to negotiate with life. When the staff engages me in conversation, I can tell about my past, my rewards and triumphs. I don’t want my loss of hearing to define me. Let’s take the time and forge a bond together. Thin-skin gets healthier when we know each other well. Aides, nurses, residents and administrators Are on the same team; It just needs to be more personal. Sadly, there comes a time when we do need extra care. We don’t want to admit it. Thank goodness there are welcoming communities where we can thrive. Living longer means living to your fullest potential. She held her head a little higher as she proceeded with her walker. “It’s time to work the muscle of my brain,” she declared as she greeted others on her way to the library. She got over the little incident with the restroom. She knew she would. In her heart she understood. It’s called getting on board, she said to herself and then she smiled. We cringe when we hear what we called gutter talk freely spoken on TV and in films. Our parents called us to higher standards. I’m one who shrinks from asking too many questions. I think it has to do with being polite. It’s also because explanations do not sound clear. Perhaps my thin skin gets in the way. My loss of hearing makes me feel abandoned, not a part of things. Thin-skin gets healthier when we know each other well. Aides, nurses, residents and administrators are on the same team; it just needs to be more personal. leadingageny.org 36