THERE IS NO DENYING I HAVE BEEN IN DENIAL OF MY AGING

There is no denying that I have been in denial of my aging, which is another way to say, unconscious. Whenever I met people I knew after a stretch of time, I would think, ‘my, how he or she has aged.’ I did not turn the mirror around on myself, and think, ‘wow, she has aged. I must have, too.’ Even as I saw how children in my sister’s family had ‘grown up,’ I did not realize their growing up had anything to do with my own aging.

But one does have mirrors, photographs, others. And still Denial rules. A friend of ours is declining cognitively and doesn’t see or admit it even though Alzheimer’s runs his family. His mother, NCA,  Once was once a powerful person with a strong ego that enabled her to carve out her own path, a unique niche in the world. She helped usher in a new consciousness about women and their ability to be professionals who were equal, if not better, than the men who used to define and control the work world after the 1940s. She  excelled in her career on her own terms, and traveled the world as the guest of international scientific societies to share her techniques and knowledge.

Our friend has experienced the decline of his mother, caring for her for eight years.  Another friend of ours, a Shakespearean actor with a Ph.D. in Shakespeare, doesn’t recall the name of her favorite role or play; leaving the apartment on her way out into the New York winter, she is agitated, looking for something. When we ask her what, she says, waving her fingers, fingers, fingers, meaning gloves. She is slipping and sliding down the cognitive slope and refuses to acknowledge it or see a neurologist.

So whatever and whoever we are, our knowledge doesn’t define us. We survive, as we survive wisdom itself. I have no doubt that when my body is wracked by pain and my mind with fear, my wisdom will fly out the window.

Perhaps they are wise, in a way, for what can one do when there is no cure? We in America think there ought to be fixes to everything. The struggle to come up with cures is commendable, hopeful, but I cannot imagine a life where death can be postponed indefinitely.

I asked Payson to take photographs of me because I have two books coming out this year and I need them for publicity. The ambition gene is still kicking.  I have older photographs that have worked in the past, photographs I am attached to because I still look vital in them, but I wanted something more current. But I didn’t like any of the one’s Payson took. It took me a while to admit why: I didn’t like them because they didn’t reflect me the way I wanted to look: aging, yes, but prettily so. I wanted them to reflect how I feel inside, attractive, to both others and myself, but not old. These photographs showed my chin beginning to sag, my eyes that were once so big and beautiful, now crinkled, crumpled, squinty.

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