I Love Being 60

59 sucked

One would think 59 would be a fab year, a last hurrah before heading into the decade where the government considers you old, when you’re closer to the average life span age, where men like Kelsey Grammar are good looking to you. 

59 sucked. 

My favorite grandparent died when he was 59. I was five years old and remember Grandpa Joe’s excitement whenever he saw me. He’d match my high energy, take me out for ice cream and play The Uncle Wiggily Game with me. He was like a 5-year-old Grandpa. His cigarette smoking didn’t bother me. At 5 we accept people for who they are, and we know when someone is disingenuous. Grandpa Joe was a sweetheart.

Me at age 5

I remember the last time I saw him. He was in the hospital because of chest pains. His room wasn’t a room at all but a large space with a row of beds like a WWII infirmary only sanitized and Grandpa was in a middle bed. It was 1969, Torrance CA, and probably another predictably hot day. But this day wasn’t predictable. My sisters and I weren’t allowed to go into this hospital space because we carried germs. I couldn’t see Grandpa Joe from the doorway, so my dad scooped me up, raising my skinny body high in the air like he was holding a trophy. Grandpa Joe was sitting up in bed and waved eagerly at me. I flapped my hand back then my dad set me down.

The doctor never examined him. Grandpa Joe had Ventricular Fibrillation and passed that night. He was 59. 

There’s something about hitting the age of an older loved one who had passed at that same age. For the first few months of 59-hood I thought of Grandpa Joe often and felt as though he was with me. I was comforted but still didn’t trust my fate.

L to R: Grandma Ethel, Grandpa Joe and my mom who looked like a Jewish Audrey Hepburn.

We were a happy family in 1969 but Grandpa Joe’s death was the first time the plaid, shag rug was pulled out from under me. 1978 featured the next surprise. There were some other sh--tty childhood events in between but my parents separation was a shock. It subsequently beleaguered us girls for the next 5 years until their divorce was finalized. By then the rug was Persian and took up the entire living room. When it was pulled, I fell and broke my spirit. Because these tapestries were yanked away so violently, I subconsciously altered my approach to life so I could avoid the pain or be prepared. I was the first to break up with boyfriends, became overly friend-picky and quit before I was fired. I began to expect my own early departure from this world. I had one foot out the door so to speak. Oddly enough my body responded. I always had digestion issues and since being diagnosed with Hashimotos Thyroiditis in my 40s, I readily searched for the next auto immune disease. (When you have one, it’s easier to catch the next.) This didn’t stop me from having a healthy family of my own but once my kids were grown and flown, I got breast cancer. It was 2017 and after surgery and radiation I was sure it would return. The now stylish Flokati rug that was in our family room seemed secure but I didn’t trust it. I knew the common metastasis by heart: Brain, Bones, Liver, Lungs. If I coughed or had a headache, I went to my oncologist for blood work or other tests. If Grandpa Joe could die at 59 so could I. I expected it. So I lived with one foot out the door.

I also realized this was why I rarely celebrated my birthday. What was the point? Instead, I pretended my birthday was a day like any other muddy afternoon in November. I gave my kids fun and fab birthday parties when they were little and they continue celebrating with their friends. Me? I’m a writer homebody who was content to have a better cut of steak that night and watch “Apollo 13” again with Hubby-Jeffrey. When last year my sister, Vicki, said, “How about if Rich and I fly up and celebrate your birthday,” I was genuinely surprised. “Really? I would love that.”

2023

Fortunately, the cancer never returned. Instead, I suffered from digestion crap (no pun there) and debilitating back pain. But when all my blood work, Endoscopy, Colonoscopy and MRIs were either normal or nothing out of the ordinary for a woman at 59, I was baffled. If nothing’s physiologically wrong, why am I having these issues?

The Decision

After reading books about the immense power of the mind and working with a health coach, I realized that “idiopathic” is the same as “psychosomatic.” One need only admit it. I literally made the decision that everything was not just fine but great. I told myself, ‘f-k it, I’m healthy.’ The next time I went to the doctors and had to circle my health category-- Excellent, Good, Fair, Poor, I boldly highlighted Excellent. I decided to live my life like a 23-year-old— minus the frontal lobe challenges. I began hiking again and my digestion is under control as long as I avoid the foods on my intolerance list.

At last, I could feel a secure rug under my bare feet. It was soft, the weave was tight, and it wasn’t going anywhere.

I told Jeffrey, “I want a 60^th birthday celebration.” 
 
He organized a kick ass birthday dinner in Boston. My kids were there, and family flew in from Los Angles, DC and a five-hour drive from NY. A party of 13. We had a private room in a restaurant. It didn’t matter that there was a leak from the wall puddling to the floor and really awful lighting for photographs, the food was good, there was a delicious gluten free, dairy free cake for me and there was love in the room. Above all, I treasured the toasts and written notes on the picture boards (like what you might see at a Bar Mitzvah) organized by Jeffrey. I even wrote and delivered a birthday speech.

Picture board. I never had a Bat Mitzvah so…

The baby turns 60 and gets a smooch from her big sisters. Don’t we all look fab?

Besides, 60 is a Pretty Number

60 is my new favorite number. I used to like 1, even though it was “the loneliest number that you’ll ever do.” (Anyone remember the band, Three Dog Night?)

I love the curves of 60. The 6 is welcoming yet mysterious because it could be a 9 if you hold it up the wrong way. 1 looks like a Dyson Vacuum in a Calibri font. 2 is confused. It wants to be a 5 but missed the turn. 3 is half of an 8 so it’s too young to understand. I’m not a fan of the sharp angled number 4. You can cut cheese with it. 5 is busy helping 2. But 6. 6 is special. It’s calming. 6 has a sly antenna on top. You smell the b.s. and it doesn’t bother you. In numerology the number 6 represents harmony and stability. I’ll think about 7 when I arrive. But for now, I’m here. Both feet on the rug, the ground, the lawn... And I’m beyond grateful. 

I love being 60. I’m young. I made it passed my Grandpa Joe’s age which turns out to have no power over me. I made it. 

1. Did/Do you have a favorite grandparent?

2. Any carpeting of life pulled out from under you?

3. Do you celebrate your birthday? How?

4. What’s your favorite number?