Aging Empathetically

by Dan Masterton

As someone who’s always been horribly near-sighted, folks who are far-sighted baffle me. Watching people remove their glasses to read or seeing them stretch their arms way out to move small text further away from their eye confounds me. My -5.75 contact-lensed eyes struggle to watch this struggle.

But this is a common thing as people age, since, for example, our eyes’ lenses become less flexible over time and struggle to focus close up (a common benchmark in 40s and 50s). This can eventually be joined by hearing loss, increased physical aches and pains, and slower recovery from physical exertion and exercise. Because aging is tough!

Especially as my own dad ages, I am very guilty of poking fun at the unusually high volume of the TV or the physical technique and audible groans and grunts of sitting and standing. That gentle mockery is one of those things I try to do in moderation, knowing that all of these things – and maybe more, and maybe worse – will likely befall me when I’m older.

But, here in my 30s, the ravages of aging aren’t as far off as I imagine; instead, they are orbiting me more and more closely. Life is showing me that aging isn’t a binary mode that activates later on during “middle age” – it’s a continuum whose early stages are right up close already.

Three and a half years ago, while going for a routine run up and down the residential streets of my suburban neighborhood, I took a pretty good fall. Last week, while enjoying some unseasonably pleasant weather, the same thing happened again. In both cases, my toe clipped a raised, uneven panel of sidewalk. I was dragging a little bit, as I failed to pick my feet high enough off the ground in my running stride. As I fell, I went skidding across the pavement and landed on someone's front lawn.

A visual approximation of what I think I run like

After this happened three and a half years ago, I wondered about what success and growth look like as an adult runner who is getting older; this time, I know I am aging. Then, I wondered how I might compare myself not against previous personal bests but against the curve of athletic regression one might face over time; this time, I can just say that I am aging.

Acknowledging it more overtly, and naming it as such, challenges me to expand my empathy. But it doesn’t mean I have begun to empathize better, or that I definitely will.

I find it annoying when older people won’t admit diminished ability and accept proper help or limits on what they can safely do. But when I tripped this way again, scraping up my body and spraining my toe, did I resolve to run slower? Nope. Did I imagine I should probably run less often? Nope. Did I consider rethinking technique, maybe doing some stretches or drills? Nope.

On the upside, I have a strong sense of physical self-care. I stay active and use a FitBit to motivate myself with measurables. I have good habits of regular cardio, whether on the stationary bike or out on a run. And I keep a reasonably solid diet that is enjoyable but keeps me balanced and fairly fit.

This now recurrent episode prompts me to invite my head and heart more firmly into this equation – another heart benefit I can unlock from cardiovascular exercise I suppose! A good spirituality of aging can help – drawing on the same ideals that prioritize listening, quantity time, and even multi-generational living (when possible and feasible), I can have a healthier respect for myself and how I will evolve as I age.

I was gonna post a picture of the bruise on
my sprained toe, but it has healed!
So instead I searched "thumbs up"
in the public domain and found this fellow.

I assumed following my fall a few years back, and stubbornly insist now, that these were flukes, that I’m fine, that it was the sidewalk’s fault. Sure I’m aging, but my body and mind are still plenty able to go for a brisk two-mile run on a sunny Saturday. There’s something to reckon with here that I don’t want to totally face; I’m choosing instead to hold, in tension, that I’m aging with a presumption that I’m otherwise just fine. This is my sort of smaller, earlier version of the larger problems older people face, and that await me as I age.

It sucks. It’s annoying. But I understand, and need to keep understanding, more than I have before.