Deb’s friend, Patty, invited a few of us over last weekend for a send-off dinner for Deb, who was packing up to head to Ireland. She’ll be shooting a television series there for four months and was understandably anxious about leaving her family and home for such a long stretch. She needed a night of fun and laughs and the love of good friends. I always jump at invitations to Patty’s, not only because of her world-class cooking and hostessing skills, but I always laugh my butt off with Patty and her husband, Ryan, Deb and Rob, and their close friends, Jenny and Bryan. Every person in that tight-knit group has a wicked sense of humor and the laughter escalates as the night goes on.
Nick was in the editing room and couldn’t make it, but Deb’s kids, Nick and Rachel along with Rachel’s new husband, Nick, joined the party. It was so heart-warming watching these grown-up youngsters (one of whom I saw being born) join in the shenanigans, adding their own funny stories to the mix.
As dessert came out and the evening began to wind down, our conversations became more reflective. We talked about 2020, the year behind us and the changes it brought. Both of Jenny’s parents had passed away and she was handling the sale of their house back East. Ryan’s father had recently died. All of our parents were growing older and we agreed that making time for the people we love was a priority. It was hard to believe this time of our lives had arrived.
I asked Rob how his mom and dad were getting along. They’re both near 90 and although vibrant for their age, they struggle with individual health challenges. After spending six months at Deb and Rob’s house earlier this year, they were now back home in Long Island and Rob was worried. They didn’t want to accept hired help and they needed a new bathroom. Rob was making a trip to visit them before he joined Deb in Ireland.
“How’s your mom doing?” Rob asked.
“Well…her emphysema is bad. She’s on oxygen. And she never really got out of that wheelchair after she broke her leg,” I said, picturing Mom, unable now to even stand on her own. “She tries to rally, but she’s tired. She’s just done. She told me the other day that she was talking to Twiggy (her boyfriend who died two years ago) and she told him to move over, that she was coming.”
“Wow,” Rob said. “That’s rough.”
“She doesn’t have much motivation to get stronger,” I said. “Can you imagine not being able to move? I do not want to be like that! It motivates me to take care of myself. I mean, look at Hama.” My dance teacher Hama is 83 years young and still teaches an advanced Jazz class three days a week. The combination of doing what he loves and the fact that he’s stretching and jumping and turning keeps him strong and healthy. “He also plays golf, walks on the beach and in his spare time, he educates himself by reading about history and politics and art. I want to be like that!”
“He is an amazing man. He’s in incredible shape,” Deb chimed in.
“He has interests, he still loves teaching, he’s vital. And he accepts aging with such grace.”
“We have to take care of ourselves, that’s for sure,” Deb said.
“When I turned 60 in January, I realized that time is short,” I said to them. “I want to make the best of the last few decades I have left. I mean, I’m in my last chapter here.”
“This isn’t your last chapter!” Rachel said from across the table. I could see the alarm on her face. “You have two chapters left!”
“Okay, I have two short chapters left,” I said, laughing.
On my way home, I started to worry that I’d upset Rachel. In her mind, if I was starting my last chapter, so were her parents. I felt bad. So I asked Siri to call Rachel on my car bluetooth.
“Hi, Leslie,” Rachel said.
“Hey Rachel. Listen, I just want to clarify something. When I said I was starting my last chapter, I didn’t mean it in a resigned sort of way. At all. Just the opposite, in fact. I’ve realized that time is not unlimited, that so many of my years are behind me that it’s now or never to start appreciating each day. The older you get, the faster the years fly by and life seems to be going faster and faster all the time.”
“Yeah, I get that,” Rachel said.
“Your mom and dad, Nick and I, we’ve accumulated our money,” I said. We’ve raised our children and now is the time for us to enjoy the fruits of our labors. We’re ready to have fun together, to be free and happy.”
“That’s right, Les,” I heard Rob yell in the background.
“And we want to stop being stressed-out wrecks all the time, right Rob?” I said.
Rachel laughed and said, “You are not.”
“Rachel, when I say this is the last chapter, it inspires me. I’m just reminding myself that time is precious and it’s up to me to make the best of it, to be peaceful and enjoy life more.”
“Okay,” Rachel said, laughing at her dad and me. “As long as you’re not giving up.”
“No, it’s the opposite,” I said.
Turning 60 has inspired me to take a good look at my habits. Back in the spring, during one of my compassion communication practice groups, I told the others that I was going to start making choices based on whether something added stress to my life. Every choice would be weighed to determine how much stress it caused.
“Maybe it’s not the things that are happening in your life,” Lynn Marie suggested. “…but the way you handle stress that’s the problem.” And she was right of course. I had known this and then forgotten. I had been working on this issue for decades. I had unearthed the major players in my game of stress — perfectionism, trying to control others, “helping,” people pleasing, saying yes when I meant no, FOMO. And Life Coach Amy had recently helped me uncover my belief that I had to earn the love I wanted.
Turning 60 brought a reinvigoration to finally tackle these habits that lead to stress and unhappiness. And there was an urgency to do so. My final chapter will be dedicated to overcoming some of this crap so I can find more freedom and happiness. I want to write more, see my friends and family, reconnect with my husband, have fun adventures with him and dedicate less of my life to making sure everything around me is perfect.
I know it’s unrealistic to think I will be stress-free, but I can make headway by practicing what I know. I have so many tools in my toolbox — Prayer, 12 Steps, Grief Recovery, Compassionate Communication, and so many wise friends to help me remember how to use them.
I hope that when I’m sitting around laughing at a dinner table with Rachel and the rest of the Spera clan twenty years from now, she looks at me and thinks, “When I’m in my last chapter, I want to be like that.”
