The One Thing I Know About Aging at Age 85

With enthusiasm, we started new routines and traditions: yard sales in autumn, communal dinners in winter, trail hikes in the spring. We no longer mocked people who ate dinner at 5:30 p.m. or nodded off in the late afternoon. Bedtime by 10 p.m. was not unusual. And we were becoming aware of changes in our bodies: vision, hearing, knees and hips. 

When I looked in the mirror, I still didn’t see someone “old,” though I no longer took it for granted and I began feeling proud and grateful. My husband and I were relieved that we had been smart enough to buy a house in Woodstock that was all on one level. 

By our late 70s, we both had cataracts removed and the world was full of color again. But the perfect circle of our life was being nibbled around the edges by constant news of illnesses and deaths of acquaintances, relatives and friends who didn’t seem to have the luck we had. 

That was until the day my husband had his first heart attack. Suddenly, fear became part of our lives. Words like “rehab” and “cardiopulmonary” and “medication side effects” became part of our daily lexicon. Old age became real. Yet we adjusted, keeping up our routines, creating new ones. We adopted a dog so my husband would step up his walking regimen and we became dog-obsessed “pet parents.” This was unexpectedly delightful!

Two months short of my 80th birthday, my husband of 58 years died of a stroke. This landmark birthday was spent mourning and masked, since everyone was in COVID lockdown. So you could say, by any metric, my world changed. I was faced with this question: aside from widowhood, what does being in my 80s mean? How is it different from the 60s and 70s of old age?

Well, at 85, I am still here. I didn’t die young. I say that a lot. I like the sound of it.

But at 85, old age is serious and includes more loss — of loved ones, of faculties and of skills. Senses deteriorate; bones may ache. Even so, I am still doing a mile uphill every day walking the dog. Do I give up driving? No, but a recent fender-bender has me more cautious about driving. I don’t drive at night. Do I let someone “assist” my living? No!

My hearing is still good, my vision is sharp, but I have no sense of taste and smell, a sad and significant loss. Being cheerful can be a challenge. When I look in the mirror, I see a gray-haired old dame who doesn’t reflect the inner me, a girl who still giggles when people get too solemn and can’t help dancing when the music plays.

Yet I have reached a milestone and a long view. In fact, I believe the job of being old in my 80s is to be wise. If I want to survive, I have to give up what I cannot keep, whether it is too many sweaters and books or youthful habits like martinis straight up. I don’t catastrophize when some small thing goes wrong. I learned not to be mad at my own body when I hurt. And, I don’t tough it out unless I have to. I take it slow. Easy does it.

Bette Ann Moskowitz is a former songwriter, writer of fiction (Leaving Barney and Reading the Signs: A Schoolhouse Mystery) and nonfiction (the memoir, Do I Know You: A Family’s Journey Through Aging and Alzheimer’s and Finishing Up: On Aging and Ageism). Her most recent novel, Three Legs in the Evening was published in 2023. She is a past recipient of the New York State Foundation for the Arts Fellowship for Literary Nonfiction. Her blog, Vinegar Mother (vinegarmother.wordpress.com), is five years old and still ongoing.