By: Barbra Sue Yurachek

PROMPT(S): 

• WHAT WERE YOUR FAVORITE TOYS AS A CHILD? 
• WHAT WAS ONE OF THE MOST DIFFICULT THINGS YOU HAD TO OVERCOME FROM YOUR CHILDHOOD? HOW DID YOU DO IT? 
• WHAT IS ONE OF YOUR FAVORITE CHILDREN’S STORIES?

Guess who turned 82 on September 13, 2022? 

Guess who became a widow September 14, 2022? 

Guess three times, but the first two won’t count.

Yes, I never imagined I could be over 80; so I never thought about it. It never crossed my mind.

Since most of my relatives never made it through their seventies that is where my mind stopped; I never knew an 80-year-old loved one until my Aunt, who died at 80, and my own unforgettable husband, who made it to 85. My thoughts about mortality consisted mainly of ways to trick my body through its seventh decade. I obviously figured it out. I love life. I am 82.

For as long as I have had a favorite number, it has been 8 – and, predictably, 7 is my least favorite.

Eight is so round, twisted and whole, like two S’s hugging, while 7 is standing on its only leg, perpetually waving for attention, always needing help. 7 is very different from the Michelin Tire Man, who, like the two hugging S’s, waves because he is happy. 

Anyway, I am 82, and happy, still feeling whole, but with vital part missing. Like a myopic who craves corrective lenses, that could bring everything into a clearer focus. My earliest happy memory is sitting on a pallet (quilt) playing with a blue bottle. My diaper was very wet and uncomfortable, but I was mesmerized by that bottle. To this day, I love the color blue. My mom changed the wet diaper for a dry one and that makes the memory even more vivid.

I was never very comfortable with change — especially when I was perfectly happy with the way things were (unlike the wet diaper). I was slowly coming to the realization that something must change, and telling myself a truth I was never prepared to face. A change in residence was not only needed but extremely necessary.

The two-story 82-year-old home I had loved, on a bowered street of older homes, filled with people l adored, was no longer fitting. My new life at 81 years young contained a terminally ill husband who had suffered a horrible heart attack 20 years earlier. He was left with 1/3rd of a functioning heart, which in turn eventually decreased blood flow to his brain. We adapted. We soon almost forgot he had had a near-fatal heart attack. We were happy and content in a house as old as we were. Then the clumsiness, strange speech, personality changes became more and more noticeable. It was there for 20 years, but we adapted to the progression. Slowly, very slowly I began to see changes we could no longer ignore. And the handwriting on the wall, softly at first, then with a deafening roar screamed, “No stairs, more help, closer to your daughter.” We could not adapt. We had to change.

With a very heavy heart, I put our home of 52 years on the market. I could not resist change, as much as I tried. My husband’s safety had to come first. He had retired at 80, and as his health worsened, I left teaching at 77. We loved our jobs, and retirement was not his cup of tea. It was simply never in his wheelhouse!

I was 81 when we moved to a lovely one-level further from the city and its problems. Also, and most importantly, we were three doors from our sweet and loving daughter and her family.

I am adapting still, but he never did. His mind always wanted to “go home”. I am happy in my new surroundings, but quickly learned you cannot change a dementia patient’s environment and expect them to accept the change. Especially when the caregivers move in.

My husband and I were married 62 years and fiercely independent. We had each other; two wonderful children and faced our problems head on together. From my southern roots and hearing loss, to his bad heart and unreasonable fear of financial ruin, we were always able to roll with the punches until the day after my 82nd birthday.  He died of complications from a broken hip, and one day from being transferred to a memory care hospital.

l am trying, sometimes desperately, to adapt to this new life. In spite of having a sweet house cleaner, a wonderful cook, and a companion who I rely on everyday, I wish they were gone. My daughter and her family are the best. My son and his family are always in touch and very supportive. It has been almost a year and I am the only-child again with my family and my books. And a great-granddaughter to arrive in October. What more could anyone want. I can dream about the life I have lost while adapting to what is. And hopefully discovering more beautiful blue bottles. I am 82, looking forward to life, while thumbing my nose at the seventh decade. I have conquered the challenge. I am 82.