The third time the promotional brochure for the Continuing Care Retirement Community came in the mail, my husband and I took a few very deep breaths and decided to visit the apartment complex. The primary—no, the only—impetus for our interest was the prospect of sparing our children the burden of having to make decisions for us should we lose our wits along with our knees. The place wouldn’t open for at least three years. I will be 78 and my husband, 80—older but likely as appalled then as now by the idea of distancing ourselves from friends and life as we know it. I want to fish for friends in open water, not a goldfish bowl. And I want kids around. Anyone under 60 qualifies.
That’s the insupportable downside of a community that presumes commonality based solely on age. Our friendships are vital. Geriatric—nasty word—specialists convincingly insist that our friends are therapeutic; that social connections stimulate the brain, help us maintain cognitive function, encourage physical activity, and provide crucial emotional support.
Even with years of varied experiences behind us, we have no experience at being This Age. It baffles. We’re as clueless as adolescents who cling to each other as they figure themselves out. Instead of parents, we have old age to rebel against, so we lock arms with our old friends, treasure the guidance of older friends, mourn their deaths, and seek younger friends to reliably divert the conversation away from interminable deliberations on failing health, memory loss, who died, or has the best doctors, and what magic potions prevent wrinkles and crepey skin.
