Welcome back to Ancient Wisdom, our Sunday series in which writers over 70 tell us how they are aging gracefully. Last week, Gerald Marzorati, 72, wrote about how to have a happy retirement. This week, Michael Tobin, who you might remember as the winner of our senior essay contest, reflects on how to keep your head when you’re losing control. He writes from outside Jerusalem.
At 79, I walk with sticks, a necessary accommodation to a neurological condition. On formal occasions, I upgrade to Vagigaloupi—my hand-carved cane, a wolf-headed magician who can summon laughter from the grandchildren and stories from their grandfather. The moment my sculptor friend handed him to me, his name surfaced from a foggy childhood tale my father once told about a lovable, feral creature named Vagigaloupi. Over time, the grandchildren and I gave him multiple personalities—fierce or meek, depending on who holds him. We speak his language, Vagi: part Hebrish, part gibberish, entirely ours. He’s a family treasure, an antidote for hard times when sirens scream and booms rattle the windows outside.
For weeks now, I’ve been living in and out of our home shelter with our youngest daughter, her husband, four of our grandchildren, my wife Deborah, and her saintlike Filipino caregiver. Deborah no longer knows her name or mine. Alzheimer’s disease has devoured her mind.
