It’s taken me awhile to admit that I’m an older gentleman. (I’ve always been an odd guy, but older was a bit harder.) “Frail elder” will be similar: There might not be a definitive moment when I’ll say to myself, “Okay, NOW I’m a frail person.”
Frailty—whatever it is—is probably sneaking up on me. Parts of my anatomy don’t work as well. I come away from medical tests and doctor visits with strange words describing my health. Perhaps too often, I notice what I can’t do instead of what I’m still able to undertake. Still, there’s a line out there that I’ll eventually cross, when I’ll add the frail adjective to “older adult”.
In the meantime, I’m getting ready for other edges of frailty–predictors, symptoms—to accumulate. That’s when I’ll need honest loved ones to yank me out of my ready-to-wear adult male self-pity. I’ll certainly benefit from the example of those who have already transitioned into frailty with grace.
One thing for sure: Frail is never a completely accurate description of any of us. (For example, we might not hear well anymore, but we can relearn how to listen appreciatively for any sounds that come our way—I’ve discovered that the pitch at which cicadas sing is somewhere close to Middle C…!) Slowing down our lifestyles can bring us to greater appreciation of the intricacies and beauties of other edges of older adult life—lingering conversations, spirit-renewing naps, the gift of smiles all around us. Frailty will bring its own satisfying usefulness.
Fragility and vulnerability might be coming my way eventually—I’m thinking maybe years from now—but their forward edges won’t dissuade me from living as fully and ably as possible right now.
Gratitude’s lively edges will overlap all other thresholds….
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