The Winds of Change - Widowhood Style

 

This first paragraph below is borrowed from a post I wrote eight years ago titled Choose Your Change:

“People in the blog community occasionally feed off one another for inspiration or topics to write about. That’s what happen to me recently when I read a post by the Awkward Widow titled Sexagenarian. She was sharing some advice from Nancy Alock Hood, a woman who got married for the first time at the ripe old age of 82 years old. Nancy is quoted as saying: 'Change happens, so choose your change.' Simple but profound advice, don’t you think? She was talking about embracing change and planning what you want your future days and years to look like in retirement but it could just as easily be applied to the changes that come with widowhood, divorce, disability or the loss of a job. ‘Choose your change,’ ---that’s going to be my new mantra going forward. I don’t want to be a victim of life just drifting along, I want to be walking to and working towards something besides the grave.” 

Change is hard. Change is scary, especially when it wakes you up in the middle of the night with self-doubts. Am I doing the right thing? Did I wait too long to move into this new chapter of my life or not wait long enough? As we age we fall into a pattern of fearing change but fear alone should not determine our fate. By learning to control our fear we get to pick our change instead of just letting it happen whenever, where ever the chips might fall. It’s akin to replacing a bald tire on your car. It’s just a matter of time when a bald tire blows. It could happen in the middle of rush hour on a six lane expressway or on a quiet street within a stone’s throw of your house. We're picking out fate when we replace that tire before it has a chance to cause an accident that could kill us and/or others or at the very least make us late for something we've been looking forward to doing. 

Humans are like tires, we get old and weak and it’s foolish to think we can be as independent at 80 or 90 as we were at 40 or 50. Planning that last chapter our lives makes the same kind of sense as planning for our college years. My plan---moving into  a continuum care campus---is me putting my last chapter plan into action, and once I'm there I can party like there's no tomorrow. "Adulting" will not be required and tomorrow isn't promised to anyone so why not revert to the carefree, silliness of my youth? 

So, what have I been doing these past eight years since I first wrote about picking my change? I started by going on a quest to find friends. It took two years but it turned out good until the pandemic ended our bi-monthly luncheons with a group of six. I also spent a year or looking at smaller, stand alone houses, condos and apartments in continuum care complexes up for sale. It was a causal search, in a gathering information mode with no pressure to carry through and it was a valuable learning experience that made it possible for me to recognize what a good deal I'm getting with the non-profit CCC where I'm moving. It took an ice storm and being without heat for nearly a week in the middle of the winter to get my attention and admit that somewhere along the line I had became one of those vulnerable seniors that the newscasters tell everyone they need to check on. If not for the son of one of those friends I’d lunch with, who drove over to check on me, I would have died of hypothermia. And that's not hyperbolic. 

At almost 80 I still feel young inside my head but no one can see inside there but me to know that I’m delusional on that topic. To the rest of the world I’m a plump, white-headed senior with a bad wardrobe and a split fingernail she hasn’t been able to grow out for 4-5 years which explains why I never give anyone The Finger. I hate that nail and I hide it from the world! Just kidding, though, about why I keep my middle finger folded in my hand. I may let a few swear words slip out but rude hand gestures have never been my jam as the cool kids are saying these days. Oh dear, I shouldn't try to use urban slang. One side of my brain just informed the other side that I'm using 'not my jam' incorrectly because there is no music involved in flashing The Finger, however the other side is arguing that the phrase has evolved beyond jamming in a band.

So here I am sitting in the quiet before the storm otherwise known as the long-awaited listing of my house going live tomorrow. I’m excited mostly with a little fear thrown in to flavor the pot. All my valuables are locked up including medications because the realtor says it’s a common thing in his business to have meds stolen out of houses up for sale. People addicted to using and/or selling prescription drugs get them wherever they can. I've always kept mine in the laundry room where only my blog readers would think to look. 

Anyway, I’ve chosen my change and I’ve done everything I can do to make it work the way I want. Things out of my control will happen---like the pandemic that put a major stress on my plans---but short of another disaster of that magnitude, like the housing market flipping over night, I’ve got my plans A and B in place to cover unforeseen road blocks that could happen. After the closing and the money is in my bank I plan to sleep 24/7 for a week or maybe spend a weekend at my niece's cottage, then I'll regroup for the packing stage of the game. I’m worn out! ©