Lessons from a nonagenarian on the plane
What does old age look like?
Watching all the passengers in the rows behind me deplane, the stewardess said, “Thank you for waiting.” I probably looked exhausted, nearing the blessed end of a bad travel day. I sat on the window seat side of a “wheelchair assist,” but the only thing on my mind was the marvel of life’s serendipity.
My luck came in the form of a vibrant nonagenarian. She took the middle seat with aplomb, talked to me about her kids and her grand-kids, and politely asked for permission to eat her macaroni and cheese in front of us. Normally I don’t like talking to my seat-mates, but my heart warmed for her. She helped turn around a bad travel day and reminded me of something I’d forgotten since caregiving for my mom: that old age can be a fulfilling, glass-half-full experience, something to look forward to, even.
This was the second segment of my trip, following my own stint in a middle seat next to a besuited older man. He took up at least an inch beyond our shared armrest, forcing me either to play armsies with him or unnaturally curl my body away from his bulk. I sat uncomfortably for two hours between Miami and Atlanta, swearing never to allow myself the curse of the middle seat again.
On the next plane, Atlanta to DC, my lovely row-mate scoffed at the very idea of putting down the armrests. Petite and ensconced in a silk blouse, she took up a wisp of space. I edged toward the window to give her room and respect. “Aren’t we just the nicest bunch?” she said to no one in particular, as the young man sitting in the aisle helped her with the headrest screen.
I was still steaming, though, from my morning travel snafus: a coworker had called an Uber to the airport for us, and after dropping him off, the driver cruised off the airport campus – with me in the backseat. Without control over the app, there was nothing I could do to change the route, complain to Uber, scream into the void. Instead, we drove directly into Miami rush hour traffic. I missed my flight, which turned out to be Delta’s only direct route that day, and the first in a chain of frustrating events.
Finally on my way to DC, I spent the hour catching up on work emails. “Your fingers were flying!” my seat-mate said with a broad smile after I stowed away my computer for landing. She was a master of the compliment. “I’ve been typing since I was a kid,” I replied. “I don’t understand devices,” she started, moving into a casual and quite enjoyable small talk about the bafflement of AI these days.
Upon landing, my lovely new friend departed the plane with one arm on the stewardess and the other leaning on a cane, a smile permanently on her face. At first the pilot didn’t hear when she stopped to compliment him on his smooth flying, so she made extra sure he received the accolade. Her wheelchair waited at the jetway, and that’s where I left her, spirits lifted not only because I was finally back in DC but also because of my luck to sit next to such a positive sprite on a terrible day.
For example, my mother’s dementia turned my plans for my forties upside down, throwing me into sandwich caregiving for both her and my young son. The disease is endlessly sad. Regular visits to her locked-down memory care center have obscured aging into something worse than a death sentence (details I’ll hold off on, perhaps for another post), and it shows up scarier in my nightmares. Because I see other elderly people so infrequently, I’d forgotten that some live into their 80’s and 90’s cheerfully, competently, and even able to travel on airplanes to visit their grand-kids.
What a blessing to meet this anonymous, kind woman, who reminded me of both little joys amidst a bad day – and also the big picture: not every life ends with dementia. There is something to look forward to with aging. And maybe I’ll be the nonagenarian’s type – undoubtedly a little more grouchy but charmingly so – who takes pleasure bantering with younger folk on the airplane.