Old age, I have learned, is not the end of ones story but a chapter in which a woman may still hold her own. I remember my grandmother, Martha, once sighing bitterly, Growing old is no joy; it is an exam for which none of us ever studied. The younger folk at the time waved it away as melodrama, urging her not to make a fuss. My mother, Ethel, would answer, At least the children will not abandon you. There was a quiet conviction in her words, as if the very fabric of the nation promised that those who gave birth, raised and fed should receive a guaranteed care.
Years rolled on, and Marthas words resurfaced more often. They were harsh, yet honest. Old age is not measured by the number of candles on a cake; it is measured by fragility, not the strength of the body but of the hopes that support us.
Today, people chatter about financial literacy, personal boundaries, independence. Yet the moment the conversation turns to aging, a hush falls, as if the subject were a taboo. Just keep a low profile, they say. The important thing is not to be a bother. Be grateful for the occasional phone call. If one dares to think of herself, she is labelled selfish; if she saves a few pounds, she is called stingy; if she refuses to sit with the grandchildren, she is accused of betraying the family.
The truth, however, is the opposite. Caring for oneself is not treason; it is insurancea small, urgent suitcase packed with documents, water, medicationthat no one prepares for until the fire is already burning. Then it is far too late.
One can spend old age peacefully, but it does not happen by hoping. It demands planning and a wary eye toward promises, even those spoken by cherished ones. Do not trust the vow, We will never leave you.
A neighbour from the next culdesac, Margaret, once confessed with a heavy heart, I bore three children, thinking I would never be left alone. Now she cannot recall which of them will ease her strain: a son stationed in Sydney, a daughter on the brink of divorce, another juggling school and work. They all call, they all love, yet the only companion on her bedside table is a bottle of tablets.
No one set out to wound her; the children simply grew up, built their own families, set their own priorities. The hardest part for them was acknowledging that they could no longer be the rockphysically nor morallynot because they were bad, but because the world had shifted.
The promise we wont leave you is an emotion, not a plan. Age needs structure, not vague assurances. Rather than if anything happens, well be there, a schedule should be drawn: Grandson Thomas will visit every Friday. Rather than well sort it out tomorrow, a contract with a caregiver for emergencies should be in place.
As Joan Didion wrote, Those who can plan do not fall into the trap of chance. One must not wait for children to appear merely because they have been raised. It is wiser to ask oneself early, If no one can help, do I have another friend, another resource?
This is not cynicism; it is maturity. Do not be swayed by the sweet phrase, We will decide everything together. It sounds like a scene from a television drama: the whole family gathered round a polished oak table, choosing the best, the most comfortable, the most convenient option. In practice, the conversation narrows, then widens, and finally simplifies to Well just make it easier. The grandchild is enrolled at school without the elders consentyou wouldnt have traveled anyway. The bank card is put in the sons nameits simpler that way. The move to a country cottage is justifiedyou always said you wanted peace and quiet. The elder becomes a prop, a line item on someone elses timetable.
The problem does not lie in wicked children; it lies in the fact that an older adults boundaries are rarely regarded as inviolable. Society deems it normal to manage an elderly persons affairs for their own good.
Ray Bradbury observed, The worst thing about aging is having your right to be an adult taken away. Without proper documents, a personal solicitor, and a clear sense of ones wishes, it is all too easy to become statelesseven in ones own flat, even with loving offspring.
Thus, one must contemplate early: if tomorrow I become inconvenient, will I retain any freedom, or will others decide everything for me, however wellmeaning?
Do not cling to the debt of gratitude: You did everything for us. All my life I denied myself a coat, a better cut of meat, a holiday, because the children needed a bicycle. The motive was always for you. Yet when the moment arrives, few say, Thank you, Mum, now rest. Their paths are their own; they carry their own debts, fatigue, therapists, grudges. They often have no time for me.
That is not ingratitude; it is life. Building old age on the expectation of thanks only invites disappointment, for thanks are a feeling, not a guarantee. Waiting for it is as risky as watching the weathersun one minute, storm the next.
Care is not currency. One should not tally how many sacrifices have been made; instead, one should amass what truly supports: knowledge, rights, modest savings, connections. And above all, one must not become the nagging mother forever repeating, All I did was for you When love turns into rebuke, it ceases to be love. Children are not debtors; they are simply other people.
Do not buy into the image of the sweet grandma who is always ready to sit, to fetch, to give the last piece, never refusing even when ill, when her joints ache, when she is under pressure. She cannot say no, because she is cast as the evergentle, everready figure. That very expectation turns grandmothers into shadowsconvenient, unheard, unasked, unnoticed when they are tired, when they last rested.
People are respected not for being useful, but for being alive. One need not be good; one must be oneself, with ones own wishes, with the right to say, I cannot today. Understanding that refusal is not betrayal, that selfcare is not selfishness.
A weary grandmother is not a gift; a happy grandmother living by her own rules is a pillar, a model. Old age is not a reckoning; it is life continuing. No one promised it would be easy, but ease is not compulsory. The aim is dignitywithout shame for weakness, without guilt for boundaries, without fear of asking or refusing.
Old age, then, is not the finish line but a stretch in which a woman may remain strongnot because she has no choice, but because she no longer wishes to be dependent.
Four anchors steadied me through the storm: financial independence; freedom to make decisions; a right to a private life; boundaries and respect. Children will grow, they will fly, they may be near when they can, but my life must not hang from their necks, lest they drown. My home should be a place where love is not proved, where a call button hangs for emergencies, where a dear friend is ready for tea and laughter, where there is enough money for a cab and a warm sweater bought not on discount but because it pleases me.
In this later season, may I stand in the light, not merely as a shadow.
