Retired Self: A Work in Progress

In August 2001, I retired from Drexel University after thirty-seven years as a faculty member in the Humanities program. At the time my husband was ill with heart disease; my beloved sister, only three years older than myself, had been suffering for seven years with an increasingly debilitating neurological disease; my Mom, who had been alert and charming at her ninetieth birthday party, was now, at ninety-four, seriously and sadly declining. I needed to retire so that I would have more time for overwhelming family needs.

My sister died in August 2002. Four months later, my husband died, and barely a week later, Mom died, too.

In my apartment, especially late at night, I felt unbearably lonely. Most of all, I missed talking and joking around with Ed; I missed telling him about what I was reading or thinking; I missed his warm body close to mine at night. I told a therapist that when I was alone, with no one to care for or touch, I sometimes felt as if I didn’t exist.

But during the day, I was astonishingly free. Gone were the frequent trips to Ed’s doctors and to the pharmacy and to his physical therapist; gone were the rushed and sad visits to my sister and to my Mom. Moreover, the “children” were moving into middle-age, and even the grandchildren no longer needed babysitters. Throughout the different stages of life I had taken up the roles of student, teacher, scholar, wife, mother, stepmother, grandmother, daughter, and sister. Interlaced through all of these was the caretaker role. Now, no one needed me. My script had run out. Who was I? Who could I become, with so much of my life already over?

This is when I discovered what retirement really means: you have no schedule, and there is not much you must do. It was time to decide what I wanted to do, and what I could do when I was already white-haired and over sixty-five. Until a retired person figures this out, she needs to invent herself every day.

Clearly, we are living in a time of

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don’t. Having lived a long time in the academic world, my head is filled with too many ideas. As soon as I decide I will write about X, I think about Y and Z, either one of which might be a better topic.

Contemporary life offers more, more, more of everything. When does more become too much? Like people whose closets are too cluttered with “stuff,” I wonder if my head is cluttered with too many ideas accumulated over a lifetime of teaching and research? Or are long-standing insecurities preventing me from accomplishing something more, in a life already marked by a series of accomplishments? But what? Why do I need to focus on accomplishments in the years ahead that could be devoted to relaxation and enjoyment?

Now when I think about what I have written, I stop—paralyzed by the thought that I sound like a spoiled brat with too many choices. If I were reading this, I might think: “Who is this woman? What is the matter with her? She is aging, yes, but she’s still lively and healthy and financially secure. And her privileged education and profession have set her afloat in a sea of interests and ideas that will protect her from boredom for the rest of her life.”

As I write this, I think: I have had the best of Western Civilization. The thought of all those who have so much less hovers over me. Yes, I’m a volunteer teacher at Temple Association for Retired People, but why haven’t I explored opportunities to help others who are really needy? If I’d rather not think about the homeless man I saw lying on a pile of dirty blankets yesterday, I could tutor adults who might never face retirement angst because they might never have a job from which they will have to retire. My complaints, in the context of my very full life, make me feel guilty.

I think back a generation or two. My grandmother lived with us, quietly sewing, knitting, and cooking. She hardly went out. After Mom was widowed, she decided not to live with a daughter; she moved into a retirement community and lived on her own as long as she could, baking, cooking, reading, and knitting. I never heard my grandmother or my Mom complain of being too busy or being too lonely. They grew old in expected ways, without voicing questions about whether they were “happy.” They didn’t even complain about the opportunities they

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never had as women in their traditional world or lament that they weren’t “self-fulfilled.”

I don’t see any way, at this moment, to pull my different selves together in any coherent way. Is this just a reflection of the postmodern world, the world of multiple selves, of multiple connections, of fragmentation, of overwhelming stimuli coming in from all sides and, for some, of multiple choices and proliferating wants and desires? I wonder: How, in such a world, can we grow old gracefully?

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