TO BE honest, turning senior in September 2024 isn’t going to come as a shock. If there were whispers and suggestions in the previous years, 2023 was when my body unequivocally screamed in my face, “I AM GETTING OLD. Do you hear me?”
I was already enjoying Person With Disability (PWD) privileges due to my bipolar disorder (classified as “psychosocial illness”), so I’ve appreciated the discounts when buying medicines for my mental illness and diabetes, and taking my now-annual medical tests to screen if that nasty old cancer has decided to return. I most love being able to skip the line to board planes, renew my driver’s license, or even buy groceries. Speaking of such lines, probably because I’ve allowed my hair to turn gray, I am often automatically ushered to the senior line, and I no longer complain.
In 2023, however, the change has been, well, marked. Although I still exercise regularly—I walk, and I still practice and occasionally teach Iyengar yoga—my energy levels are nowhere near what they used to be, and weight gain comes as easily as sniffing a cookie. In my last bone scan, an annual test to check that no sneaky carcinogens have found their way to my skeleton, the findings underscored a degeneration of the right hip—rather curious, because I had felt nothing amiss over there. Well, turns out that the hip had pulled a fast one on me and “referred” the pain—in other words, passed it on—to my inner right groin as well as my right knee.
The author (rightmost, in boat, in blue spotted leggings) with her dive gang of ‘titas’ in Tubbataha, June 2023; Christine Chua takes the groufie.
The results have been rather, well, alarming. I’m an avid scuba diver, and I used to be able to get out of the water wearing my gear, including the approximately 35-lb steel air tank, and climb back on the boat with no problem. I gave up on that completely last year, when a sharp pain in my groin and knee simply said, uhm, maybe not. I consulted my brother’s physical therapist, who confirmed the problem, and treats it with manipulation to relax very tight muscles—but he doesn’t offer any long-term solution. It’s ageing, he said, and it’s never really going to go away; the key, however, is to keep using the muscles so they don’t deteriorate faster. I now have a built-in warning system: if I haven’t moved my butt in more than a couple of days, it becomes harder to get up after sitting for a while or driving for an extended period of time in traffic.
The scuba-diving can be handled; older divers, or those with back problems, for instance, avoid injury by putting gear on in the water, where it weighs very little. A friend of mine, Stella, who has a lower back problem, sits on the edge of the boat, feet dangling over the water, puts on her gear, and literally gets pushed in. We joke that we will keep diving until they have to push us in and haul us out—which isn’t too hard, considering how helpful and well-trained the crew on Filipino dive boats are. (Diving elsewhere in the world is another matter—which is why I declared that I did the last cold-water dives of my life in 2023, as well.)
Here, Alden Richards has to help the author get back up on her feet after this shot—knees, you know
It’s the smaller things that get to you, though. I have had to modify or give up on some yoga poses that used to come easy, or were at least manageable, a mere five years ago. I can’t even think of doing long walks in anything less than well-cushioned, perfectly fitting sneakers or boots, or my knees will exact payment—me, who averaged 25,000 steps a day on trips to Europe and Japan just a few years ago. I can still get up from sitting or kneeling on the floor, but I need my arms—and a lot of help if I happen to be in a dress, like during one event I hosted. I had to rely on our special guest, actor Alden Richards, to pull me up, or I would have stayed on the floor indefinitely.
I even used to haul my friends’ suitcases onto the x-ray conveyor belt when we traveled together. On my trip to Italy last November, it took me 25 minutes to inch my 21-kg suitcase down three flights of stairs, and I ended up with a sore bicep, to boot.
I now understand why older women used to complain about the aches and pains they were experiencing, and I couldn’t relate—until it happened to me. The biggest irony, I think, is that just as your mind and heart have learned their lessons, and have achieved the level of chill that comes only with a lifetime of highs and lows, the vessel that holds them begins to break down.
For an erstwhile adventurer like me—who has swum with sharks, jumped off cliffs, ziplined over forests, and reveled in how alive I felt then—it can be heartbreaking. You realize that the only leaping and jumping you will be able to do now will be in your memory or imagination. That some experiences that attracted you are now forever better left to the “kids,” like surfing or driving a motorcycle or owning a horse, because a fall could break more bones than it would have a decade ago. It took a while for me to accept that when there’s nothing to hold on to, somebody has to help me down steep stairs (not so steep, I can manage).
Good work to help women with breast cancer: launching a new ICanServe Breast Cancer Patients’ Manual in September 2023
I had been warned during my chemotherapy for breast cancer 10 years ago that yes, there may be possible long-term effects on the body. My heart is still strong, but my bones are showing wear and tear that may or may not have been hastened by the aggressive medication that was needed to save my life.
Even my work life needs some reevaluation. I have two simultaneous projects in the first quarter of 2024, and for the first time, I am feeling some apprehension about handling work schedules. Gone as well, after all, are the days when I could pull an all-nighter and coast through the next day like nothing happened. In fact, as I write this, I’m down with asymptomatic Covid-19—ironically because, in an attempt to stay healthy through the holidays, I took extended walks through a mall teeming with people, unmasked, even when I had had little sleep. My immune system couldn’t handle it. Thus, I ended up spending New Year’s Eve and Day with only my dogs—not exactly a terrible option, but a first, and one of many more instances I foresee in my 60th year. I am, after all, unmarried, childless, and pretty much peripheral to the lives of my siblings, nephews, and nieces, who all have families of their own—not a rant, by the way, but a given.
In light of such glaring changes in 2023, I sit here at the beginning of a new year, finding the need to re-strategize. I’m far from being dead or dying, of course, but it has become paramount to choose my battles, identify where I will invest my energy, and know exactly when it’s time to retreat and regroup. “Don’t sweat the small stuff” has never resonated so loudly.
Fortunately for me, 2023 was also when I became a more committed, albeit occasionally delinquent, practitioner of Christian meditation, and I wonder where I might have ended up if I hadn’t drawn on the practice to keep me grounded and stable. Like I said, the mind and heart have pretty much found their path, although it will by no means be a smooth one all the way. I must now rely on these inner resources to learn how to accept my physical limitations. So here goes—this incoming senior’s prayers for 2024:
That I still manage some adventures. Yes, I can still handle long walks (with frequent rests) and I already have a dive trip to West Papua set and paid for in March. I know I have to prepare for it—read: work out enough—and will do what I can to ensure no unexpected injuries turn up.
That I age gracefully and generously. I used to complain that my late mother was the epitome of FOMO (fear of missing out), insisting on being dragged along even when she delayed everything and didn’t really appreciate what was going on. May I never foist myself unnecessarily on other people, whether family or friends, and let my limitations limit them just because I want to be in on the action. I thank God every day for my diving group, which consists of mainly above-40 but very experienced women who do need help carrying the gear, but can still manage hour-long dives. We still kick ass, but we don’t need to be reckless about it.
That I continue to value quality over quantity. At the risk of being anti-social, I have started practicing this in recent months, especially post-pandemic: If I am going to drive from my home in Marikina to see you, you—or the occasion—should be worth it. I can’t say yes to every dinner invitation, every meet-up plan, but I will, for those I value, and who truly value me. During the holidays, a sprained toe (yes, as if the other pains weren’t enough) made me beg off from a lunch meet-up with my dear friend Joy in Rockwell. What did Joy do? She took the bus to UP Town Center, which is two farts from where I live. I was worth her trip, as she is always worth mine.
That I can strive to be more patient, and kind to others. I used to think the opposite was true: I can afford to bitch because I’ve earned my stripes. Don’t get me wrong: I will tell you when your grammar is wrong—and to those who think grammar is optional, find another job, especially if you’re (gasp) an editor—but I must consider the time, circumstances, and other variables that have led to your decision. We live with other people, and somehow, we have to care about each other, even if we value independence and solitude, like I do.
I myself don’t want to be judged for being an ageing diva, and have learned to appreciate the patience that others show me, so I’d like to extend the same—within the boundaries of reason, of course. Quality work is quality work, no matter what your age—and even if it will take me a bit longer to turn it out. Kindness knows no age. It’s already a hate-filled world, so it doesn’t make sense to add to the negative energy.
That I keep my line to God (and Mama Mary) open. Although I’ve prayed all my life, it’s a fact that faith still seems associated with older people—which is why I am so happy to see young people in church, or being very open about their belief in a higher power, at a time when atheism and so much misplaced “woke”-ness is absurdly perceived as cool. Kids: You’re strongest when you are willing to accept what you cannot do. I have had too many experiences of God’s loving hand in my life, and Mama Mary’s watchful eyes over me, to ever, ever doubt who’s in charge.
Most quiet New Year’s Eve ever, 2023: the author at home with asymptomatic Covid-19 and her three dogs
That my dogs stay healthy and happy, and that people stop treating this planet and our oceans like their replaceable garbage can. Sorry, I just had to throw that in there.
That people with cancer and mental illness get the understanding and help they truly need.
Finally—and this is not being morbid, but actually quite self-serving—this has been my daily prayer for many years now: God, please don’t let me grow too old. I know that’s not in my control, but please don’t let me hang around too long when I get too dependent on other people. I know it may be another valuable lesson in humility if I did reach that stage, but still. Some grandmothers will be surrounded by loving grandchildren, with the resources to just kick back and be waited on hand and foot. Many of us are not like that; I know I’m not. I’ve already lived a great life, and as is the case with most senior singles, nobody else’s life is going to stop when mine does—so please, please don’t prolong the drama.
So basically, that’s it: Let me enter my senior years grateful and generous, willing to sit back and watch, but still strong enough to do good work (good thing writers don’t really have a retirement age), enjoy my friends, and have fun without making unnecessary demands on people around me. Please keep me close, Lord, and when it’s my time to go—it doesn’t matter how, really—then take me home before I get too nasty! Amen!
