I Was Anxious About Getting Old, Until I Met An Incredible 94-Year-Old Woman Who Changed My Perspective
ifiStudio | ShutterstockRecently, I invited a lovely 94-year-old woman to join me on a vacation to the beautiful storm-battered coast of Washington State’s Olympic Peninsula. Ninety-four years is a very long time to live — few people make it that far. I’d like to.
My grandmother died at the impressive age of 102, and my aunt passed away a few weeks after her 100th birthday. The elegant lady who joined me on this excursion (let’s call her “Ann”) is the third-oldest person I’ve spent quality time with.
What is it like to be very old? I’ve always wondered. If my grandmother's and my aunt’s lifespans are an indication, I’ll likely be very old one day too — and that makes me curious about my future.
What does one do when one reaches such a distinguished age? And even more importantly: What does one think? Will death infect my thoughts all day long, or will I push it away until I can no longer ignore it? Will I pine for the old days and live in the past? Will I cower in fear or face down the Reaper with an indomitable spirit?
Death, health, finance, family, mental acuity, friendships, loneliness, happiness, and fear: I want to know about all these things, and I want to know what to expect if I’m lucky enough to live into my 90s.
I never asked my grandmother or aunt what it was like to be old. It would have been an overreach for me at the time, and the question still feels like a deeply personal intrusion. Society has its taboos, and this is one of them. Still, I’m curious. So I asked Ann, who recently turned 94.
94-year-old Ann’s thoughts on getting and being old
Kateryna Hliznitsova / Unsplash+
“I’ve been wondering, Ann,” I started. She and I had glasses of wine in hand, and a fire crackled in the corner of the cabin. The day had drizzled, but regardless, we journeyed to the beach where her husband Bob’s ashes had been scattered five years ago.
This was her second pilgrimage since his death, and the mood was somber. “What is it like to be 94 years old?” I asked, gritting my teeth, ready to backpedal. She straightened her back, looked at me with a wry curl of her lip, and said, “Hmm, that’s an interesting question. I’m glad you asked.”
Loneliness
“I’m lonesome,” she said. “My friend Glen died last month. His wife can’t get around, can’t communicate, and I don’t know what will happen to her. They were the last of my peers — I’ve outlived all my friends. I have no close lifelong friends who can empathize with my memories, my childhood.”
Ann lives in an apartment in a retirement community, a four-story edifice with its own restaurant, theater, and swimming pool. It offers multiple levels of care and will almost certainly be the last place she calls home.
“I socialize with the girls at dinner…” She means the women in the retirement community where she lives (and yes, there are men there too), “…but with all the noise I can’t understand a word. I nod, smile, and enjoy the company. It’s better than eating alone.”
Ann is almost completely deaf, a profoundly isolating handicap. One-on-one, she can read lips, but in a crowd, she can’t follow the conversation at all. Making friends when deaf is challenging, and I hear the frustration crack in her voice.
Family
“My two boys are my saviors. They visit me often, as do my granddaughters, who are all grown up now. Sometimes they bring their boys, my great-grandchildren, and it’s such a joy to see them. “Sometimes my voice is the only voice I hear for days.”
The thought of family brightened her noticeably. “What about Bob? Do you miss him? Do you think about him often?”
“I talk to him sometimes.” She saw my brow lift slightly and smiled. “But don’t worry, he doesn’t talk back. He was so involved with the girls as they grew up…” She means the four granddaughters.“… and they loved him so much. I miss him too, but we can’t dwell in the past.” She tapped her hands together and squirmed in her chair as if to signal we should move on.
Finance
“My boys take care of my finances now. Bob used to do it all, and after he died, I managed it myself, but I never liked it or understood it very well. They tell me I have enough money, so I don’t worry.”
“You’re lucky to have family,” I said. “My neighbor is a crotchety old lady whose children disowned her long ago. Her niece cares for her in exchange for an inheritance. It’s transactional, not from affection.”
“I can’t imagine what people with no family do at my age. It’s too complicated these days. I’m sorry, I just can’t figure things out. Money, phones, computers … without the boys, I’d be a blubbering fool.”
Ann’s world is slowly constricting. The joy of sharing secrets with a friend is gone now, and the prospect of new confidantes is nil. Family, phone, computer, and perhaps TV, are the only ties to the world she has left. The loss of any one of them would be devastating.
Cognition
“I’m sorry, I forget a lot.” Ann’s frustrations turn into apologies as if it’s her fault that she can’t recall a detail. She repeats, “I’m dumb, I'm losing it,” but she’s definitely not. It’s her way of coping with the natural progression of aging.
Ann is witty, sharp, and inquisitive, characteristics I wouldn’t normally attribute to a 94-year-old. Her eyes are bright and alert. Ann has a quick wit and tracks with the conversation like a 20-year-old. She thinks in complex, abstract patterns — nothing like the dull stare I’ve seen too often in care centers and hospice homes.
We all forget things when we’re not challenged cognitively, but it’s not predetermined. We, as a society, need to engage our elderly better. Like this trip — from the moment I picked Ann up, I’ve watched her bristle with excitement and interest.
Death
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“Are you worried about the end?” I asked, carefully choosing my words.
“Death?” She blurted out the word I’d been avoiding. “Oh no, dear. It’s coming, and we can’t stop it. My father died with his boots on — that’s how I want to go. He walked into the kitchen one day and just toppled over, dead. What a great way to go. Death is coming, and we can’t stop it. Why worry?”
I thought of my father-in-law, who died in February. He denied every aspect of his decline until the last day of his life. “I’m fine…” he told me a week before he died. “…I did ten pushups this morning.” He could hardly get up out of his chair. Perhaps his lies were self-serving.
Denial or acceptance. I don’t know which is better, but Ann is right — it’s coming, so why worry?
Worries
“If not death, what worries you the most?” I asked.
She immediately blurted: “Alzheimer's! I’m terrified of forgetting everything and going crazy. I forget a lot, and that scares me.”
“Won’t happen, Ann,” I reassured her. “If you were going to get it, you would have had symptoms decades ago. You’re rock-solid. What else?”
“I don’t worry about much. I just go with the flow. I guess I worry about leaving a mess.”
Ann is a perfectionist. I saw her apartment when I picked her up, and it is immaculate, minimalist. Everything is in its place, positioned properly, and dust-free. She dresses well and carries herself regally, like royalty. She won’t leave a mess, I guarantee it.
Happiness
“What makes you happy, Ann?” I could see she was tiring, but I wanted to end the conversation on a positive note.
“I find comfort in the thought of someone holding my hand when I die. I’m grateful for my family and that I’m not alone. I’m grateful to have enough money to be safe and comfortable and not hungry.”
“Rich or poor, it ends the same for everyone. Happiness is companionship, and the comfort of knowing I won’t be alone when my time comes. Before Bob died, we all had the chance to say goodbye, to give him hugs, sit with him, and hold his hand. He went peacefully and happily. I’d like that. Everyone should have that.”
Ann's final thoughts on being 94
The fire had turned to a pile of ash, and our wine glasses were dry. As we stood to go to our separate rooms, I thanked Ann for her candor and gave her a long, well-deserved hug.
"There’s one more thing I want to tell you,” she said. “There are four words that I live by. They’re my mantra, my affirmations: Strength. Courage. Peace. Purpose.”
Words to live by indeed. Thank you, Ann.
We didn’t speak much on the drive home, each of us lost in our own thoughts — mine about the future, and hers, probably, about the past.
Ninety-four years is a very long time to live, and thanks to Ann, being 94 is no longer a mystery. If I’m lucky, I’ll get there one day, and live like Ann does, with strength, courage, peace, and purpose.
As we crossed the lobby of her retirement community, I noticed Ann walking without her cane, her shoulders back and chin held high. We said our goodbyes in her apartment doorway, and I vowed to visit again — her lesson of companionship burned deep in my mind.
“Thank you again,” I said as I turned to go.
“Wait,” She said, grabbing my arm. “What do you suppose it’s like to be one hundred?”
Brian Feutz is a writer, author, columnist, and podcast speaker who covers topics including retirement, humor, travel, tech, adventure, and fiction.
