Over the Hill, and Maybe Over-the-Hill, Too

What’s “old” to you? How distinct is the difference between someone in this category and someone on the next rung down, say, “approaching old”? My mother preferred the word “elderly” to describe most anyone over the age of 80 — and the great-aunts and uncles were close by. The word had a gentler sound to her, I think. And then she herself arrived there, a fact which must mean that I’m soon to follow.

This, we learn, is how life works.

But the particular vocabulary all depends upon one’s perspective, doesn’t it? I often hear 40-ish people using the word “old” to describe anyone over 65. This gives me a jolt every time.

In buying these new shoes with plenty of cushion over the weekend, I was bolstering my own sense of “Yes, of course I’m still a runner.”

Just as I was beginning to feel optimistic about my tennis game, though, even after another birthday, the U.S. Open Women’s Final had to go and feature two teenage phenoms. It was a reminder — as if any of us needs one — that youth generally wins the day.

And yesterday, the 20th anniversary of the most horrific single day this country has ever had, was a searing reminder of the fact that the lives of thousands of people were cut short within moments. In addition to the terror they were forced to experience, they were robbed of the experience of getting gradually old.

Those of us who do get to live into the upper decades, and especially while maintaining relative physical and mental health — we’re a privileged bunch.

Not New Tricks, But Still

Looked at in a certain way, the eldest member of our little household is our dog, Rocky, and I confess to being fascinated by how exactly he is experiencing the upper tier of dog longevity. He doesn’t talk much about it, really, so I have to observe, and do some guessing.

See those two matching white patches? They’ve gotten larger since I took this picture a couple of months ago. He doesn’t notice them, of course, but any human certainly does, right away.

Last weekend, he gave us a lesson in how, even in a senior (there’s another choice of word) body, enthusiasm for a demanding physical activity can stay high even when that willingness may result in a cost, later on.

Hiking up Mt. Sunapee has become a kind of Labor Day weekend tradition for us, since it’s the bishop’s turn to do a last Sunday service at the sweet St. James summer chapel there.

This time, we took a longer but less steep route up — better for Rocky, we thought. Altogether, it would be a few miles to go over this hill. In Merriam-Webster, “over-the-hill” is defined in these two ways: 1) past one’s prime and 2) advanced in age. Yup, check and check. And yet, doesn’t the fact that he was able to do this journey make the term sound too dismissive?

He did beautifully (ahead of me most of the way) going up, up and up along a brook, and then was rewarded with a refreshing swim in a place we discovered for the first time called Lake Solitude.

I wish I’d gotten a picture of him along with the three muddy, but still yellow, labs who took a plunge at the same time.

We then headed over to a lookout called “The Ledges.” Not much view, since the weather had turned rainy, but still it was a swell spot. And Rock was happy and proud.

The hike from here over to the actual summit of the ski mountain was my favorite part of the afternoon. We weren’t quite over the hill, but we sure were close, and with the wind picking up along with the rain, I was relieved we were going laterally now.

Rocky showed no signs of slowing down. In fact, when we started hearing a few loud BANGS of an indeterminate nature, he started to take off, on his own. Not very mature of our senior dog, but this fear has remained rock solid in him through the years.

As a result, my husband clicked that leash on and held on tight as Rocky pulled him relentlessly, down the ski trails.

I, meanwhile, slipped my own way down, in my old running shoes, trying to keep them in my sight.

And because we opted not to start down on a trail from the very top of the main lift but instead took the first one we came to (my own misjudgement) we ended up far from the parking area where our car was. Drooping by this point, Rock just kept going on that dirt road, walking right next to me — trusting.

He’d been a valiant, elderly dog on this afternoon.

The Takeaway

After a good meal, he spread himself out on the wood floor at the lake house, where he lay motionless for a few hours. We were relieved…until he tried to get up, and couldn’t. He screeched a bit, lay back down, and eventually tried again. Then it was clear: we’d asked him to overdo it. He’d been able to complete the hike, sure, but now his arthritic limbs were suffering. Several years before, he’d made a stunning recovery after a damaged disc in his back caused him to stay down for a full five days; we did not want a repeat of anything like that.

We needed to see the full truth of where he was in his life and make adjustments: no more long hikes for him. This week, I need to look into ordering one of those ramps that will help him get in and out of the car more easily. And while it’s tempting to think about adding a younger, bouncier pup who can go with us on these expeditions, this will have to wait a while, since our jobs compel us to be elsewhere much of the time.

Remembering my mother, who loved her Irish setters as they got all white around the ears, I’ll do my best to care for a slowing down Rocky. And each time I see him pawing for frogs in the pond or running for joy across the field, I’ll count ourselves so fortunate.

What’s been your experience dealing with the “elderly” to “old” transition in some way that’s affected your daily life? I welcome your comments.