Here's an interesting story in today's Washington Post, about a long-term study of hundreds of people, and how they age. 

Excerpts from: Body of Evidence, by Lori Aratani, Washington Post Staff Writer, The Washington Post, Tuesday, May 19, 2009


Every year hundreds of people travel to Baltimore for an unusual purpose. They are not here to tour the city's aquarium or sample its fabled blue crabs. They are not in search of fame or money. Other than free lodging, they receive nothing in exchange for their visit, which entails a certain amount of discomfort.

No, these folks, some of whom have made this journey for decades, believe the trip is worth their time and expense because how they live -- calculated according to everything from the strength of their grip to how many apples they consume in a month -- may offer clues to how the rest of us might live better, longer, healthier lives.

These individuals -- homemakers, retirees, doctors and myriad others -- are participants in the Baltimore Longitudinal Study of Aging (BLSA), the country's longest-running study of aging.

Since 1958, a total of more than 1,400 volunteers have agreed to regularly undergo in-depth physicals and memory and other screenings conducted by the study's physicians. The resulting data span more than half a century and are a gold mine for researchers interested in the aging process.
…

This is no vacation. During their stay, participants will have a physical that goes well beyond sticking their tongues out and saying "ahhhhh." They rarely will sit for more than 30 minutes before they are whisked away for another exam or stuck with another needle. Sprott, now in his 12th year in the study, confirms that the pace can be brutal.

Researchers take routine measures (temperature, blood pressure and weight), but participants also undergo more sophisticated tests. Echocardiograms help researchers examine hearts, and spirometry tests measure lung function. In addition to collecting blood and urine, researchers might also take samples of the participants' breath.

Even simple tests can provide valuable insight. Researchers will evaluate a participant's grip strength, which previous BLSA research has shown can predict whether someone might be at higher risk of complications after surgery or more likely to die prematurely.

Please go to this url for the complete story----http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/05/18/AR2009051802245.html?hpid=sec-health

How did this happen? How did I (we?) turn into a fan? 

I remember all the musicians and painters and actors I felt a kinship with in my youth, but I can't say I ever went out of my life to push them along in their careers or cheer for them from the sidelines. That's no longer the case. People my-- and your--age have fallen in love with falling in love with stars, be they singers, dancers, chefs, models, entrepreneurs, whatever.

We agonize, we wince at every misstep. We vote like crazy, hitting the redial button as many times as we can, telling ourselves we're just doing this so the object-of-our-affection gets an even chance.

I have a suspicion this instant news option of the Internet is the genesis of this phenomenon. We don't have to wait for a monthly subscription for a tidbit about our favorite singer. Nor do we have to stand in line for tickets, or travel miles and miles to stand in more lines for a concert. It's all there for us, anytime, all the time.

Add to that the newfound sagacity that comes with turning 50 or 60. At this point, we've done just about everything once. We are pretty good at predicting the ups and downs that parallel success and failure. AFter all, we've been there. We know what will happen. Just ask us. And, if you don't, we'll tell you!

To all the Simonettes out there, vote on! And, vote like Yamin it!

We came to California to visit, but also take a brief vacation from the craziness of the past few months. Sometimes you just need to turn off the news, and forget about it for a little while. The recession, the flu, the war(s), the murder and mayhem will still be there when you sign back on. 

Mendocino County looked like a good bet for peace and quiet. We found plenty of it in a town of 400, about 20 miles east of the coast. Near the intersection of vineyards, redwood forest and cattle ranches, we discovered a cute little inn with guest cabins, each containing one bed, two chairs, a table and absolutely nothing else. Nothing like austerity to cleanse the soul.

There we were, curled up in our rustic cabin nestled under a down comforter when Dave’s phone went off. I didn't lie about the lack of cell service. It was weak at best, when you could get it.  

The caller was one of the tenants renting our condo back home. Dave could hardly make out what he was saying, between uncontrollable sobs. 

The night before, when he returned home, he found his wife of 50 years dead in a pool of blood. It was even worse than that. She had died in a particularly violent and ugly manner. The police believed it was a natural death, but they would wait for the ME’s report. 

Naturally, we swung into action and spent the rest of the day trying to help from afar. We  hired one of those crime scene clean-up companies and looked for other ways to assist the poor man. Mostly, we mourned the death of a delightful woman who was only a few years older than we were.

Last night, on House, the ghost of Autumn sang a particularly eerie version of “It’s later than you think.” At that, it all came together. The yin and yang of life. Just when you ‘re dazzled by the age and beauty of the world around you – as we were, in a redwood forest – death walks in to remind you of its omnipresence. Anytime, anywhere. Even when you’re on vacation.

You're not going to last as long as those trees. Your days are numbered and your number can come up at any time. And don’t expect it to be pretty or fun. 

So, like Autumn sang, enjoy yourself, it’s later than you think. Enjoy yourself, while you’re still in the pink.  The years go by quicker than a wink, so enjoy yourself, it's later than you think.

And, make sure you use your time wisely. It's so precious. Don't waste a second.

On a related note, Ann Sentilles has a superb post about a woman she met who is making good use of the last third of her life. Ann calls her a poster child for her site, which is all about late women growing older. Don't miss it on The Third Third. Click on the link on the right. I loooove The Third Third!

 

I've stumbled across two wonderful sites and urge you to check them out.

The first is Fifty Shift, for women facing 50, or still staring at it in their rear-view mirror. A UMass faculty member runs it.

The other is Times Goes By, a well-established blog that promises to tell the truth about aging. (As if we didn't already know!)

If you like Birds on a Wire, you'll probably like one or both of those blogs, too. They're written by intelligent, thoughtful women who offer their readers much to ponder, and many ways to participate in a lively discussion. 

You can link to both sites by clicking on their names, as listed in the blogroll in the right column.

Some of you have already reached this milestone, and I know others are hoping the world blows up before it happens to them, but  -- if we’re lucky enough – someday we all turn 65. My big day is right around the corner.

Omigod, how could someone so young get so old?

It’s not like this date with destiny slipped up on me, exactly, but still, I’m having a hard time processing what should be just another birthday. After all, we’re only a day older on our birthday than we were the day before, right?

The undeniable proof of my impending old age is imprinted like a watermark in the Medicare card that arrived by mail recently.

There it is. Looks just like the one my parents carried around, all red, white and blue. But if you tilt the card ever so slightly into the light, you’ll notice the words “very, very old” are woven right into the paper!

When my husband turned 65 a few years, I handled his Medicare sign up and paperwork, efficient new wife that I was. It wasn’t hard to do, just time consuming. I read the stuff Medicare sent in the mail, outlined his options, picked a drug plan and Medigap provider, then sent out all the forms. Bingo! He hardly noticed the difference between his old health plan and Medicare, except now he has a lot more jingle in his pocket after every office visit and pharmacy run.

Was I jealous! My health insurance cost more than $600 dollars a month, and I was way too healthy to enjoy it! Once I married Dave, left the rat race, and started taking better care of myself, my health turned normal for my age, as they say.

How I longed for the day when I could get Medicare, too! Of course, I was blocking what cliff I had to go over to qualify. 

Truth be told, I’d been sucking money out of the system for years. My 40s and 50s were medical disasters, but that's another story. The high premiums I paid in my 60s were simply part of payback time.

Six months ago, my mother’s slow decline into the netherworld of Alzheimer’s consumed large amounts of my energy and time. She lived in a nursing home 350 miles away, and it might as well have been 3,500.

Ignoring common sense and my husband’s pleas, I drove down and back on a single day to see her, every few weeks. It was such a grueling trip, I spent only two or three hours with her, so I could complete the six-hour trip down and six back up north without losing it on the highway. 

And then it happened, just before Christmas. Almost silently and with as much grace as a person can muster in her condition, she slipped out of this world. Dave and I were with her and in that instant, everything in my life changed.

Since her departure, I’ve had a hard time completing tasks, even small ones. I’m told that’s normal. 

Life oozes by, one day at a time.

I still haven’t written to some of her relatives and friends, but will, someday. I keep saying I must write thank you notes to some kind folks who helped us through the difficult times. What’s left of her stuff sits in piles in our extra room, remnants of a life that seemed so permanent, so important, I couldn’t imagine the earth spinning after her death.

But, it did.

And, now I see how it will continue to spin, even after mine and yours. And, that’s the way it should be.

Which takes me back to turning 65. It's just so predictable and so ordinary. Somehow, I guess I thought I would follow a different path. How and to what, I don't know.

But, maybe for the first time, I’m ready to admit to myself that most likely, I’ll finish out my life the old-fashioned way, like she did.

With little drama. Few people around me. Barely any noise or fanfare.

One day, I’ll breathe, then not breathe, and be carted off within the hour by a strong young woman who’ll clean my bed to make it nice for the next old lady.

And, that’s okay, because it’s the way things are and are supposed to be. The longer I live, the more normal are my life and my expectations.  

Beware of angry women carrying knitting needles! 

Since January 1994, when my newspaper took its baby step into cyberspace, I've been a big fan of online shopping. 

Yes, the Web is great for tracking news, locating old boyfriends, or grabbing and stacking whatever you need to win an argument. But, it really excels as a vector for goods and services! 

Where else can you drop large amounts of money in a flash, with no crowds, no parking lots, no rude salesclerks to impede your path to financial penury? 

And I have shopped and shopped. Not only for tickets, but real estate, socks, bathing suits, tablecloths, Christmas presents, shoes, repair parts for appliances, you name it. Anytime. Anyday.  

All of this makes it easy to understand how deliciously facile it was for someone to bilk me. Oddly, I associated  (note the past tense) shopping hassles with brick-and-mortar stores, but put my full, unadulterated trust in Web pages, the folksier the better.

Enter an un-named ranch, seemingly an Oregon paradise for all manner of sheep, with an online yarn and knitting shop offering a full range of knitting needles, including a brand I've come to love but can't find in any local stores. Silly me, I ordered one of each on their handy online order form and, in a flash, sealed the deal with a payment from PayPal. 

Ah, sweet ignorance! 

The real ranch clearly was a PayPal-enabled cash machine, sucking funds from my bank account (and others) directly into theirs, while they never had to lift a finger, or interrupt their lounge time on the beaches of Maui, or wherever they were actually situated. 
 
When nothing came in the mail over the course of 10 days, and when my ever-so-polite emails did not evoke a response, I called and actually got the surprised seller on the phone. Probably because I woke her up! I blame time zones. Said seller promised to put my package in the mail the next day.

A week later, I sent another email, then followed up with a call. Full voice mailbox; call later. I did. Still full. 

A quick Google search unearthed a veritable knitting empire, with storefronts on just about every commercial e-Main Street. Not surprisingly, the list of "reviews" from unhappy customers was long. There were many, many angry ladies out there, waiting for their knitting supplies. 

I'm not sure which was worse: not getting “my” needles or getting lost in the PayPal Resolution Center maze. One menu led to another, which led to another, which took me right back where I started.

For those who prefer the frustration of voice communication, PayPal offers a parallel universe by phone. Apparently no PayPal user has ever been bilked ,  because nothing resembling "fraud" is on the resolution menu.

Well, let me tell you, I filed a "dispute" today and give PayPal one week to try to reach the elusive seller. Hint: Look for beach towels imprinted, Sucker! 

Next week, I call their county sheriff’s office, then the Oregon Attorney General.