Meet my friend Henry.
I can say ‘friend’ even though I met him just recently at the gym. He’s the kind of guy I want as a friend. 93 years old. Pushes his walker at a good c lip as he enters the gym with determined focus. Heads straight to the first of his three favourite machines. I wanted to meet him.
Henry’s goal is to be there every Monday, Wednesday and Friday about 8 a.m. A very practical reason: To keep working the arms and legs so he can have his driver’s licence as long as possible.
Henry did say that he likes to “get out of the house.” His wife is 87. She also comes to the gym, doing what she can to cope with Parkinson’s disease.
We introduced ourselves on a Monday and had a brief conversation. When I said I looked forward to seeing him on Wednesday, he said, “I’ll try.” That came out a couple of times. At 93, good intentions but no promises.
When I approached Henry on Wednesday, I was pleasantly surprised that he greeted me by name. Still rotating the hand pedals, Henry told me about his homeland and offered to show me 72 pictures on his phone. We agreed to do that next time.
On Friday, when Henry saw me, he stopped arm pedalling and reached into his pocket. With strong voice and shaky hands, he worked his way into an older, slightly beat-up iPhone and kept swiping the screen. “It’s kind of slow sometimes.”
His determination made me think of pioneers hand cranking a machine to get it going. After several attempts, he got in and found the photographs. At 93, still conquering new challenges not only physical but also with technology.
Henry’s parents immigrated to Canada from Ukraine to escape religious persecution. Anarchist armies on horseback raided Mennonite villages to capture and destroy property. After hiding the family to avoid invaders, his father returned to their ransacked house and found the photographs scattered on the floor. He gathered them up and left the house for the last time.
Henry drew me into the memories of a life once lived in a homeland with peace and prosperity. The elegance and stature of his extended family was so evident in the photographs. Henry’s phone contained a vital link to his precious life history.
In the midst of facing all the issues of aging, he was reminded of the strength of his heritage. And it gave him great joy to share those memories with others.
Meet my Mom, Anne.
When I saw Henry for the first time on the rotating arm exerciser, I was taken back to my mother, Anne. She never went to the gym but always walked as if competing in a speed walk marathon.
Anne fractured her wrist at age 94. At rehab she would ‘attack’ the hand rotation machine with a vengeance, determined to bring new life to those old bones. And she did.
Anne, like Henry, lived with a simple philosophy of life that said “It’s never too late.” She bought a little cabin in a National Park at age 80 and wrote a book at 94. Family, faith and flapper pie.
It is an engaging narrative of Anne’s own family heritage and pilgrimage from Ukraine to Canada. Listening to her was amusing as Mom decided how many of the family’s ‘skeletons in the closet’ she should include. Although fearless, Anne also exercised diplomacy on occasion.
Henry and Anne would have enjoyed great conversations together.
It’s never too late.
I am 77 years old, almost 78. Almost an octogenarian. It doesn’t have the same vibrant sense of expectancy as when I was 12, almost 13. Almost a teenager! And there is Henry just 7 years, and Anne 4 years, from being a centenarian. 100 years! That is a long time.
What is Henry doing coming to the gym at 93? What was Mom doing at 94, writing a book and at 95, making 30 pies, 30 dozen perogies, and hosting meals for as many people as she could squeeze around her dining room table? Whatever the personal reasons in the moment, perhaps the most vital message from Henry and Anne is, “It’s never too late.”
It’s never too late to do what you can to look after yourself; to pursue lifelong interests and engage with new challenges; to meet people, exchange precious memories, and realize anew that you are part of something bigger than yourself.
Or is it?
“I’ll try.” At 93, no promises. Henry hasn’t been at the gym for over a week. Is “I’ll try” not enough anymore? Are Henry’s gym days over? Or even worse? I look at the hand rotation machine and hope that, if I don’t see him again, Henry still has choices he can make somewhere, with something, where it’s not too late.
Is it presumptuous to say that we always have a choice? Somewhere? With something?
“Hopefully, it’s not too late to . . ..”
Yes, we can focus on things in life that may be over and done with, that are now outside our personal control. It is good to be realistic. And, I admit, the two examples of 90-somethings still pushing forward may be outside the average experience.
But is it possible to still finish the sentence somewhere, with something, that looks to the future with hope rather than just to the past with sadness? At least for a few minutes each day?
Two recent conversations with individuals in their 70s encourage me that it is possible. Both have just been diagnosed with a terminal cancer. And both are finding out who they are, their true identity. Brutally honest about the present reality, they are also determined to face the future with physical strength as long as possible.
And, after that, hopefully maintain an inner resolve that life is a gift to live as long as we have breath.