Sweet Surrender (20 page)

Somewhere, around the age of fifty-one and a half, I lost myself. I simply ceased being me.

Well that's not entirely true. My name remained the same and I still had the same husband, the same four adult children, the same six grandchildren and the same house in the Blue Mountains where I had lived for twenty-five years.

But the me that I had known, and more importantly the me that my family had known for the last thirty years, had transformed into somebody else.

My friends noticed. Many commented. My family looked at me curiously; they were baffled and bemused. The happy-go-lucky, easygoing me became a sharpish, more critical woman. Introspective, self-absorbed and fragile. The woman who had always allowed the rough and tumble of life to wash over her suddenly became hypersensitive, reactive, restless and easily ruffled.

What was going on here? I shed weight, abandoned my straw-hat, rose-pruning image from my days on
Gardening Australia
and morphed into a strawberry blonde in high heels, fishnet tights and figure-hugging clothes. I discarded habits of a lifetime. The world news on the pages of
the morning newspaper suddenly seemed unutterably dull, and I rarely read past the headlines. My lifelong passion for reading novels – one or two a week – vanished. I no longer had the concentration required. My love of classical music, instilled from childhood, was replaced by a passion for popular CDs. Plaintive, wailing songs that allowed me to further wallow in self-obsession.

Of course, it's not uncommon for women (and men) to hit a point in their lives when they need to stop and take stock. Need to analyse the past and ponder the future. For men, this stage has traditionally described as the ‘midlife crisis', often culminating in the first wife being abandoned for a new, younger partner and maybe even a second family. For women the crisis is generally medically described, by the dreaded ‘m-word' . . . menopause. For many women entering their sixth decade, it's an intense period of hormonal change that, unfortunately, often coincides with their mate's own problems. It's a recipe for marital disaster.

My case was fairly typical. I suffered the classic symptoms of needing to come to terms with the next stage of my life. My children had grown and left home, my parents were both dead and my husband was absorbed in his career, as he had been for our entire partnership. I needed to set a new direction; to find new challenges. I was indeed lost and more than a little frightened. But I was also excited and energised by the prospect of what might lie ahead for me.

Looking back with the smattering of wisdom I've gained over the past seven years, I realise what I was really looking for was passion. My life had been punctuated by periods of intense and passionate existence. My love of nature as a wild child growing free at the beach; the heartfelt political fervour of my teens; my first loves, powerful and transforming; the exquisite pleasure of my pregnancies and births; the joys and laughter of motherhood; the unexpected delight of a successful career; and the deep rewards of caring for an ageing parent.

I couldn't abide the idea that from now on everything in my life
would gradually wind down. My career would fill the gap left by the children no longer at home; my grandchildren would fill the gap left by a partner no longer hungry for my body; the care of my garden would fill the gap of a daily routine devoid of spontaneity or surprises. I knew in my heart that it was not enough. That I craved excitement and adventure and that I wasn't about to let go without a putting up a fight. No doubt this probably has something to do with growing up as a baby boomer, a generation that particularly valued youth – its excitements, its hedonism, and its idealism.

My story is not very different from many women of my age. We have placed high expectations on ourselves in the belief that we could have it all. Career, relationships, children, travel, financial security and good health. In many ways we
have
had it all and now we find it difficult – if not impossible – to just let go. To surrender to ageing and, eventually, to death.

Yet we have no choice. We can have plastic surgery and work frenetically at the gym and even take human growth hormones to trick our bodies into thinking we are thirty-five, but at the end of the day we have to face the fact that our lives are gradually slowing down. This is not to say we can't still have fun, but we should also be looking for more than that. For understanding, for meaning and for a more deeply satisfying existence.

Looking back at those ‘lost' years, I realise that despite the pain they contained, they were a vital part of my evolution as an older woman. I'm not for a moment suggesting that every woman should break out, fly to a foreign land and take a lover. It's a perilous adventure and one that can easily lead to disaster. Yet for me it was a reaction to a life spent working hard and putting the needs of others ahead of my own. It was my wild time, my lost youth, my compensation for not having explored my sexuality in my teens before I met David.

I also recognise that the woman I became during those rocky years was still me, it was just a different version of me that I hadn't
acknowledged before. We all have many sides to our nature, some of which we repress for obvious reasons. I know, for example, that I consciously tried to be a totally different sort of parent to my own parents and yet, ultimately, I have to acknowledge now that certain patterns of behaviour crept through and affected my parenting style. I know now that while the persona I chose to present to my family and friends, and to the wider world, was the responsible, hard-working and giving side of my character (I refuse to use the term self-sacrificing because it smacks of martyrdom), there is another, darker side to me that's prepared to be selfish and self-indulgent. It's still there, I just have it more under control these days.

My life has changed significantly over the past four years and this, quite naturally, has had an effect on my decisions and priorities. My sister's decline into dementia, my grand-daughter's profound disabilities, my children's marriage breakdowns, my husband's health problems and my own confrontation with a potentially fatal disease have brought me back to earth with a big thud. Of course, I could have chosen to ignore these problems within my family and continued to enjoy my newfound sense of freedom. Yet that option never occurred to me. My instinctive response was to rearrange my life so that I could be as involved and supportive as possible. This isn't saintly, it's just plain commonsense. For more than thirty years the main focus of my life has been the nurture of my family, so why would I abandon them just when they needed me the most? It's not a change of heart; it's just an acceptance that this is what's essential for me at this period of my life.

All this has given me cause for deep reflection and self-examination. Not navel-gazing, but a shot at using the problems that have cropped up to help gain insight and understanding. It's not ‘meaning of life' stuff; more a striving to crystallise how I really feel about these big issues. I spent a great deal of my life just living day-to-day, carefree and loving every minute of it. Now I allow myself some quiet thinking time, and I sense this is a natural part of the ageing process. Although
I'm not physically slowing down too much yet – I'm just as busy as I ever was – these days I use my head as much as my heart when I make decisions. Is this the coming of wisdom? Is this why we are told that growing old has its compensations – because as our bodies deteriorate our minds store the knowledge of a lifetime and we (finally) become wise? I'm not so sure about this. My youngest son, Ethan, aged twenty-eight, has a very old head on young shoulders. The same applies to his partner, Lynne. They always had plenty of commonsense but the advent of Isabella into their lives has brought them wisdom and insight beyond their years. They have had to consider the possibility they may still be caring for a disabled daughter when they are in their sixties, and may never have the chance, as I did, to escape from their responsibilities.

How do I really feel about ageing? To be totally honest, I dislike it intensely. I desperately try to think positively about it, but the downsides loom large. I don't equate ageing with dying. To me, they are two separate issues. Somehow death doesn't faze me quite as much as the actual ageing process. I see death as inevitable and not to be feared. I don't look forward to it, especially if I am unfortunate enough to experience a long, lingering and painful demise. But I accept it and believe that it's OK to die.

Yet I can't seem to be as philosophical about growing old. For me, the process is accompanied by a sense of loss. I'm no longer as strong as I once was. I don't have the vigour and the stamina to work endless hours in the garden or to haul large bags of grain around for the poultry. I can't carry children on my hip any more – it throws my back out and I end up hobbling around for week. This makes me wild because I have always loved having a child on my hip, especially when I'm cooking dinner. I can run but I'm not as confident climbing a tall ladder these days and my eyesight is failing to the point that I never know the shampoo from the conditioner in the shower. I can't even read a newspaper headline without my glasses. My skin has become
dry and papery, no matter how much moisturiser I massage into it day and night. Quite frankly, my hair is also falling out. This may all seem trivial and vain, but I just can't help resenting it. David is eleven years further down the track than me and he doesn't like it any more than I do. His teeth are breaking off, one by one, as a result of poor dentistry in the 1940s and 50s. His late-onset diabetes means his hair is also disappearing – his luxuriant beard has thinned dramatically and even the hair on his legs and arms has fallen out. His back causes him problems and he creaks out of bed every morning, often muttering ‘I'm so old, and I don't like it'.

Yet we both still have energy, we both work, we make love, we exercise and eat well and enjoy our lives. It's just that after fifty-five the ageing process seems to accelerate and while we have to accept it, we certainly don't have to say that we like it. I don't see us as a pair of whingers, complaining about minor ailments. I'm sure very many people feel exactly as we do, it's just that our society doesn't encourage us to say so.

Our relationship has been through so much over the past eight years and it's now stronger and more resilient than ever. I no longer dwell on my husband's negative attributes, nor simmer with resentment about his failings. He feels the same way about me. Perhaps that's one positive aspect of growing older. A growing acceptance and a greater tolerance. I'm very keen, however, not to allow our partnership to slip into complacency. I still like to surprise David; to keep him on his toes. The frisson is still there between us and I know that's partly because we managed to pull our marriage back from the brink. We no longer take each other for granted.

In an interview on ABC-TV, Woody Allen said he would rather trade the wisdom he has gained over the past thirty-five years and have those years back to live again. I don't feel quite that disturbed about growing older, but I do understand exactly where he's coming from. I applaud his bravery in admitting his dislike of growing old.

Ultimately I know I have a great deal to look forward to. My grandchildren sustain me with hope and optimism and I feel confident that I will live long enough to meet a great-grandchild or two. Even Isabella, with her ongoing problems, has such a grasp on life and a profound impact on our family that I cannot imagine the world without her. I hope that if I do live to be a grand age I will be a thoroughly impish and eccentric old woman with a sense of humour and a capacity for loving, laughing and having fun.

Christmas is coming round again, and this year I have a little more time for preparations. We've had a wet spring – even some snow in late November – and the garden here at the farm has never looked more beautiful. The bird life is prolific in this district, and as I write the bottlebrush outside my office window is filled with upside-down wattlebirds and honeyeaters feasting on the nectar. There are more snakes around this year too, and I've had several hair-raising close encounters. My vegetable garden is planted and I'm about to cut back the first flush of flowers on the roses. I feel contented.

Predictably, my life has recently become even more complicated. Both my children who separated have now found new partners, and so has my former son-in-law. I've met them all and warmed to them, and needless to say there are more children involved. When I add on my extra grandchildren, as I like to think of them, I'm now up to fourteen. All our extended family will come to stay at various times over the holiday period, including Miriam and her new partner, Mark, Lorna, and Rick and his partner, Shelley. My long dining table, designed for an expanding family, can no longer accommodate the entire
ménage
at one time. The children will have to be relegated to the other long table, on the verandah! I'm pleased that everything seems to be working out in the end. Through all the ups and downs we have remained close and the farm is still at the heart of it all.