I often stop and wonder where I’ll be when I’m 95, if I’m even here at that ripe old age. I think about the first few decades of my life and how they moved along pretty quickly, and time continues to go by even faster as I age.
There’s a lady on my floor who is elderly. I would guess that she’s at least in her nineties. In a wheelchair most of the time, she’s barely alert. She has a full-time caregiver who yells at the top of her lungs on a daily basis because the old woman can’t hear any longer. At times this is annoying, but most of the time, it saddens me.
Yesterday, as I was waiting for the elevator, she came into the hallway in her wheelchair accompanied by her care-giver and a nurse. She was doing an exercise of some sort in her chair. Pretending that she was walking and using all of her strength to move along without ever standing, it was sweet as they applauded her progress. I could not help but smile.
But mostly I question what it was like to be 103, and what her secret to longevity was. Was it all of the good New York water? Or maybe living a stress-free happy life in a place that she loved?