“Life begins at 40.” Not anymore. According to recent media proliferation, “50 is the new 30”. A life began at 40, for the first time: a child. No previous pregnancies (that I’m aware of); had ‘given up’ on the prospect of becoming a mother and was beginning to look into ‘alternative parenting options’.
Then it happened, or something started that would forever change identity and perspective. In many ways profound and significant, in others, disillusioning regarding relationships and the scope of ‘human nature’.
Purpose took shape, in a way that will define the other perhaps half century to follow. The legacy at work is merely a continuation of the examples of role models that inspired and created the most positive experiences that existed in childhood.
It remains difficult to grasp, now that taking care of one’s health has moved to the forefront after not shadowing the threshold of a doctor’s domain for nearly ten years. Most of the people administering medical maintenance are younger, doctors included. Some look older; others are obviously not. This is where not feeling my age begins to all but scream.
I feel just over 30; my body speaks otherwise. I’ve the energy to keep up with my child when fully ambulatory. By the same token the energy also comes from a young life that looks to me for inspiration, validation, and explanations of things he can’t understand. Most of the time, the answers are to his satisfaction. Most of the time, our relationship is deepened on what matters most.
The most frustrating part about personal ‘health care’ is the time consumption. In offices where you don’t want to be takes up days of valuable time that would otherwise be spent on further advancing one’s life, and the lives of all others affected, especially my child, for whom the quest was entirely created.
Those in ‘retirement’ don’t have this concern. I’m close to the age where going to a doctor has become part of a monthly routine for some, as if it were some lifestyle activity. I look forward so much to when it tapers down to what might be ‘normal’ for who I consider myself to be at this point in life: very active and someone who doesn’t look or feel their age.
When I was as vibrant as a few of the women I’ve observed sticking needles in, taking them out, or some other related function, it wasn’t on my radar that those I serviced would one day be someone like me: someone who was once like them at an earlier point in life. We don’t typically think that way. What we become when we’re ‘older’ is a transformation that is either an extension of an earlier life, someone completely unrecognizable from their ‘youth’, or something in between.
The unsettling thing is how quickly it happens. I can remember when my child was an infant as if it were yesterday. The joy was so overwhelming, and so fleeting, as what would not be wished on even an ‘enemy’ began to transpire, and it was all I could do in simply remaining active in protecting the precious and special life that had been brought into the world for a reason.
It became the protection of a life and a purpose: his. It is ongoing. He is not the same child before the negative forces of human nature ‘out there’ left an indelible mark. To dwell on it would be too devastating. Moving on daily is all that can be done, until the lights are brighter and the road ahead is clearer.
It’s easier to accept that those administering my ‘health care’ or ‘maintenance’ are years my junior than my child losing sight of his purpose from influences that have their own interests as ‘priorities’. He has responsibility imposed upon him that is not his, thus taking responsibility for things that are not about him, affecting his emotions, actions, and choices. It has become ingrained to the point of being reflexive: everything I took action to prevent what he could be exposed to, a broken system only exposed him more. He has become a commodity, an acquisition, a showpiece, motivated by pleasing those he must to survive on many levels when away from what was created during his earlier years.
He has not lost sight of that, though the longer or more he is elsewhere, the impressions fade. Who he is fades under the glare of ‘surviving’ at an age when he is most vulnerable. He is alone with unanswered questions and thoughts no one can explain to his satisfaction, so he doesn’t bother asking most of the time. His responses are signature, though no one sees or listens when it’s actually happening.
Exceptional children are reinforced consistently of both their abilities, what they can do in the world and when. In the absence of the former, confusion and internal conflicts arise; long term implications are not realized. All kinds of signature symptoms appear, that seem to be only obvious to competent professionals: those obscured from true protection of those they’re trained to represent.
The spinning is all for profit and status, and a young innocent life is the means. He’s not the only one. He didn’t come into the world for this. What’s done cannot be undone, though there is still hope. “What goes around comes around” has meaning for a reason. It can’t go on forever.
Those my age are established, having created empires that will long support their heirs. Most had lots of help in some form or another. Being everything to one person is not profitable unless a team is also in place. An example of healthy relationships exists, though they’re so rare. A glimpse and reference point is to remain constant, or another life could be sacrificed from others’ needs, that either come with a price, or can be bought.
The cause of true aging? Negativity is one, which isn’t me. Wasted time is another, also not me. Stereotyping on a systemic level doesn’t help. Apathy clouded by profit incentives doesn’t either. Being too affected by others contributes (not me again).
Which leaves what? The ‘forties’ in some ways were an oblivious blur, mixed with joy and unmatched anguish, all because of a child coming into the world, defining a purpose of his own and shaping yet another: keeping the former, among other things inextricably connected.
I’m not envious of those who had the kind of support where they could move ahead much earlier, like those who now stick needles and other things into me on occasion. I embraced the term ‘late bloomer’ long ago, yet didn’t imagine that it could only be beginning now. I’m now and forever a mom first, and all that follows is merely an extension of that identity, for a reason.
You may be reading this at an age a couple of decades prior to midlife. Know this: it will be here sooner than you expected. Procrastination is a luxury no one can afford because time is the ultimate commodity. A child to a certain kind of parent puts into razor focus the value of time. To others, it creates resentment imposed upon children for which they can neither escape nor take away the permanent effects. No ‘damages’ can compensate for what has been taken away, if or when identified.
Single or without children doesn’t mean actions do not affect. Everyone you come into contact with is either a parent or someone whose life influences the next generation, thus your legacy as well. That ‘wings of a butterfly’ ripple effect concept? Believe it. And that’s just on a ‘regular’ day, as if there really was such a thing.
