Dr. Becca Levy has written a book titled The Age Code which is sort of about age discrimination, and sort of about positivity and mostly about her research finding that more positive people live longer. I think we already know this from other research into happiness and positivity. What I was hoping to find, and what I think the book promises but barely delivers is how we achieve and maintain the perspective of seeing life, our lives, as more forward-facing and engaging than the alternative.
I teach, write, and coach about positivity. I know the territory and mostly live in it. But, as I approach my 80s and my body begins to wear out, I don’t always feel positive about my present health status or the hope of resolution in the future. This sometimes gets me down. I wonder what the realistic expectation is of my heart condition. I despise the effects of some of my necessary medications. Yes, despise. I look like I’ve been in a brawl most of the time due to the effects of a blood thinner. When I have any kind of procedure (and these are unfortunately more and more frequent), I worry about uncontrolled bleeding and the accompanying visit to the emergency room.
Levy’s research tells us that older adults with a positive belief about aging live, on average, 7.5 years longer than those with a more negative outlook. She doesn’t tell us over what period this belief must exist, or how to achieve or maintain it in our older adulthood. Where does the positive belief intersect with the reality of physical and psychological change in our lives? How do I keep my chin up when my energy is definitely down? And, most important of all, is it fair to preach positivity to older adults in the face of very real age discrimination — particularly from the medical profession? Do I have to turn the other cheek when my cardiologist treats me like a recalcitrant six year old, when he says that my mottled shins and swollen feet only trouble me because I am vain?
I guess I am, sort of. When a newer cardiologist recommended a CPAP machine for breathing at night, all I could picture was some paparazzi taking my photo at 2 o’clock in the morning with hose sticking out of my head and plastic noseguard covering half my face. I didn’t actually connect the CPAP for several months until my husband (who also wears a mask and uses a CPAP) shamed me into it in front of my family.
When my yoga teacher moved a chair so that I could rest my legs on it for shavasana (the end of class resting) this morning, she asked me how long my right leg had been swollen and discolored. I said at least six months. “You gotta call someone about this,” she said. I have called. I have spoken to both cardiologists and two primary care physicians. They all do some version of shrugging their shoulders.
My 79th birthday occurs in a few days. I dress carefully and stylishly. My short gray hair is worn in a well-maintained bob. I exercise and keep my weight at an acceptable level. Working part-time in the organization development arena I love, for a major university, has kept me sharp. I have no illusions about the seriousness of my cancer and heart disease. But positivity is hard to be my everyday attitude when medical professionals, who should know better, treat me as if my age should determine my forfeiture of all humane treatment, all respect for my personhood, and all kindness from one human being to another.
