Aging is a privilege
Aging is a privilege.
This is the mantra I tell myself as I wake up every hour through the night to another hot flash that makes me feel like I am an overheating truck on a runaway tear down a mountain. I am thankful to my body for holding me through this, I tell myself. I am thankful to be in this aging body, which is me.
As I type it out, I know it is not entirely true. For one thing, I don’t really believe I am old. I know I am getting older, but I don’t truly believe it, not in my bones. For another, I find it hard to be grateful for the fifth night in a row without proper sleep. Sleep used to be my superpower. I used to be able to sleep anywhere, deeply, satisfyingly, with abandon.
But every night it becomes a little bit more true. I lie awake in the pitch-dark almost-silence of a rural village and listen to the sounds of the house and the grounds. The wind. The trees. The decades-old fridge honking rhythmically like a foghorn. I am not anxious or unsafe. I am just overheated. As I breathe, I am suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude for this time to settle into my wandering mind and allow it to come to a comfortable rest. It is the ultimate self-care, somehow. It is as if I am watching it all from the outside. My body on fire. My mind circling around itself like a dog finally finding comfort and ease. The earth slowly turning on its axis.
But aging is a true proof of privilege in other ways too.
Every day I see the truth of this statement on grotesque display in the news. Privilege allows aging. Lack of privilege shortens lives. We say that death and taxes happen to everyone, but both are deeply determined by political decisions about how well, and how long, our particular social group deserves to live. War. Poverty. Exclusion from much needed care. These are not random calamities, affecting at will. There are patterns. I cannot unsee them, nor should I. I must hold these truths, as the earth turns on its axis.
I am grateful to age. I know this is a privilege. I shall try to use it well.
