Countless numbers come together to create the richness and depth of my life. Interestingly, as I age, the definition of “old” changes. 71: how many birthdays I have enjoyed; 40: how old I feel inside; 60: how old my body feels at times. Years ago, when I was in my 30s, my aunt stated that inside she felt 30 even though she was 60, which I didn’t understand. I certainly understand now. 70 felt old when my parents were that age. My father was only one year older than I am now when he had his catastrophic stroke. How is that possible? With limited speech and confined to a wheelchair, he nobly lived with his extreme disabilities for eight years until he died.
2½: The years between my brother Steve and his younger brother Jeffrey, of whom he has no memory. 6½: the age difference between Steve and me because of Jeffrey’s death. Innumerable: my unanswered questions about the brother I never met while silently staring at his photos placed around the house. 0: the days my mother chose to talk to me about Jeffrey.
8½: my granddaughter, when she asks me, “What’s it like to be old, Nana?” To her, I am very old, yet I am not old-old (yet). Certainly not 88 or 98, although that window is closing as well. I remember turning 40 and thinking that 20 years ago I was 20 and 20 years from now I would be 60. And just like that, incredulously, I am long past 60.
45: the age of my oldest son; 42: the age of my middle son; almost 40: the age of my youngest son. People talk about their kids in their 40s, and they are old parents. That is me now, but I don’t feel that old. Soon, I will not have any children in their 30s. Parents with kids in their 20s are now young. I vividly remember celebrating my 40th birthday with my three children.
18: the age I met Paul. 22 and 23: our respective ages when we married. 49: the number of years we have been married. 20: the number of years 49 feels like; forever: what 49 married years also feel like.
11: the years we have been grandparents, enriching our lives in countless ways. We get to feel young again and see old sights through new eyes. My daughter-in-law asks me if being a Nana is as wonderful as everyone says it is. I tell her there are no accurate words to describe the pure joy I feel. She smiles.
Daily: the adorable comments that the little ones say: “Nana, let’s count the worms on the sidewalk after the rain.” “Nana, can I sit on that rock? It’s the biggest one ever.” “Nana, tell me the story about Freddy.” He is make-believe and helps Dylan fall asleep.
Some grandparents feel it is enjoyable to play with the grandkids, but then you can give them back to their parents and go home. For me, I enter their world knowing I don’t have a clock ticking in my head reminding me to make dinner; I have no carpools to run; no homework to review; no job. I can play without any worry that I am late for an important meeting. Rather, my important meeting is playing Go Fish with my 5½-year-old grandson. I am totally present. No laundry to do, dishes to clean. I can be 100 percent Nana.
11 years (I purchased my SUV the week after our first grandson was born) is the age of my car. 76,000: the miles added for the first three years I was still working, and then the last eight years, driving to be with my grandchildren. 2: the number of my car seats, a constant joyful reminder that my little grandsons frequently populate the backseat of my car. 1: only one booster seat needed, and soon my granddaughter, like my oldest grandson, won’t need anything other than an adult seatbelt for car safety. How did that happen?
3: the number of furry children we have loved and nurtured. Our current pup, Molly, #3, is 7 years old. I try not to focus on the numbers she has left. 0: the number of dogs I had in my childhood. 0: the number of dogs my husband wanted, but I ignored him and adopted Teddy. I lied to the pet adoption agency when they asked whether everyone in the house wanted the dog. It was one of the best lies I ever told. 2: the number of years it took Paul to forgive me for bringing Teddy home despite adoring him. 14½: the number of years we enjoyed with Teddy and the years we both loved him. Countless hours: Paul cried over Teddy’s loss and then Emma’s loss many years later. Immediate: the amount of time it took for Paul to love Molly, who now sleeps with us every night.
26: the number of angel statues and figurines that populated my college office. 26: the number of the same angels I gifted to my favorite students, one by one, when I retired. 4: the years it took me to adjust to not teaching. Forever: How long it has taken me to miss my students.
71: the amount of years Lori and I have been best friends. Our parents were best friends, and we were born two weeks apart. 0: the years we have lived in the same city as adults. 0: how many minutes it takes for us to reconnect and feel as if we have never been apart.
53: the years Nancy and I have been best friends. We met when we were next-door neighbors in the dorm during our first quarter at UCLA. After the first year, we roomed together until we graduated: one year in the dorm and then in two apartments until I was married, and then, the following year, she was married. 49: the years Nancy and Irv and Paul and I have been best couple friends.
14: my age when my brother brought home his future wife, Marilyn. 4: the age difference between Marilyn and me. 100: the times throughout the day I think of her and miss her since her passing. 4: the roles she played in my life: best friend, sister, mother, everything.
Countless: the words I have written daily that have kept me whole, grounded, sane, and joyful. Always: the importance and significance of numbers in my life.
