As my mother has gotten older, my own perspective on aging has changed

My mother opened the door to her apartment, happy to see me on her doorstep. She wore an oversized black T-shirt with white writing on the front that read: “I can’t believe I’m the same age as the old people.”

I’ve long accepted that she’s not a fashionista, but I’ve only recently begun to understand that my eccentric 76-year-old mother has been getting there for years. (Can we say old? She shirt said old.)

I only recently began to grapple with its mortality

I have seen her reach the mortality threshold several times: stage II breast cancer, four joint replacements, rheumatoid arthritis and coronary angioplasty. These are of course her personal trials, but as an only child, I hope I have borne some of the weight with her. I remember the diagnoses, the doctor’s appointments, the tears, the terror in his eyes from an uncomfortable hospital bed.

But I saw each of these moments as just moments in time. Bumps in the road. It took me years – decades, perhaps – to internalize that these illnesses culminate in the truth that one’s mortal body is falling apart.

Sometimes I move toward acceptance, but then my mind wavers. Isn’t 76 the new 56!? I recently googled life expectancy charts to get some reassuring data. I went down the line to the birth year of 1949. The average white American woman born in that year can reasonably expect to live to be 78 years old. The research is there, but how does a person process this information?

Our relationship is extremely close, even with its ups and downs

My mother and I experienced years of deep, almost psychic closeness. No matter what happens in my life, whether it’s auditioning for my college production of “The King and I” or discussing the realities of menopause (which I hear is coming soon for me), she understands, encourages me and is always there. Mom on demand.

She thinks everything I say is hilarious, everything I choose is smart, everything I do is the best. Maybe she’s just good at pretending. Anyway, I know I’m lucky.

That said, we also barely survived the confusing and painful seasons of our relationship. Some people might call it…a little dramatic or complex (I might be one of those people), and our battles ran deep. My move to college was painful for both of us. A May-December romance she pursued rocked my world. She often felt abandoned by her only daughter. I bristled at feeling suffocated.

As I grew older myself, my own perspective changed

All those “problems” I once wanted to resolve in therapy, well, I don’t care anymore. At some point, you go from seeing yourself as a parent to being seen as another imperfect human being like you. As we both got older, we also naturally mellowed. I don’t have the time or energy to fight. This is precisely why I’m enjoying my own quarantine. Things that don’t matter take a back seat. Those that are valuable are in focus.

I recently shared this revelation with my mother. “I’m glad you think it’s better to get older,” she emailed me. “It’s just a journey, you know? As you get older, for some reason, life gets lighter.”

For much of my youth, the two of us were in an 800 square foot apartment against everyone else, and I was desperately afraid of losing her. And yet we stay. We may live 30 miles apart, connected by text most of the time, but the closeness endures.

I still fear his loss one day, but it is now tempered by an adult’s wisdom and gratitude, not a child’s panic. I believe this strange, almost miraculous connection we have will survive us both. To hell with life expectancy tables.