Rethinking the future

When I was young, like many youngsters, I didn’t give much thought to my old age and whether I would be financially comfortable or desperately poor.
 
Old age seemed such a long way off, it didn’t seem worth thinking about. I suppose I assumed that however my life panned out, everything would be fine. If it wasn’t, the welfare state would help me out. I certainly wouldn’t be living on the streets.
 
But things have changed so drastically since then that more and more youngsters are giving serious thought to their old age and what it will be like.
 
With more and more old people and fewer and fewer births, the state will struggle to  help oldies and may have to rethink or even scrap its current provisions – welfare benefits, the NHS, the state pension, travel passes, winter fuel payments, free prescriptions and more.
 
A lot of youngsters are now thinking seriously about providing for their old age. They’re setting up personal pensions, making investments, buying property if they can afford to, living with their parents so as to add to their savings. They’re less likely to be as cavalier about the future as the young me and my age group.
 
But how shocking it is that young people can no longer assume that if all else fails the state will ensure their old age is comfortable and they don’t have to rely entirely on their own resources. What an unnecessary burden that would be.

Bled dry

It’s common knowledge that health care in the States can be so ruinously expensive that people regularly go bankrupt trying to pay the bills.
 
It’s not so well-known that care homes in Britain are also ruinously expensive and people unlucky enough to need one can also end up bankrupt from the scale of the charges.
 
My mum was in a care home for nine months in 2018 and was paying around £3000 a month. I gather the charge nowadays could be around £1300 a week or £1500 if nursing care is included.
 
That staggering figure soon mounts up. For nine months now she could have been paying over £50,000 ($68,000). How many people have that kind of money to spare? Her local authority could have offered her some financial help but it would be far below what she needed.
 
I look enviously at Sweden, where social care for oldies is provided automatically and comprehensively by the state. Why can’t social care in Britain be provided on the same basis? Obviously it should be part of the national health service.
 
Meanwhile if granny needs long-term care, it could bleed you dry.

Getting old

According to a survey of 2000 people, some youngsters think old age begins at 53. Seriously? How do they work that out? Annoyingly, there is no explanation of this odd figure.
 
I would say old age begins around 75. That was then I started to get various aches and pains I hadn’t had before and when my physical energy started to decline. Before that I didn’t feel any older than someone of 40.
 
Oldies who were also included in the survey thought like me that old age begins at 75. That’s more like it.
 
But 53? How come? Maybe they’re not saying that 53 year olds are actually old and decrepit but just that they’re showing the early signs of old age. They’re set in their ways or slowing down a bit or can’t hear properly.
 
At 53 I was not only fit and healthy but I had just moved from London to Belfast. Very adventurous for someone who was supposedly entering old age.

These odd-thinking youngsters need to talk to a few more oldies to get better informed about ageing.

Not so old?

Like most people, I guess, I take news of some especially long-lived oldie quite uncritically, but apparently a lot of these amazing ages may not be genuine, due to dubious documentation and other errors.

In 2010, more than 230,000 Japanese centenarians turned out to be missing, imaginary, clerical errors or dead. In Greece 72 per cent of census-reported centenarians in 2012 were discovered to be no longer alive.

Do we even want to live so long? Rising numbers of oldies are enduring chronic medical conditions that restrict their quality of life. And do we really want to wake up every day to yet more horrific crimes, international conflicts, dictators and corporate greed? Better a shortened age with a good quality of life than an advanced age that isn't any fun any more.

My mum lived until 96, by which time her quality of life was pretty poor. She had had dementia for several years, and had problems with walking and personal care, as well as having limited physical energy. Quite honestly, she would have been better off if she had died a few years earlier.

So I don't take any notice of people's sure-fire blueprints for living longer. I'll leave others to test them out. I'll happily accept whatever life span I've been allotted, as long as I'm still fit enough to enjoy it.

Warts and all

I'm quite happy with my appearance and I don't care what other people think about it. I don't care if they think I'm ugly or wrinkled or doddery or ancient-looking. They're not going to tell me how they see me anyway so why should it bother me?

As I see it I just look like a typical 77 year old bloke and I've no wish to look anything different. I certainly don't wish I looked 50 years younger, or looked like George Clooney, or looked like a body-builder.

Neither have I ever considered any kind of cosmetic surgery. Once you go down that road you can easily get hooked on it and end up trying one procedure after another - until you look totally artificial. And in any case I have a horror of operations.

But some elderly people hate the way they look and wish they looked young again, or wish they were wrinkle-free. They just can't accept the way they look as perfectly natural and normal and not worth obsessing about.

The way I look is less important to me than whether I'm physically and mentally healthy and able to enjoy life to the full - which I am.

I was never especially eye-catching even when I was young. I had very ordinary looks. I was never going to be pursued by bedazzled women or for that matter bedazzled men. That was something I missed out on, but I don't think I would have enjoyed that level of attention anyway.

I am what I am, warts and wrinkles and all.

Blissful ignorance

When I was young I seldom gave any thought to the possibility of old age and all it implied. I lived in a self-absorbed juvenile bubble, aware only of my youthful vitality and my still coalescing personality.

When we visited my mother's parents, all I took in was that they were old. I thought very little about what that entailed. I was aware that granny had a bad back and some arthritis but that was about it. Most of her life was a complete mystery to me, likewise grandpa's.

Of course one reason I thought so little about old age was that for most people in those days old age didn't last very long. The generally-observed retirement age was 65 and most people only lived for a few years after retiring. Because of that they were less likely to develop the multitude of medical problems that afflict so many of today's oldies. So if I ever thought about old people's health, I assumed they were physically fit rather than frail and decrepit.

I think it's also the case that youngsters, if they think of old age at all, simply don't want to know that one day they might be old and enfeebled, so they try not to think about what's coming down the line. They tell themselves that they'll never get old, or they'll die before they reach old age, or that all the infirmities of old age might happen to others but not themselves.

I was convinced at one time that I wouldn't live very long and would thus avoid old age altogether. In my twenties, I was quite sure I wouldn't reach 30, and was rather surprised when I did. I also thought I might die at 70, as my father did, but that never happened either.

My whole life

At the age of 76, I've now known every stage of human existence, from childhood to old age, so I have a total life experience. I know what it's like to be a child, to be middle aged, and to be nearing the end of my life. No longer do I have a vast and unknown sweep of life ahead of me, but I've got the whole picture.

I know what it's like to be a child, fitting in with my parents' beliefs and prohibitions, largely innocent of adulthood and its horrors and liabilities, free to enjoy my childhood games and obsessions without having to think about bills or mortgages or roof repairs.

I've met the challenges of middle age, when you're constantly exhausted by the demands of full-time work, household maintenance, looking after elderly parents, and maybe raising several children. You're rushing from one task to another with little time to explore your own needs and desires.

And now I'm in the throes of old age, adjusting to all the minor dysfunctions of my ancient body, hoping I'll have enough money for however long I'm alive, hoping I won't develop dementia and become a useless vegetable (but also knowing the joys of retirement and not being in thrall to some vicious boss).

In particular, it's great being able to look back at my entire life, knowing exactly what happened to me and what I did with whatever opportunities arose. I know my life has been a success and not some string of disasters and miscalculations. When I was living on my own in the 1970s, I was rather pessimistic about the future, and had no idea things would work out so well.

The once unknown future has revealed itself.

A helping hand

It's terrible getting old, people say. You've got aches and pains every-where, people don't respect you any more, you're baffled by all the new ways of doing things, you know death's just round the corner.

Well, actually life can be terrible at any age. As a child, you're always told what to do by other people, there are so many things you don't understand, you want things you can't buy, you're put in clothes you loathe, you're forced to spend time with distant uncles and aunts who mean nothing to you.

When you're middle-aged, you're loaded with ongoing responsibilities like bringing up children, looking after elderly parents, paying off a mortgage, building up a retirement fund, scrambling up the career ladder, coping with tyrannical bosses, maybe saddled with a huge overdraft.

Any age can be ghastly. But the real difference between one age and another is how much help and support you get.

Children have the support of their parents and relatives and siblings and teachers. They're surrounded by other people who want them to have happy and fulfilling lives.

The middle-aged are usually supported by a family network that helps with child-minding, ferrying children to school, giving parenting advice, providing loans and dealing with emergencies.

If they're lucky, older people will also have a family and friends to keep an eye on them, but they may not be so fortunate. Deaths may have wiped out their family and many of their friends and they may end up quite isolated and unable to get the support they need. They may struggle to keep their spirits up and get through their daily lives.

It's not old age that's the problem. It's whether you have a helping hand when you need it. Or preferably a whole bunch of helping hands.

Still here

When I was young, I was quite certain I'd die before I was thirty. I was sure I'd be gone long before I got wrinkles, crows' feet, arthritis, dodgy eyesight and all the other attributes of old age. I'd be a victim of some freak accident or illness that would finish me off.

There was no good reason for this irrational belief. I wasn't addicted to drugs or alcohol. I didn't have a life-threatening disease. I wasn't doing a dangerous job. I wasn't a reckless driver. I was perfectly healthy. Yet I was convinced I didn't have long for this world.

I think I secretly liked the idea of dying in my prime. A tragic and romantic end to a promising life. A prodigious talent snuffed out far too early. Well, in my case, not quite a prodigious talent, more like a few vague and useless abilities.

And now here I am at the age of 72, still very much alive, still perfectly healthy and set to live another decade or two. Jenny is sure I'll live to 100 at least. How did that happen? What guardian angel is keeping an eye on me?

I've lived to see Boris Johnson, the internet, the obesity epidemic, peace in Northern Ireland, Taylor Swift, climate collapse, ripped jeans and bankrupt banks. I've seen every grisly and brutal thing human beings are capable of. I've been round the block a few times, as they say.

I must say I don't feel as if I'm 72. I feel that a seventy something should be an enormous repository of wisdom, an expert on every subject, in which case I'm sadly lacking as I still seem to have the skimpy and unreliable knowledge of a thirty year old. Anyone coming to see me for some brilliant advice on their latest life crisis would be sadly disappointed. I can just about change a light bulb.

I'm still waiting for the prodigious talent to kick in.

A faltering finale

A survey of people's biggest worries found that after number one (being overweight), the next two were getting old and their financial future.

I'm not surprised by those two. They're two of my worries as well, for the simple reason that I have no idea how long I'm going to live, no idea how much it'll cost me, and no idea if I'll run out of money. The future is largely unknowable and all sorts of unforeseen events could put a spanner in the works.

My worries also stem from the fact that we live in a very ageist society where vulnerable old people are often ignored or mistreated, and not given the help, support and respect they deserve after a lifetime of work, often in vital services like the NHS. I can't be confident that if I fall on hard times other people will come to my rescue and make sure I'm okay.

And I'm one of the more fortunate ones. I've benefited from a lifetime of rising property prices, I haven't had any children to pay for, I'm still fit enough to work, and I have no money-draining addictions.

Today's young people are in a much worse position when they contemplate the future. The state pension is being steadily eroded, but they have little money to put into a private pension. They have tuition fees to repay, they're stung for massive rents and mortgages, bringing up children is more and more costly (£230,000 a child at the last count), and wages are being ruthlessly slashed through zero-hour contracts, part-time work and a skinflint minimum wage.

Many young people can barely get through the week, let alone save anything. No wonder they often look totally blank when asked about pension plans.

Old age should be a a time of carefree enjoyment, not gnawing financial worries. Old age should be a joyous finale to a strenuous life.

Pic: Beatrix Ost, New York artist and writer

Future shock

I have what you might call future-phobia*. I'm nervous about the future and what it might bring. I don't have that optimistic horizon that most people possess.

Where other people assume the future will bring something better than they have right now, that life is essentially a matter of onwards and upwards, my imagination runs riot with all manner of unpleasant possibilities.

I'll run out of money; I'll go senile; I'll get some dreadful illness; the house will fall down; I'll live to 100, by which time I'll be a brainless vegetable; I'll die alone and not be found for weeks; I'll turn into a crazy eccentric, shouting at people in buses; I'll be dumped in some vile care home; and so on and so forth.

Why do I have these gloomy (and extremely unlikely) scenarios? Why don't I assume the exact opposite,a happy and healthy old age in which nothing very nasty happens and I enjoy all the things I enjoy right now?

After all, the future, by definition, is largely unknowable. Anything could happen, and there are sure to be plenty of surprises and odd quirks of fate. Good luck is just as likely as bad luck, and to dwell on the second is irrational and perverse.

But then, as we all know, humans are irrational creatures and trying to banish the irrational from our psyches is no easy task. I can tell myself over and over that my fears are unbalanced, that I'm looking at things from a lop-sided perspective, but the fears defy my earnest logic.

No doubt in twenty years' time, if I'm still on this planet, I'll laugh at all the absurd fears of my earlier years and wonder how on earth I imagined such grim turns of event. And then I'll have a chocolate biscuit and a nice cup of tea.

* It's very common but there doesn't seem to be a technical name for it. Secret Agent Woman, any ideas?

Still alive

When I was a teenager, I was firmly convinced I wouldn't live beyond thirty. I guess I felt vulnerable, fragile, at the mercy of unpredictable events that could easily finish me off.

I would be in a car crash, or have a premature heart attack, or be viciously mugged. I would never be old enough to have wrinkles or arthritis or a pension. I'd be a pile of ash long before that.

So now I'm 65 I still find it extraordinary that I've survived to such a ripe old age without the expected calamity carrying me off in the meanwhile. How come I'm still here? How come I'm alive to see the 2012 Olympics, wind farms, Louise Mensch*, Barack Obama and the internet? Which guardian angel is hovering over me, keeping me from harm?

I'm very philosophical about my age though. I have no desperate urge to live to a hundred. I don't see that as a dazzling achievement. And as for living beyond thirty, well, I'm profoundly grateful I met Jenny at the age of 34, naturally. But if I'd snuffed it in my twenties and skipped a few decades, so what? I'd never have met Jenny, but then, what you've never had, you never miss, as they say.

I suppose my assumption of a brief lifespan was partly connected with my constant sense of being different from everyone else. If most people lived to a hoary old age, then ergo, being the habitual exception, I would peg out in my prime.

There was no concrete reason why I should die early. I wasn't addicted to drugs or alcohol. I didn't have a life-threatening illness. I wasn't doing a dangerous job. I was perfectly healthy. Yet I was convinced I couldn't possibly reach middle age, that that was an experience I would never know.

And now here I am, with the wrinkles and the pension. And still with a sense of having cheated my natural destiny. How did that happen?

*Louise Mensch - Tory MP who subjected James and Rupert Murdoch to ruthless questioning over the phone hacking scandal 

Life expectancy

How lucky we all are! Average lifespans are going up all the time and before long there'll be centenarians galore, not to mention armies of ninety-year-olds.

But do we really want to live to 100? Do we really want to live so long we can hardly remember what we did for a living or who we once shacked up with, let alone our first love or our teenage rampages?

Why is length of life considered so much more important than quality of life? What's the point of reaching 101 if by that time you're half-blind, deaf, senile and stuck in a wheelchair?

Personally I'd prefer dropping dead at (say) 70, still in good health, mentally alert and savouring life to the full, to staggering on for another thirty years becoming more and more decrepit and an increasing burden to everyone else.

In fact I'd like to keel over in the middle of something I particularly enjoy like climbing Slieve Donard*, scoffing a huge bowl of ice cream or exploring some foreign city.

I certainly don't want to end up in a so-called care home, where the chances are instead of being cared for I'd be treated with casual indifference by underpaid, uncommitted staff.

No, I'm happy to stay alive as long as I'm firing on all cylinders and my brain is still fizzing with all the spectacle and novelty of the world around me.

Once the fun disappears and my body starts falling apart, I hope someone will do the decent thing and pop something nasty in my morning coffee to save me from a miserable fadeout.

Frankly I want to go out with a bang and not a whimper. And with my dignity still intact.

* Highest mountain in Northern Ireland, one of the Mourne Mountains.