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“The afternoon of life is just as full of meaning as the morning; only, its meaning and purpose are different….” Carl Jung
There was nothing unique about the patio. It was a flat ten-by-twelve-foot rectangle, smooth concrete with no lumps or cracks. There was no wind, no ladder to contend with, no awkward angle on the fascia, which forced him to contort his body or lean one foot against the wall and the other on the highest rung. He was simply walking. When my father fell, he was carrying a gallon-sized bucket, or a paintbrush, or a tape gun, or the edge for his paint sprayer. All of these items were within reach, none remained in his hand.
He simply tripped. His foot caught a ripple in the drop cloth as he crossed, as he had crossed thousands of times in the forty plus years he has been painting houses. His foot caught a ridge on the cloth, hardened by years of spilled paint, patches of dried caulk, liquid nails, and putty—the cloth he had laid and moved, traversed and moved, folded and straightened, soaked through with sudden summer showers, and left to dry. As he crossed the room, the drop cloth caught his foot, interrupted his cadence, jettisoned him forward toward the ground in a swan dive into the patio. He reached with his left arm as his right held fast to an object. His wrist, unable to support his body’s 220 pounds, shattered. My father—carried forward by momentum, his fall unbroken by the wrist—plunged to the ground onto his left wrist, right knee, left forearm, and face.
His wrist would require surgery; a plate and seven screws, bandages, second skin, gauze and mesh, a prescription for Hydrocodone Acetaminophen 5, a sling.
He has broken this wrist before, though not to this extent. He has had injuries. He has fallen, sometimes from ladders, off of roofs, on wet ground, but not like this, and not at this late stage. At 70, his recovery will be slow. His hand will never be the same. The prospect of him never working at his trade again is now very real.
My father has been a painter as long as I can remember. He has a degree in math education, but math education jobs weren’t available when he graduated college in the early ’70s, so he took a different job, as an asset manager at GE. It took only a few years to realize that his passion came from using his hands. A patternmaker in the Navy, he spent his days deep in the bowels of ships making parts from wood. This passion would drive him from the corporate world into the world that for the last four decades has provided for his family.
But now. Now his wrist. Now his knees. Now his back and his eyes and his heart. Now his aching feet and his elbow and his bursitis in his shoulder, his arthritis in his fingers, his lack of stamina. At 70, how does he continue? Over the last several years, his capacity to work has diminished. Gone are the days of leaving before the sun rises and coming home after we children have gone to bed. Gone are the days of painting Sonny’s Barbecue restaurants in the middle of the night for weeks at a time so they wouldn’t have to close. Gone are the days of painting multi-story mansions on the water. Gone are the days.
It’s a hard thing for a man, for my father, to grow old. It’s hard when the body betrays and the mind wanders. It’s hard when you can no longer be the person you once were. For my father, like so many others, the loss of work equals the loss of identity. As a contractor, my father didn’t have a retirement account. There are no savings, no IRA or 401K. There is nothing but a small social security check, barely enough to cover medicine and rent.
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As people age, specifically men, they begin to struggle with their own identity. Roles which once dominated their daily lives now give way to others. Men often struggle with these identity changes, role changes, as they get older. When their identity as a provider, protector, worker changes, their positionality within the world changes with it. They are forced to deal with changing identities: physical, financial, professional. How we learn to adapt to these changing identities is crucial to our happiness as we enter the later stages of our lives.
What am I if not a provider for my family? What good am I if I can’t carry my weight? A burden? A strain? A nuisance?
As I sit with my father at breakfast, three days after his surgery, we discuss his future. He doesn’t know how to use a computer. He doesn’t have the technological skill sets necessary to compete for jobs in the 21st century. Although he has a math degree, he hasn’t taken a math class in over 45 years. Who could he teach? Without a teaching certification, where could he, at 70, get a job? He doesn’t want a job where his task is mundane: a greeter, a grocery bagger. His body tells him that he can no longer perform tasks which command physical stamina: a line cook, a lot attendant, a stocker. He tells me about jobs he would like to do. Jobs which sound like they would be within his scope of practice. Jobs that he would enjoy. He could drive for a living but is reluctant to use his own vehicle. Does he lack the sense of urgency required to drive an Uber or Lyft?
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I have spent my whole life learning from my father. I have watched him struggle to support his family, struggle to keep us in a neighborhood where we could attend the best schools and be safe to walk at night. I have watched how hard work has molded his identity. His actions have shaped my concept of masculinity, of being a father, of being a man. In 2008, when the real estate market crashed, I spent a long-time soul searching. My wife and I own a real estate appraisal company, and the recession affected us like it did so many others. Long nights without sleep, weeks without enough income, months without hope. In those moments, I looked to my father’s example. I remembered how hard the struggle was for those who came before me. I remember watching his silent struggle to stay afloat. In those dark moments, I think about my father.
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As he grows older, my father’s actions teach me new lessons. I watch his body break down. I watch his mental outlook change. I watch his role within the world change. Can I learn from his actions? Can I choose differently? Can I prepare myself for the stages in my life where my body will betray me, where my mind and memory fail? I do not make my living with my hands. I own a real estate appraisal company. I also teach composition and creative writing at the local university. I do not depend on physical prowess to provide for my family. I do not spend hours a day on a ladder. I do not rely on my wrists. Right now, I know who I am.
Carl Jung once said, “A human being would certainly not grow to be 70 or 80 years old if this longevity had no meaning for the species to which he belongs. The afternoon of human life must also have a significance of its own and cannot be merely a pitiful appendage to life’s morning.” As we grow older, we shift our priorities from being physically proficient to being introspective and wise. We look within to find our new purpose, our new goal.
I think about my own identity a lot. I look to my father as an example, as I have for so much of my life, and I wonder what my teenage son sees when he looks at me. Am I teaching him the right lessons? Are my actions showing him the right path?
I hope that my father finds his own passion. I hope that he is able to shift his identity to that of the wise sage who shares his knowledge, shares a lifetime of learning with those who would listen. I want to one more time learn from his example.
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