My dad just turned 80 years old. He was a Depression baby born in the winter of 1936. I felt this milestone birthday needed major celebration. So I prepared a party for him. I thought about everything I knew about my dad: poor country boy from rural Oklahoma, classic car enthusiast, auto mechanic, junk yard roamer, electrician, plumber, home builder, repairman, jack of all trades, country music lover, down-home guitarist. In short, he is the salt of the earth.
When I arrived for Christmas, I presented him with huge party balloons of the ‘good time rock ‘n’ roll’ theme: round helium balloons in solid colors of burnt red, black, and teal with one larger balloon shaped like a classic car detailed with flames. The story goes a long time ago, when my father was a young man, he drove a car detailed to read “The Wild One.” Presenting the balloon bouquet to him, I said with a smile, “Happy birthday!” and then decided to spill the beans about his surprise birthday party. His quick response was a commanding “No!” Mom and I smiled calmly and remarked about how there would be more cake and fun and prizes for us. His relatives had been invited, so Dad decided to go with the planned occasion that would take place in his home the following afternoon.
For fun I created games called “Who Knows Dad?” and “Who Knows 1936?” Anyone who correctly answered a question got a small gift from a grab bag. I came up with about fifty questions for both games, most partiers choosing to answer questions about Dad’s life. The night before, I asked him if he wanted me to read over the questions about him. [I figured he might think I would include something embarrassing from his past. No way!] As I read the first question, “Dad was born on what day of the week,” he looked confused. He said he had no idea. I told him an internet search of the year showed he was born on a Sunday. I went on with the next question: “What was Dad’s nickname on the baseball field?” He looked even more confused. He told me he did not know his father’s nickname when he played baseball. I explained the game was about him, my Dad, not his father. For a moment he seemed to think he would be put on the spot at the party to answer questions about his life. I assured him the questions were for the party-goers, not him the Birthday Boy. Yet I knew given his age, the whole thing might confuse him, maybe stress and upset him, as he initially seemed to me.
A few years ago “60 Minutes” aired a segment on the nation’s growing elderly and skyrocketing costs for hospitalization and medical care, most of which may be unnecessary. A noted geriatric physician wanted to bring home one hard fact: The human body is built to last 80 years. It doesn’t matter how well we take care of it, 80 is like nature’s expiration date for human life. If anyone lives longer than that, it is a blessing or luck and maybe genetics. I paid attention to everything the doctor advised, especially when it came to loved ones who turn 80, when the geriatric physician strongly advised family to have a serious talk. So now The Talk between parent and child is not about sex but about death and dying and final wishes, specifically Do Not Resuscitate directives in case of end-of-life scenarios. Since the initial airing of this vital report, I have managed to come across it while watching TV again and again and again. Still I haven’t had The Talk with my parents. In fact, when I first told them about seeing this report, they were offended. They honestly believed the doctor was advising society to do away with anyone over 80 years old instead of help them or heal them but just let them die.
My parents, however, are wise and pragmatic. They’ve already purchased their cemetery plots, paid for their funerals, and even showed me a picture of their lovely double headstone in pink marble shaped like a heart. Surely they have made their DNR wishes known to their doctors?
As for me, I went ahead and typed up all my final desires and arrangements, knowing life can expire way before reaching age 80. Once as a topic of discussion during a visit, I told my parents about my end-of-life preparations, hoping to open the door to full disclosure about their wishes … before something happens. All right, when the time surely comes. But neither of us was direct. So the issue remains awkward.
Aging and the brain is major research today with already helpful findings, such as dementia is averted and the brain more youthful when the elderly are taken back in time to a favorite era of their younger years. For my parents that would be the 1950s: of Elvis and hot rods, rockabilly, jukeboxes and burgers and malt shops. In their mind, the time is full of vitality and color, not faded black-and-white pictures. The clothes, the music, the fun and fads, home furniture, TV shows and cars can bring back very happy memories—and this can help revitalize the brain.
My dad looked at the napkins I chose for his party. They where white with a specific teal color, the exact blue-green shade of the teal balloon and the teal plates, bowls and dinnerware I purposefully chose for his birthday party. He was showing the color to a relative while recalling he once had a car that exact color. I remember it well: a ’55 Chevrolet with whitewall tires. He’d fix her up every now and then and take us for a ride while we were growing up in the ’70s. He’d floor the engine on the highway, gleefully passing up modern cars with no pizzazz or distinctive body design.
By the end of his birthday party—an event he declared to be his first and last—Dad seemed to have pepped up quite a bit. The stroll down memory lane, his lane, with numerous and fondly recalled anecdotes from the life he lived his way proved therapeutic. That’s the reason for an 80th birthday party: to celebrate a life well lived now.