Now that we’ve been introduced, your next question is probably why you should read about getting old. I don’t plan on making this about being old so much as reflecting on how I got here — and giving you a chance to pause and consider your own path toward those so-called golden years.
After spending most of my life going 100 miles per hour, I’m discovering that retirement isn’t what I expected. I can’t help but feel like previous generations withheld a few details. I won’t say we were lied to, but there’s plenty I wish I’d known. Between keeping your head above water and living in the moment, retirement somehow sneaks up on you.
Most importantly, I didn’t know I was old — until I was told.
It took the brutal honesty of my four-year-old granddaughter to deliver the news. She had no idea she had just jeopardized her chances of a full-ride college scholarship from Grandma. (Relax — I wouldn’t really do that.) While she looks just like her mother, she is very much my son’s daughter. She simply tells it like she sees it. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised; I’ve been accused of the same thing a time or two.
If I’m honest, I measured “old” by my grandparents too. What I considered old back then are now today’s great grandparents. Funny how your perception changes!
What I didn’t realize about aging is that inside, you feel much the same as you did 20 or 30 years ago. Aside from a body that occasionally files formal complaints, my mind still wants what it always has. I recently heard someone say that inside every adult is an eight-year-old child. The older I get, the more I believe that’s true.
We are the sum of our experiences. Our reactions today are shaped by everything that came before. Yet somewhere along the way, we decided that adults should be able to handle criticism without flinching — especially on social media. News flash: we can’t. That eight-year-old is still in there.
Be kind. We’re all just kids with wrinkles.
We’re all aging. Let’s do it out loud.
Nora
As printed in The County Journal on March 28, 2026.
While we wait for another article to be published by Nora, I thought I would share something I wrote for myself. Too long for the newspaper but I hope it conjures up some great memories of your own childhood on this chilly April morning.
If you are like me, you probably waste a considerable amount of time wishing things were different. Or why something happened to you. I don’t know why, but until I got to this ripe age of maturity, I thought that “old people” were exempt from these problems. I mean, don’t you think that by retirement, you should finally be where you want doing the things you want? Problems solved? I wish that were true but now that I’m here, I realize that it’s all a myth. That also raises the question, what does old look like?
My sister and I with Gr & Gr “Shee-shee”
Isn’t it funny that even names mean old to us? Evelyn and Otto were my maternal grandparents. (Grama and Grampa “Shee-shee”) Living in North Dakota, memories of them are limited as we went there for two weeks every summer. My cousins and I were always a little scared of Grama. A former teacher, she made us toe the line. One particular summer stands out. After they sold the farm, they moved to town and we got to play with their neighbor kids. I have no idea what we were doing wrong; but I remember Grama storming out onto the porch wielding a paring knife and giving us the dickens. I was so embarrassed! I don’t think Grama realized she was waving the knife until the episode was all over and the neighbors had run for home, scared for their lives. When she wasn’t terrorizing the neighbor kids, she was busy playing piano or playing the organ in church. I also give her credit for letting us stay up late to watch Johnny Carson. Back when late night television was entertaining.
They also visited us each fall, just in time for the World Series. I never developed a love of watching sports but we never missed a baseball game when Grandpa came to visit. I can still hear him talk about the “Dod’gers” in what I believe to be a Norwegian accent. Heavy on the “Dod”; guess you probably had to be there. Living into their 90’s, they both spent their final years in nursing homes. Years that were tough for family to watch; years we hope they don’t recall. Well cared-for but not a way I hope to go.
My fraternal grandparents were very present in my life; they lived across the driveway for a better part of my growing years. This was awesome. I hung out with my father and grandfather and loved every minute of it. Out in the barn or in the shop. Working with the animals or with hand tools. Then and even now at the age of 88, there’s nothing that my dad can’t build himself. As we speak, he is probably out in his garage working on rebuilding his Model T. If parts aren’t available, he’s making them. It’s crazy to imagine being that mechanically minded.
I would tell you that it was during this time that I learned so many useful skills that are typically reserved for boys. It’s probably also why I found myself excelling as a woman in a man’s field of work; gravitating to jobs that required me to work with men. It was and continues to be my comfort zone. Conversely, I’m afraid my mother would tell you that it was there that I picked up the annoying habit of swearing like a sailor. Yet oddly enough, I’m finding myself appalled lately with the use of the “F” word on social media and even on television recently. What’s up with that?
I remember digging worms around the corncrib on the weekends for my Grandparents to take with them to their lake cabin for fishing. Feeding the chickens and gathering eggs. While I have grandiose memories of these menial tasks; my memories of what I did yesterday are often lost. Honestly, who knows how accurate my memories are but if they are pleasant, I’m going to run with them.
I feel like my grandparents were very active people; yet they were still old in my mind. I thought it was cool that my grandfather, a retired dairy farmer, would spend his winters working at the roller-skating rink in Florida. Back in the day, when church youth groups hosted parties at the local roller-skating rink, my grandfather would not only drive us there, but he would spend the entire time skating. That led to the never-ending question, “Who’s the old man out there? He’s a surprisingly good skater.” To which I would reply with pride, “That’s my grandpa!”
I also enjoyed time with my grandmother. Bertha, who Grandpa Clyde called “Billy” was a retired nurse and a great cook. I picked up my interest in cooking and baking from her. I feel like all these experiences led me to be a well-rounded person. As an adult, my love of cooking led my family to be rounder than they cared to be. Fortunately, they have taken the time to learn about healthy cooking and portion control so now they can share their love of cooking with their families with less of the unhealthy side-effects.
Skating Grandpa was the first to go; active right up to the night he passed. His funeral the same day as my first prom, my sophomore year of high school. It was difficult but at the time I felt that I had spent as much time with him as I possibly could have and he died of a heart attack during the night. What a wonderful way to go. I was at peace with it, after all, he was old. Looking back today, he was only 70 years old. Now at the ripe age of 62, I realize that 70 is no longer old. So, I ask myself, was it old then; or is old age a sliding scale, a moving target? Are you only as old as you feel? As much as we don’t want to think about it, we need to care for our bodies. We only get one, and replacement parts are expensive!
My first attempt at writing for a public audience was restaurant reviews for a small-town newspaper. It gave my husband and me an excuse to try new places each month — until I bought a deli and catering business and added “entrepreneur” to my already full plate. My children were grown; but I still had a full-time job as a lender, so writing slipped to the back burner.
While I’ve never relied on writing to make my living, millions of dollars changed hands because of it during my twenty-six years as an agricultural loan officer. Whether it was a farm, cows or shiny piece of equipment, I had to tell a convincing story to secure financing. Many times, their livelihood depended on my ability to get their loan approved. I didn’t realize how much I loved writing until I retired and that outlet disappeared.
Why did I retire from a job I loved? Life is rarely ever that simple. When I suddenly found myself trying to juggle a full-time job, a business that demanded my attention 7 days a week, and the love of my life was diagnosed with a life-threatening illness, something had to give.
I retired on a Friday and on Monday we moved into a suite at the University of Michigan Bone Marrow Transplant Center. Far from the Ritz Carlton, it was there that I spent over forty days and nights on an uncomfortable little daybed while doctors worked to save my husband’s life. Rather than internalize my fears, I was able to pour them onto paper. It became the way to update friends and family during our nearly one hundred days without visitors. What began as notes grew into a blog that kept me sane and connected.
Fast forward three years and we are embarking on another new stage of our lives. My husband is doing very well. It’s not the life we envisioned twelve years ago, but it’s still a good one. We just moved to a new community where we can easily spend time with our growing young family and the friends that have got us through the past three years.
I’ve had my hands full dealing with a “new man” and all the medical paperwork that goes with a life-altering illness. Now that he’s out of the woods, I would like to share my life experiences and observations with you as we navigate retirement. I promise honesty, perspective, and a little humor – because growing older isn’t for the faint of heart.
We’re all aging.
Let’s do it out loud.
Nora
As Published in the March 14th Edition of The County Journal, Charlotte, MI.
I’ve been gone — but I haven’t forgotten about my readers and I haven’t given up on writing.
A lot has happened since my last blog post in September of 2024. We added four more grandchildren to love on and sold the home my husband built on the family farm. We moved north an hour to be closer to friends, our children and the growing bevy of grands. We’re rekindling old friendships and making new ones. Remodeling our new-used home, and most recently, enjoyed a month in Florida with time in Tennessee on the way there and back.
Fun Fact: Did you know that spring flowers such as daffodils and crocuses represent new beginnings or rebirth?
For me, this spring includes new beginnings with my writing. I’ve started writing for a local newspaper. It’s a different kind of writing for me. A little less personal, a little more reflective, and (hopefully) something that resonates beyond just our immediate circle. I don’t expect to become the next Ann Landers, but a girl can dream.
This is also a good time to report that the new Scott, lovingly referred to as Scott 2.0, is a lot more impulsive than the original version. For those that don’t follow us on Facebook, he is doing very well since his transplant. I won’t lie; it’s been a long and grueling ride since his BMT transplant in August of 2022. He’s very close to being off all the medications associated to it and by looking at him you would never know he was once so sick. He’s put weight back on, so much so that his mother lovingly tells him he is getting fat. He’s far from being fat; but whatever you call it, he looks much better than the stick figure he became while he was battling Myelofibrosis.
On our way to Florida, we decided — somewhat suddenly — that we needed a Can-Am Spyder. With the help of an old friend, one was located in Tennessee and paid for that on the way home from Florida. Once we get it home and gear up with matching helmets, we have plenty of ideas for adding that to our already busy retirement schedule. I’m sure some people think we’re a little crazy, but when you’ve lived through what we have, your perspective shifts. We’ll let the financial advisor decide if it was a mistake.
As for this space…
I’m not walking away from it — but I am changing how I show up.
Going forward, this blog will be a little less about the day-to-day details and a little more about the stories and reflections behind them. You’ll still see glimpses of our life — just with a bit more distance. Think of it as the difference between living it in real time and looking back on it with a little perspective.
Additionally, from here on out, rather than following our lives, you’ll hear about the adventures of Nora and Thurston Fields.
Pool time has come to an end and it’s back to real life in our new location. Stay tuned! I’ll be sharing my first published column soon, and I hope you’ll stick with Nora (me) as this next chapter unfolds.
April 26th Observation #7 – Pain Sucks at any age.
Yesterday was my surgery to remove mandibular tori (un-necessary bones) in my mouth that had grown to be a big nuisance. It seems that 7-10% of the population have them; but in most cases, they can exist without any issues. Mine were to the point of making eating difficult; large enough in the bottom of my mouth that food would get stuck underneath them; giving me a choking sensation. In researching, I learned that they would cut around the back of my lower teeth and peal back the skin to expose the bones, saw them out and replace the skin and stitch it back down. Same for the growth on the outer side of my right molars. Follow that with pain, swelling and a liquid diet for the recovery period. Needless to say, nothing any one really wants to think about having done but in my case, highly recommended. Full recovery could take up to 4 weeks depending on the individual. Lovely.
The source of the problem
After years of procrastination, I finally found a specialist and scheduled my surgery. This was back in early 2022; before Scott got sick. As the date got closer, it turned out that Scott’s stem cell transplant got scheduled for the same week so there was no way I could do it. Rescheduling each time meant a 6-8 month wait and I have been postponing it like this since then. Each time letting it make me more nervous than the time before.
Thursday, April 25th was the day. As our luck would have it, Scott came back from the funeral Saturday with a bug. If it’s there, he will catch it. I immediately began to quarantine; I could not reschedule this surgery yet again. Doing that would certainly cause me to say it just wasn’t supposed to happen. I would cancel for good and deal with the occasional issues. Between Zicam and keeping my distance, I managed to ward off his cold. Mother-in-law Bonnie offered up her shuttle service so I had a ride.
I can’t explain or remember when it happened but some where along the way I had managed to squash my fears and take the mindset of calm. Maybe it came from starting chair yoga this year. Rather than losing sleep and making myself sick with worry I just blocked it out. I was just going in for a routine cleaning or something; nothing to worry about. No big deal. This was particularly difficult as we sat in the waiting room for an hour. Not only is Bonnie a good driver; she is punctual.
The team came in on schedule. The nurse was new and seemed uncomfortable doing the IV so the doctor did it. It was actually rather painful so I joked that he wasn’t exactly off to a good start; with a 7 out of 10 on the IV. My biggest fear was waking up as they were sawing away. I told him I was willing to forget the bad IV as long as he didn’t mess up the rest of it. I wanted all the sleepy drugs they could give. Luckily that part was a 10 of 10. I remember looking around a couple times but never felt a thing.
The surgery concluded around the 2-hour mark as they estimated and after picking up some prescription mouthwash my driver had me home. At this point, the pain was manageable with Tylenol and Advil and I wasn’t starving yet. I’ll take that one day at a time too. Que sera, sera.
The point of my story is that I think with age, can come calmness or peace. Throughout life, we spend a lot of time worrying about things we can’t change or fix immediately. As we age, I think we realize that these things are going to happen whether we worry about them or not. If my younger self only had the wisdom to let it go and take things one day at a time, maybe I wouldn’t have a head of completely gray hair!
Post-script on Day 7.
Post-op day one found me doing alright. Killing it actually. Writing stories. I can do this. This girl’s a rock star! Then enter post-op day number 2. Now, who has a bad cold? Yup, coughing until you think you will pass out. A stuffy nose. Sinus drainage scorching down my already badly beaten tongue. Just what I needed. Not only do I feel like someone has been swinging me around by my tongue, I have to cough; rattling my teeth to my toes. Wheezing like I swallowed a choir of small children. Alternating Tylenol and Ibuprofen every two hours and providing little to no relief. I might have even tried some other drugs with little success. Day 3 and 4 are pretty much the same. My glands are so swollen under my chin that my neck feels as big as my thigh; if you can picture that! So, heat on the under-chin and ice on the face. Stitches are tied around my bottom teeth; l might just launch a new fashion trend; it looks so bad ass. Enflamed glands and a swollen tongue provide enough pain that I can’t even tell that my teeth hurt too.
I break down and call in on Monday only to find out that they still really don’t want to give me anything for the pain. Reminiscent of when Scott had so much pain and they wouldn’t give him anything. My cold is obviously hindering the healing process and they don’t think that pain killers will fix that. Hang in there; it’ll get better they say. I’ve learned to spoon soft foods onto my tongue and let it slide down. Between mashed potatoes and protein shakes, I’m not starving yet. But that reminds me. I don’t think I’ve had any movement since the surgery. Eating little or nothing, I forgot all about it. Now suddenly it’s day six and it’s a problem that needs attention. So, I take a couple Dulcolax and wait. Six or eight hours and nothing; better take just one more.
I’ll save you all the details but I’m sure you are anticipating this correctly. After the cork is popped, it doesn’t stop there. Sign me up for a colonoscopy; I’m ready for that now too. In a weak attempt to cheer me up the other day, my friend reminded me that “at least you aren’t having to miss work”. True; I can sit around for a week doing nothing but grimace in pain without even feeling guilty. Which that itself is a major life change for me. I’ve never been able to sit still, and here I am; sitting still on Day 7. To add insult to injury, even after the unintended bowel cleanse; I have only lost five pounds. While this experience is far from being funny; this is certainly fodder for my mantra of what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. You can’t make this up. And it would make great material for my favorite comedian Leanne Morgan too. Maybe I’ll friend her on Facebook. Right after I google home remedies for a sore tongue. Yikes! On second thought, that’s probably a bad idea. I might better just go back to sucking ice cubes and watching Love Is Blind. Living the dream.
The oriole feeder awaits a returning guest and I anxiously await a return to normalcy.
WhatDoesn'tKillYouGirlMakesYouStronger. 