Transitions

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People come to me sometimes with unspecified complaints. Graham, for example, admitted that “I don’t even know why I’m here, exactly.” That last word was a dead giveaway. For Graham, uncertainty was itself the trouble. He felt vaguely dissatisfied in ways he couldn’t define. He wanted a diagnosis and cure. But I thought we should unpack his feelings before taking action.

So, we talked.

Graham was 76, a famous author who specialized in the ‘20s and ‘30s. His books on the Lost Generation, Parisian Jazz, and the Great Depression had been best-sellers. But as we talked, I sensed some hesitancy about his work; it seemed he was slowing down. “I still visit archives when they’re not far away, but I can’t do what I used to,” he said. I felt that the indefinable anxiety he complained of was, in fact, definable as a recognition—however unacknowledged— that his life as an intellectual was inevitably winding down. He knew that, sort of, but couldn’t quite face it. Perhaps he was looking for help with making the transition to something else. He may have been dreading what the transition might entail.

As we age, part of seeking happiness is acknowledging where we are in life and then deciding what may suit us going forward. While sometimes we may want to try something very different (“Hey, I never had time to paint before!”), it’s understandable that we may want to avoid just abandoning what we love. We’re afraid we’ll feel bereft without ties to familiar, satisfying work. In terms of pure vanity, we may like the person we’ve become—famous, useful, or at least interesting—and may not want to become invisible. So, the problem is how to make the right decision: Where do we go from here? We need to make a decision we can live with.

I asked Graham what he thought he could do, and where it fit along the spectrum of what he’d like to do. He thought he’d still like to write, but said he didn’t have the same power of concentration. “Books take so much mental energy,” he said. “I’ve still got it, in bursts, but not over an extended period.” He thought it might take years to write something new.

But I had questions. “Do you have the material?” I asked. Apparently, he had closets full of old interviews, photos of uncatalogued letters that he’d meant to use someday but hadn’t gotten around to. So, I suggested that he hire someone to catalogue the stuff and then, if it looked like there was enough for another book, collaborate with someone to help him write it.

Graham never had anyone help him and dismissed the idea. But I told him that part of managing life as we age is accepting new MOs. That is, just because we’ve done things one way doesn’t mean we can’t do it differently if that enhances our life. “Think of it,” I said, “as extending your potential.”

In fact, a smart cataloguer could help him determine, rather quickly, the scope of the material; he or she could help outline a new book, if there was to be one. They could help determine the quality of the material; whether it needed translation; whether there were gaps. There would be far fewer surprises and delays down the road (which, at this stage, was worth the price). I suggested that he think about it.

However, he was dead set against anyone helping to write a book. “They wouldn’t have my background,” he objected. “They don’t think like me.” Okay, granted. But I explained that aging necessitates workarounds. “You know,” I said, “there are legions of writers in the city—some even trained in history—who could work under your direction. You could always edit what they do.” If Graham remained rigid, he might never write anything. So why not be flexible?

I stressed how much he might like working with another person. As we age and our world contracts, we need other people’s stimulation. Graham had always been around such people, but now he wasn’t. He had a circle of friends, but they weren’t into the stuff that he loved. Someone to talk to about Hemingway or Lindbergh might be just the ticket. Again, I suggested, “just think about it.”

For Graham, there was an element of pride involved in doing things as he had always done them—independently, entirely on his terms. He feared for his reputation—his legacy—if a new book lacked the character of books he’d produced so far. “Maybe I’d be seen as pathetic, a geriatric wannabe,” he sighed. I could see his point . . . but tried to turn the argument around. “You’ll be in charge. It’s just that you won’t be slogging through all that material which, frankly, any smart person could do.”

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It turned into a conversation over several sessions, as Graham considered (and discarded) several strategies. But accepting who we are towards the end of our lives may mean that—like it or not—we hold onto what matters and let the rest go. We have to conserve our strength. “You still care about that material you’ve collected. That’s where you might focus,” I said. I suggested that Graham think about how sad he’d feel when all those interviews and letters ended up in some archive to be read and interpreted with a mere reference to him as the source. “It’s still yours to make the most of; you just need some help.”

Graham had recently made a will leaving his entire collection of photos, letters, interviews and artifacts to his alma mater. There were thousands of items. But it was clear that while he still had possession, he was immensely attached to them—emotionally as well as intellectually. He could describe the circumstances surrounding each with precision and affection. He was, in fact, part of their story.

I thought it would give him a boost to draw on his memories and tell their story, perhaps even from a more personal perspective. In other words, there was so much left to do that was uniquely his own task, provided he allowed himself to do it within his (only somewhat) diminished competence.

I expect, in fact, that he’ll do that.