My Life in Numbers

"Countless numbers come together to create the richness and depth of my life. Interestingly, as I age, the definition of "old" changes. 71: how many birthdays I have enjoyed; 40: how old I feel inside; 60: how old my body feels at times. Years ago, when I was in my 30s, my aunt stated that inside she felt 30 even though she was 60, which I didn't understand. I certainly understand now."

"70 felt old when my parents were that age. My father was only one year older than I am now when he had his catastrophic stroke. How is that possible? With limited speech and confined to a wheelchair, he nobly lived with his extreme disabilities for eight years until he died. 2½: The years between my brother Steve and his younger brother Jeffrey, of whom he has no memory. 6½: the age difference between Steve and me because of Jeffrey's death. Innumerable: my unanswered questions about the brother I never met while silently staring at his photos placed around the house. 0: the days my mother chose to talk to me about Jeffrey."

"8½: my granddaughter, when she asks me, "What's it like to be old, Nana?" To her, I am very old, yet I am not old-old (yet). Certainly not 88 or 98, although that window is closing as well. I remember turning 40 and thinking that 20 years ago I was 20 and 20 years from now I would be 60. And just like that, incredulously, I am long past 60."

Countless numbers punctuate life, marking birthdays, feelings, bodies, and memories. Specific ages—71 celebrated, feeling 40 inside, body feeling 60—show how the definition of "old" shifts with time. Family numbers record loss, gaps, and silence: a father struck by stroke near the narrator's current age, age differences among brothers shaped by death, and unanswered questions about a sibling never met. Generational numbers alter perception: an 8½-year-old granddaughter sees the narrator as very old, while grown sons in their 40s recast parental age. Numbers remain integral to memory, identity, and emotion.

Read at Psychology Today