Illustration by Alex Siklos
First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
When I turned 70, I was determined to impress my family and friends; most of all, I was determined to impress myself.
I had read of people who marked the milestone by climbing a mountain or doing a sky dive or starting a doctorate. Whatever the choice, it was something monumental for this age. It was meant to demonstrate the sense of still living life to its fullest, that everything was still working extremely well, thank you very much.
I decided I would jump off the wharf in Pointe du Chene, N.B. I had jumped off this wharf many, many times as a child and remembered the thrill. It was perhaps not the most impressive act of bravery, but certainly brave for me at 70. This was to be my display of the wonder of old age. It would be thrilling, if I could do it.
My daughter was on hand for encouragement and to film the event. There were a lot of bystanders as well, tourists and summer residents enjoying a beautiful summer evening at the Wharf. There were other jumpers, mostly children, and the night air was filled with their laughter and cries of delight. People cheered loudly and those sitting in their cars honked for each huge splash from a successful jumper. I was filled with excitement and felt like a child again as I approached the edge for my jump. I looked down into the deep water and knew immediately I could not jump. I was scared to death.
What it’s like to share my past on TikTok at 70
My daughter encouraged me and coached me. Many strategies were tried. I backed up and then walked to the edge, but could not jump. I attempted a run to the edge, but could not jump. There were many countdowns by onlookers to help encourage me. Counts to 10 failed. Counts backward from 10 failed. Counts in French failed. I could feel everyone’s disappointment, not just my own.
A few tears were shed and in the end, my daughter kindly told me it was okay not to jump and in my relief, the tears turned to laughter. Everyone around me joined in. It felt terrific. I told myself that I was a 70-year-old woman who did not want to jump off a wharf. So what! It did not feel like a defeat. I was brave in other ways. It felt good to listen to myself for once and to realize that I was already amazing.
My daughter and I stayed on for a while and did our share of honking for all the other jumpers. It was a wonderful way to keep that fun feeling of the night. But I refuse to this day to watch the video of my 70-year-old self trying to jump off my childhood wharf. I may be brave, but not that brave.
A decade later, the thought of turning 80 was far more alarming than 70. It seemed impossible to be turning 80. How could that be? I started planning for the big day well over a year in advance. I knew this time around not to mark the occasion with any public displays of bravery. (I did get a new hip, but I don’t think that counts. Practically everyone I know is sporting a new hip by 80.)
I decided I would throw a huge party and started working on the guest list, dreaming of so many people I loved all together in one room. To seal the deal, I chose to have a streak of blue put in my hair.
When teased about it by friends and family, at first I blamed it on my hair stylist. But in time I took complete ownership of the choice of my beautiful blue streak and started loving the attention. It still makes me feel so good. There is never a day, now closing in on two years, that some stranger doesn’t stop me to say, “Love the blue!” Or sometimes, “Good for you!” And a few times, “Go Leafs, Go!” which I go along with. I don’t want to hurt a Toronto Maple Leafs fan.
Whatever the greeting, it’s such fun. I always say thank you and more often than not a conversation begins; with grocery clerks, store clerks, waiters, fellow diners, crossing guards, bank employees – so many people. Best of all, with children and teenagers. The pop of blue is an icebreaker, allowing for these small connections.
After a car accident, I worried I’d slipped from skilled professional to incompetent old man
These conversations mean the world to me. Seniors are so often ignored. We navigate life feeling we are not really being seen. Is a streak of blue hair all it takes to be part of the conversation? I can’t fully answer that, but it’s working for me. Maybe purple would work or green but I am not going to experiment.
Here I am now, 80 years old, rocking my blue hair, delighted each day to be making new connections. My party was all I hoped it would be, and I am so filled with gratitude for every little thing, I just had a tattoo on my inner arm. It reads: “glorious.”
Patricia Brean lives in Toronto.
