By Eric Topol, MD 

Reviewed by Victoria Starr Marshall 

Dr. Eric Topol is one of the Top 10 most cited medical researchers in the world. He’s published more than 1,000 peer-review papers and is an executive vice president and professor of molecular medicine at Scripps Research, the largest nonprofit biomedical institute in the U.S. He is also a practicing cardiologist.  

Dr. Topol is an expert’s expert and I trust what he has to say about extending our health-span—the number of years we live free from disability and disease. He starts the book with the stories of two people, both 98, who are active, engaged, and live vibrant lives—yet, who are a study in contrasts. Of the first patient, Dr. Topol writes, “[she]has escaped all the common age-related diseases, a resilience that defies what most of us expect from the human aging process,” and that it does not appear to be related to genetic makeup. He implies that lifestyle choices may play a significant role. The second is a patient who has had multiple heart issues, bypass grafts, and even a heart attack. “At 96,” Topol writes, “he was hospitalized with COVID pneumonia and, despite a prolonged hospitalization, did not develop respiratory failure and fully recovered.” He goes on to say that this individual “embodies the medical progress we’ve made with age-related diseases.” 

Dr. Topol is the bearer of good news. There is much we have control over when it comes to extending our health span and rigorous breakthroughs in medicine and technology are rapidly filling the gaps when our health fails. He cites five dimensions where “phenomenal advances” are being made that will extend our health span: 1) Lifestyle+ 2) Cells 3) Omics 4) Artificial Intelligence and 5) Drugs/Vaccines. The book is an in-depth dive into each of these areas.  

This is all evidence-based science and research and it’s dense. This is not a quick read, it’s a deep study. Yet, there is so much here worth knowing—so many tools available for us to use. This is our health and quality of life we are talking about. And it reminds me how valuable these experts are to us.  

Dr. Topol is optimistic over what the future could hold, but he’s also circumspect. 

“Unfortunately, we are our own worst enemy. During the pandemic, anti-science and anti-vaccine movements were organized and funded: This has led to far fewer people deriving the net benefit of COVID shots. On the one hand, we’re making phenomenal advances in the science; on the other hand, these are being aggressively countered. It will be vital,” he continues, “to develop effective strategies to prebunk and debunk anti-science efforts. That social challenge to our political culture may prove to be our greatest challenge in continuing to add to life expectancy.” 

I challenge you to pick up this book and do the work to learn and apply all science has to teach us about how to extend our health span and have a tremendous quality of life all the way to its end. 

The post Super Agers appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

On the first anniversary of my mother’s death, I was traveling on a small ship in Greece, motoring the last leg from Crete to Hydra. I’d booked the trip because I needed to keep moving and exploring to hold the aching sadness of the past year at bay. A year of remembering my mother’s long and vigorous life—and at the same time, fighting off memories of her last days and excruciating death. People should not have to be in charge of dosing their mother with morphine until her body finally gives out.  

But I’m not a wallower. I tend to get busy when the going gets rough and feelings get tough. Staying home, stuck in my routines, my ongoing “organ recitals” with friends, and worries about daily responsibilities, felt stifling. I set out on this trip hoping for distraction, but I also sought time to reflect and remember her, preferably in the close vicinity of others, who are not family, and around whom I would be less likely to crumple into tears.  

My mother and grandmother took me on my first international trip when I was 23. In our rental car, reminding whoever was driving to stay on the left side of the road, we explored England and Scotland for a couple of weeks, even meeting the British pen pal I’d been writing to since the seventh grade. One day, climbing up the steeple of a church, my mother and I peered down at the park below where my grandmother sat on a bench waiting for us. I shouted down, “Hello Grandma!” and we laughed when a half-dozen gray heads lifted at the call. One morning, when Grandma slipped a breakfast roll from the bed and breakfast into her pocketbook “for later” and explained that all the folks on the AARP trips did this, we followed her lead. We came to call it “AARPing” food to snack on while sightseeing.  

My grandmother died at 94, just before my first child was born. A career and raising kids took over my life and traveling was planned around hubs like Disneyland, Legoland and the San Diego Zoo. Finally, after I retired, I treated myself to a river cruise in Europe and the travel bug sprung from its cocoon. When my mother was still alive but no longer traveling, I visited London again, this time on my own. When I reached the park across from Big Ben, I pulled out a snapshot of her and my grandmother and found the same spot from which I’d taken it all those years before. I lined up the tower of Big Ben with the old snapshot and photographed both, superimposing an image that would help keep the two most important women in my life close to me.  

A few months after my mother’s death, I was changing planes in London and there in Heathrow I was stung by the permanence of their absence. In the hustle and din of the airport though, it was a quiet thought, a tiny stab of sorrow. I acknowledged it and trusted that those stabs would continue to soften over time. Before I left the lounge for my connecting flight, I AARPed a scone and jam, a banana and a granola bar for the next leg of my journey. Thanks, Grandma. 

I booked the Greece trip as part of a need to surround myself with people on the first holidays without my mother. I’d hiked with friends on her birthday and spent the fall and winter holidays with my sons. So that I wouldn’t languish at home on the first anniversary of her death, I hoped that being with a group of travel companions would keep me preoccupied and entertained, bump my mind over to another, lighter track.  

And it did. My new travel mates, most of them older than me, shook me out of my mid-60s slump and my gloomy self-talk about the pains and indignities of my own aging. They unfolded their walking sticks, slipped on knee braces, and in one case fell off the gangway into the Mykonos harbor, but they all kept going. Pushing ahead, just the way my grandmother and mother did until the end of their lives.  

It had been a year of firsts. First time driving by my mother’s house without her in it. A sushi order without her favorites. My birthday celebration without the woman who birthed me. And it had been a year of lasts. The last time we would see her furniture before it was carted away. The last time we would pick blueberries in her yard before the house sold. The last time I would use the house key to unlock her door to say goodbye to her space, the place we gathered as a family, the place where she died in front of a picture window out of which she could no longer see. 

I’d mentioned the first anniversary to two women early in the trip, and both checked in with me on the day. I choked up briefly when I replied, but I was able to tell the truth. “It’s getting better.” Then, our talk turned to the calmer weather expected on Hydra and I felt solace. Unless we go first, we all lose our mothers. Only the gods have eternal life.  

Katherine Briccetti is a Pushcart-nominated essayist and author of the memoir, Blood Strangers, a LAMBDA Literary Award Finalist. Her writing has appeared in Dos Passos Review, Short ´Edition, Sojourn: A Journal of the Arts, Under the Sun, upstreet, The Writer, Bark, Los Angeles Times and several national anthologies. She earned an MFA in Creative Writing from Stonecoast in 2007. She is at work on a novel about race and relationships, which takes place in the middle of America in 1968. www.katherine.briccetti.com 

Leaving a Legacy of a Safer Society

Ever Heard About Generation Jones?

The post Traveling Past Grief appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

Most of us can create a litany of reasons why we aren’t always happy about aging—achy joints, sagging faces and bodies, suffering incontinence and insomnia, and just feeling weary of the world sometimes. Though never the homecoming queen, I have garnered my share of backward glances over the years. So, it was shattering to realize that aging could also mean I would become invisible. 

But as time passes I have begun to consider invisibility an asset and even, I dare say, a super power. Imagine, we have been gifted an invisibility cloak that allows us to move about in the world any way we please. It frees us up to wear what we want, say what we want, and be who we want because no one is really paying attention. In her book, Big Magic, Elizabeth Gilbert writes about a wise, older woman telling her: “We all spend our twenties and thirties trying so hard to be perfect, because we’re so worried about what people will think of us. Then we get into our forties and fifties, and we finally start to be free, because we decide that we don’t give a damn what anyone thinks of us. But you won’t be completely free until you reach your sixties and seventies, when you finally realize this liberating truth—nobody was ever thinking about you, anyhow.” 

Held in the right perspective, this invisibility thing can be very empowering. In the end, the best we can do is practice acceptance. I said this to my dermatologist recently who wistfully asked, “Can you evangelize that?” Easier said than done. Acceptance is the counterpart of grace and as a lover of that particular word, that’s what I’m striving for. I have realized that most people will experience feeling invisible at some point. While we can’t control how or if others see us, we can take the initiative to see and acknowledge others. We just might make their day! 

After losing her husband in 2021, Marilee Clarke began writing her book on navigating grief. Excerpts from the book (still in progress) often appear in this magazine. Her passions include mixed media creations and traveling the world every chance she gets. She currently splits her time between Issaquah and the California desert, enjoying the best of two very different and beautiful locales.  

Let Me Count the Ways I Love You

Still Laughing

The post Let’s See Each Other appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

“Grandparenting isn’t a parent redo—that ship has sailed,” Coffield says. “You already had your shot to parent, but grandparenting is an entirely new gig.” 

The founder of The Culinary CureTM, Coffield, 66, has been in the women’s culinary wellness space for two decades. A chef since her college days, Coffield had a catering company for many years. She switched her focus to food as medicine when her mom’s cancer came back in 2009. Coffield also developed healthy subscription meal plans for high-performing athletes and executives—this was way before Blue Apron. Most recently, she coached women going through midlife changes to energize their lives.  

About a year ago, when she became a grandparent for the second time, Coffield shared a video on Instagram that catapulted her in a new direction.  

“I posted a video of me picking up a baby, holding a baby, sitting down on the floor, and standing up without using my hands,” Coffield says. “I talked about the importance of being fit for grandparenting, and the Instagram reel went viral.” 

It now has 1.2 million views, one of six or seven of hers in the millions of views category. 

“It struck a chord with women who hadn’t been motivated to get fit and be healthy,” she said. “Women tend to put everybody else first, but when you put self-care in the context of being a better grandparent, it’s a different story.” 

According to Coffield, active grandparents are more capable—they have more mobility, stability, flexibility, and strength—and are more in-demand as you become a helpful contributor to your children and their families. Being fit—physically, emotionally, and psychologically—will not only help you to grandparent better but also it will help you age better.  

It’s a game changer for grandparents and Coffield’s career.  

“Parents are overwhelmed and stressed out,” she explains. “When we can show up as a helpful support system, it changes our relationship with our kids and in turn gives us more access to the grandchildren.” 

“Your kids don’t want your advice—they can get all the parenting advice they need in two seconds on the internet—they want your help,” she continues. “This is a new job with a new job description and a new boss.”  

Coffield created the Active Grandparenting 101 training program, an online course with videos, worksheets, and resources on wellness, exercise, communication, tech, and family activities and recipes. She is, after all, still a chef. She also put together an Active Grandparenting Cookbook, and, twice a year, runs a virtual 21-day active grandparenting wellness reset. Hydration is a huge part of her platform. 

“Hydration affects your sleep, your mood, and your energy,” she explains. “If you can’t get hydrated, you’re going to have a hard time because you won’t have the muscle pliability that it takes to get up and down off the floor 50 times a day.” 

On Grandfluencing 

A year ago, Coffield’s email got a ton of new subscribers. Her Instagram, which went from 20,000 to 215,000 engaged followers, also blew up. Her audience likes that she is a real person, who understands their struggles and challenges.  

“There’s a big learning curve for embracing modern grandparenting, but grandparents—especially grandmothers—want this information,” she explains. “What’s really interesting is for this demographic on Instagram, a lot of these accounts are private. Most of these women are on Instagram for information.” 

Since the kids of GenXers and Baby Boomers are getting married later and having kids later, her followers are becoming grandparents later.  

“Since they’re older when becoming grandparents for the first time, people are highly motivated to get healthy and get in shape,” she says. “That way, they have more years to spend with this new, delightful human that’s just come into their lives.” 

For third act-ers who’ve got something to say and want to develop an Instagram following, Coffield suggests starting with a good mindset. Social media can make you feel bad, when you compare yourself—and your follower count—with other people. 

“I was on Instagram for a solid decade, working really hard to reach my audience, so I could share incredible value,” Coffield recalls. “I bet I had 3,500 posts on my Instagram, not including my live videos and my stories, so I’m no overnight success. I worked hard for a long time before ever getting noticed.” 

If you decide to go on social media, Coffield believes it’s vital to really know who you’re talking to—you can’t talk to everyone—and to understand who will resonate with your message, if you can. 

“Before Active Grandparenting, I was using Instagram to talk about how women could use fasting as a tool to live younger, longer, and better,” she recalls. “I had a whole angle with reverse fasting because I don’t think anybody should go through the whole day without eating. I got a little traction with that and then a lot of traction with the grandparenting angle.” 

Coffield is a perfect example of niching down. 

“When I went from targeting women over 50 to active grandparents, suddenly I was resonating with my demographics,” she says. “Suddenly all those people who I worked so hard to create messaging for could hear me because now I was speaking their language.”  

Coffield’s friend, a meditation specialist, had a message too broad for her to get any traction. Once she niched down and focused on how to use meditation to combat the stress of artificial intelligence, she noticed a vast improvement. 

“You can’t speak to the masses, you have to speak to your narrow margin of people,” Coffield says. “When you do that, it’s easier for them to find you.” 

Then, of course, you need to put yourself out there. For most people, that’s the biggest stumbling block. 

“Whether it’s becoming a social media influencer or losing five pounds, the first step is to decide to do it,” Coffield says. “Then, you tell everybody, so you can’t back out … and you figure it out.” 

When Coffield first went on Instagram, her children were horrified. “They’re like, ‘Mom, you can’t say that, you can’t do that on Instagram,’” she recalls. “And I’m like, ‘Well, why not?’ I just did it and learned along the way.” 

Part of being a social media influencer, at any age, is becoming a brand. Coffield says to take a good photo—even a selfie—and make sure it’s distinctive.  

“Pick some colors you like that pop on your little avatar and create a good bio,” she says. “People who want to follow you need to know why and what you are offering.” 

For instance, Coffield’s Instagram is @KristenCoffield, and you can tell from her bio what she does and who she serves. She offers a free hydration training, so people can take action right away. And her posts and videos offer value on her expertise. 

“The biggest mistake that people make on social media is not educating their followers or people who just find them on who they are,” she says.  

“People are on Instagram either to be entertained or to gain knowledge, so decide what it is you’re doing and do it,” Coffield continues. “Don’t be shy about letting people know how you can help them and don’t be shy about self-promotion—that is what Instagram is. It’s truly a marketing tool.” 

You Are Never Too Old 

Whether it’s a new endeavor or a social media persona, don’t limit yourself. It’s never too late to try something new.  

“First of all, every day is a miracle that you get to wake up and have another day,” Coffield says. “You can just wake up tomorrow and decide to be the next Grandma Moses of painting.” 

Coffield believes the best time to decide to do something new is first thing in the morning. She has her own powerful, 15-minute routine. 

“The first thing I do when I wake up in those first seconds is I acknowledge that I am awake,” she explains. “I take a deep breath and I flip the switch from my subconscious unconscious mind into my conscious mind where the first thoughts that I feed my mind are positive. 

“I think about all the exciting opportunities for my day.” 

Whatever you feed your mind and body is so powerful. Positive thoughts lead to good things. The opposite is also true.  

“Let’s say, your alarm goes off, but you go back to sleep. Now you’re late,” she says. “Next thing, the shampoo bottle drops on your toe, then you run into the kitchen and spill coffee. You get in your car and it seems like you hit every red light,” she says. “That day is not going to get better because you set into motion the negative.” 

When you flip the switch and feed your mind positivity—affirmations, positive self-talk—those thoughts become your reality.  

“More people smile at you in a store, the person in front of you in line buys you a cup of coffee, you get a parking meter that’s already got money on it, you hit all the green lights,” Coffield says. “That’s how it works.”  

You’re never too old. It’s never too late. 

“Life is not linear, it’s circular,” Coffield says. “Every day, when you wake up, it’s the beginning of the circle. The mistake we make is thinking it’s linear and we’re running out of time instead of seeing it as circular and that every day is a fresh start.” 

Debra Eckerling is a freelance writer, goal-strategist, workshop leader, and award-winning author and podcaster. The creator of The DEB Method for Goal-Setting Simplified, Eckerling hosts the GoalChat and Taste Buds with Deb podcasts and is the author of Your Goal Guide and 52 Secrets for Goal-Setting and Goal-Getting. 

Exploring the Evolving Role of Grandparents

Dear Grandparents: Don’t Let Go

Be a Part of It

The post Kristen Coffield—Champion of Active Grandparenting appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

Wait! Holy crap! Who is that? 

I stand before the full-length glass in my stretched-out beige bra and Costco underwear staring back at the reflection of someone I barely recognize. The laugh lines and creases that are inevitable with long living are deeply etched in my face.  

I glance at my arms. Between the scabs created by my thin onion skin that rips when merely touching anything and the dark bruises of blood underneath, I could be mistaken as the loser in an altercation with an unfriendly cactus or the victim of careless curb mishap. My eyes scroll down to the crepey skin on my thighs. The torture of working out at the gym is like pissing in the wind. I could be spending Taco Tuesdays, Wild Wednesdays, and Fast Food Fridays with friends, savoring salty margaritas, french fries, and exercising my mouth.  

I have lost the appealing look of youth—tight, fresh, glowing. 

Behind me I glimpse at the 8×10 photo in the contemporary lucite frame on my husband’s nightstand. It was taken around our engagement more than 50 years ago. My dark glossy shoulder length hair was fashionably flipped. My smile conveyed a happy positive vibe. We were ready to start our life together and creating a family. The best was ahead of us. 

In my humble opinion, I was cute!  

That is not to be confused with pretty. I would never have been mistaken for the “fairest of them all.” Cuteness was often confused with being small (short).  

When I was a kid, Dad called me his “Russian shot-putter” due to my short stature and stocky thighs. My thick almost black head of hair framed my face like a helmet. My Energizer Bunny battery and cheery disposition never wore down.  

Mine was the happy childhood of a rule follower, a goody-two shoes. An easy kid, I was more apt to cry than defy.  

During my teenage years, my perceived cuteness was tested as I went through the various stages of puberty. My ponytail reached to the middle of my back, and I begged Mom to let me cut it into the current fashion statement, the brush-up. In hindsight, it was ugly.  

I viewed life from the fringes during college in the 1960s. Hippies advocated free love and were bold war protesters. My choice of drugs was the Beatles and the Beach Boys. I cruised along in a fog, on the sidelines of critical issues like Vietnam and the fight for civil rights. The cute kid floated. 

While employed in my first “real” grown-up job, I met the love of my life, who was tall in my eyes and broad in girth. He was a warrior, who had returned from service overseas. He made me feel protected and cute! 

That was then…. 

Over the decades I morphed from a butterfly to a caterpillar 

The change began subtly. One day crow’s feet appeared at the corners of my eyes, highlighted by gray strands of hair that sprung from my temples.  

To fight the inevitable, the makers of hair dye, serums, tweezers, concealers, along with manicurists, colorists, and personal trainers, all benefited.  

Spanx held me in, Miracle bras held me up. But it was a losing battle. 

At each annual check-up I cringed as the nurse announced my shrinking height. At full height I alleged to be 5’.  That was now history. 

The cute little girl had turned into the little old lady. 

My friends were in the same boat—the Titanic that had hit an iceberg. We all had the same gripes, aches and pains, sleepless nights, the same failing bodies.  

Inside I clung to my former self-image. I vowed to keep up the façade though my body showed wear and tear, and my energy had dwindled.  

We chased our youth.  We biked, hiked, played tennis and Pickleball, went to concerts, and traveled.  

Recently we took a trip overseas. Seniors were sprinkled in the group of travelers that ranged from middle age upward though everyone appeared to be a decade or so younger and at least seven feet tall.  

Mentally I was confident we would fit in and could keep pace demonstrating that age is just a number.  

One day while standing behind the giants, trying to see and hear the tour guide, a man barely qualified for an AARP card took me by the arm guiding me through the group to the front. I smiled appreciatively. He continued to escort me over the next couple of days, so I was always in front of the group. 

“Hey, thanks. It is nice to be able to see what’s happening,” I said with a smile after the second day. Without hesitation, he responded, “Aww, you remind me of my grandmother. You’re so cute.” 

Stunned, under my breath I murmured a very ungrandmotherly, “f**k you!”   

But to be civil, I refrained from expressing my real thoughts and responded with a snide remark, “Seriously? I could be offended.” 

Okay, the “kid” was in his mid-50s. I am in my late 70s. His mother—MAYBE! But his grandmother? I couldn’t stop thinking about how I must appear to others.   

Truth be told (TBT as the younger generation says),  

Honesty IS reflected in that mirror on the wall.  

This little old lady needs to face reality…and take “you’re so cute” anyway I can get it. 

Suzi Schultz Gold is a native of San Diego, California, who has a restless and entrepreneurial spirit. She retired after exploring many careers including: marketing, education, travel, always searching for her passion. During the past few years she has found joy and a creative outlet writing “slice of life” essays. Her essays are a source of self-entertainment that she hopes others will enjoy. 

That’s What Life is, Isn’t It?

Cope with Change Using the Rearview Mirror

Hair’s the Thing

The post Truth Be Told appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

“Yes, my real name is Douglas Irving,” Ernie said via email. “It’s pretty ridiculous but here goes. When I was young, I had strawberry blonde hair and freckles. Down the block there was another kid, a couple years older than me who also had red hair and freckles. His name was Ernie. For whatever reason they started calling me Ernie Two and it just stuck at the time.” Douglas/Ernie decided he liked it. “My family calls me Douglas, but the rest of the world calls me Ernie.” 

Douglas, a fine name, to be sure. But I have to say it doesn’t fit Ernie Sapiro nearly as well as Ernie.  

As a photographer, Sapiro has a knack for putting people at ease. He’s not opposed to artsy techniques, but his focus is on capturing his subject’s soul. Sapiro has photographed several 3rd Act Magazine covers and in them you can see that when he says “soul,” he’s talking about the exuberant, joyful core of a person. Nothing dark and stormy here. The cover of singer/songwriter/musician LeRoy Bell is one of his favorites. I happen to love the one of track star Madonna Hanna.  

Photography has not been his lifelong calling. It is Ernie Sapiro’s own third act. He began his adult life as a guitar player in a number of iconic Northwest rock bands, including Uncle Cookie, the Moberlys, The Lonesome City Kings, and the Cowboys. His day job, for 30 years, was with Red Robin, the beloved Seattle burger restaurant that grew into a national chain. “I started as a janitor and left as a vice president,” Sapiro said. When he left, “about a dozen years ago,” there were 450 Red Robins across the country. Many of them had been opened by Sapiro himself. After Red Robin, he worked for Restaurants Unlimited for a few years. And then he was done and ready for his third act. 

Sapiro’s father, Scotty Sapiro, was a photographer—first in New York and then in Seattle. The family moved across the country when Ernie was nine. Scotty Sapiro’s clients eventually included Rainier Beer, Nordstrom and Eddie Bauer. Ernie loved hanging out in his dad’s studio, even though he did not ever imagine, until he retired from the restaurant world, that he would someday follow in Scotty Sapiro’s footsteps. 

 But he remembers his father’s best bit of advice: When you’re looking through the viewfinder, “Look for something that you haven’t seen.” Ernie’s expanded version: “It’s like jazz. You start in one place and wind up somewhere else.” 

But, as with jazz, you have to know what you’re doing. You have to practice. And study. All of which Sapiro embraced enthusiastically. “I’m—what’s that great word—an auto-didact.” A lifelong learner. Though he “never questioned his ability to frame a shot”—thanks to all he had learned from watching his father—Sapiro took lots of classes. He studied digital photography and photo editing, and he also enrolled in seminars on how to run a successful freelance business. He shot “anything and everything,” often for free in his very first years, including school portraits, family portraits and weddings. He took pictures for the Seattle Storm WNBA team, the Seattle Thunderbirds hockey team, bands and musicians. His corporate clients include T-Mobile, Southwest Airlines, Starbucks, and the SAFE Boats International boat-building company.  

My own favorite from the Ernie Sapiro archives is a series of photos of Pacific Northwest Ballet’s then-principal dancer Maria Chapman dancing on the lunch counter at the Athenian Restaurant in the Pike Place Market. “There was no money involved,” Sapiro said. “I did it for my own amusement. Nothing more.” Sapiro’s sister Dana had a long career as a ballet dancer and dancers have always been among his favorite subjects. Along with musicians, naturally. 

In 2015, Sapiro had an idea. What if he shot portraits of musicians—lots of musicians; some famous, some not—then enlarged and hung them in a huge space and threw a massive party for everyone involved? The goal would be to celebrate the musicians. Profits from picture sales would be donated to MusiCares. Sapiro’s friend, TV personality Nancy Guppy (Almost Live and Art Zone), signed on to produce and find funding for what became Musician: a Portrait Project. The supersized photos (30 x 34) were hung, unframed, in the spacious Union Stables Building, which once was an actual stable, housing the horses that pulled Seattle’s streetcars and firetrucks. Subjects ranged across the decades, from Merrilee Rush (“Angel in the Morning”) to jazz legend Bill Frisell to Susan Silver, the former manager of Alice in Chains, Soundgarden and The Screaming Trees.  

Sapiro lights up when he talks about Musician. It was everything he loves—music, photography, capturing the souls of creative people. Throwing a big party. Not being afraid to “keep the child-playfulness in what we do as adults,” to do the personal creative work that allows you to experiment without worrying about making money or pleasing a client.  

Not that he has anything against having clients. “I’m not rich,” Sapiro said. Retiring “doesn’t even come up” when he looks ahead a few years, or several. Sapiro is 69, his wife Cathy is 65 and works as a human resources business partner for KING 5 TV. He and Cathy have two children, Tucker, 36, and Tess, 34, and one grandchild, Callum.  

It’s Callum, born in 2024, who just might get him to slow down. A little. Because, if you ask Ernie Sapiro what really matters, he will tell you: “You better have some fun. You better love. Run freely. Play freely. And don’t be afraid to be ridiculous and crazy.”   

Ann Hedreen is an author (Her Beautiful Brain), teacher of memoir writing, and filmmaker. Hedreen` and her husband, Rustin Thompson, own White Noise Productions and have made more than 150 short films and several feature documentaries together, including Quick Brown Fox: An Alzheimer’s Story. She is currently at work on a book of essays and is a regular contributor to 3rd Act Magazine, writing about topics including conscious aging, retirement, mindfulness, and health. 

Make Your Own Kind of Music

The post Ernie Sapiro: Don’t Be Afraid to Play, Work and (Occasionally) Be Ridiculous appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

    My younger brother who stepped out of time before me. Since I can no longer measure myself against him, it makes him seem older in a way. Who can be older than someone absorbed by time? Someone who has transcended time? 

    the lagoon water 

   brother drowned in 

  also gone 

  “We were graduates,” I’d joke, “of the University of Sylvia and Jack.” 

  The Hirschfield’s were a strangely paired Jewish couple in the West Bronx. She was kind, outgoing, deeply religious. She worked as a bookkeeper. He was a hotel maintenance man, who related to all of us as strangers. More like a boarder than a father, he’d come home from work, greet no one, go directly to his room. 

  Paternal abandonment forged a bond between Aryeh and I. We’d fantasize about rafting like a couple of Huck Finn’s to some fatherless refuge somewhere. Our bond, however, yielded to the stresses of clashing personalities, family dynamics. 

   Aryeh was blessed with mom’s outgoing nature, with her gift of drawing people to him. I was, sad to say, his polar opposite. A dark-spirited loner like Dad, I put people off. (If the old man noticed, he kept it to himself.) 

    The death of family patriarch, Moses Joseph, a Hasid whose extreme orthodoxy rubbed off on Aryeh, pushed our relationship to the edge. I’d be on my way to the park on the Sabbath with bat and ball, when he’d run up behind me, shouting, “God will punish you!” A little Jewish Taliban, who, happily, did not grow up to be a big Jewish Taliban. In fact, he became, in later years, a distinctly open-minded Jewish Renewal rabbi in Oregon (in his study were pictures of Groucho Marx and Ramana Maharshi), a member of Rabbis for Peace.   

    In our teens, there was a cultural shift. We became art house movie-goers, thrilled by Ingmar Bergman and Vittorio De Sica. We especially loved Bergman’s The Seventh Seal, forever enacting the chess game between death and the crusader, intoning death’s few chiseled lines in English with Swedish accents that made both of us howl.   

   I miss the laughter of brothers that rose up, it seemed, from the floorboards of our shared bedroom. It closed over the fissures in our relationship, as did our serious talks about Kafka. The suffering of a son permanently estranged from his father. Our story. 

    It might have been wiser to talk about the alienation of brothers. For when the laughter ended, when our Kafka conversations ceased, my envy of his popularity (reborn after his long season of fanaticism) returned, along with his justified anger over his big brother’s absence of affirmation. 

    Old age is when we all go for our PhDs in reflection. What a brother is, first of all, is an eruption in time. My first memory is of the day program I went to with my cousin Ruthie, at whose house I was staying when my mother was off giving birth to Aryeh. 

   At her day care, a dark passageway was constructed against a wall curtained at both ends. We were made to walk through it. Though not normally afraid of the dark, the journey filled me with a primal fear.  

    Only years later did I realize that that liminal journey in space contained my dread that time was now altered, shadowed by a tiny stranger’s birth. I’d no longer monopolize time. I was condemned to share it. 

    Like many brothers, we shared it poorly. Like many brothers, we eventually shared it at a distance. In his late teens, he discovered drugs and relocated to San Francisco. I discovered writing and remained in New York for a while, before heading off to South America to find something exotic to write about. We both drifted, but not toward each other. 

    I awake nights thinking of him. Where, in the unfathomable emptiness that we take to be death, has his spirit found a home? Or is it wandering still? Or am I the one who is still wandering, inwardly and outwardly, from my home to the river, from one haiku to another, toward some elusive center? 

    It is second nature for an octogenarian to fixate on his losses, having had so many of them. With Aryeh, it was what was lost before his death that haunts me. We would meet on occasion over the years. He’d come in for periodic visits that became frequent when our mother was failing. Or I’d make occasional visits out to the West Coast, where he was working through the various stages of his rabbinical career. Visits that were often intended as pilgrimages of reconciliation. 

    When we remembered to take deep breaths, there was sharing. Mainly, a mutual interest in the broken state of the world that somehow did not include our relationship. We’d discuss the race question. We couldn’t escape the awareness, even as children, that those hollowed out corpses in striped suits could have been us. Emmett Till, the black 14-year-old Chicago boy lynched in Mississippi in 1955 for allegedly whistling at a white woman, was a victim we could easily identify with. A more complicated identity, especially for Aryeh, were the Palestinians. A rabbi, he was at times prone to giving Israel the benefits of doubts I did not have. But his ability to try to see the occupation through Palestinian eyes when he traveled to the West Bank I held in high regard, as it meant extending himself far more than I had to as a secular progressive Jew. 

    I keep searching for him in all the old places where his voice can be found, where thoughts were momentarily shared, but never a life shared. 

    Once, when he was stoned, he said, “I feel like the donkey chasing the carrot. Sometimes I get close. But the carrot is always beyond my reach.” 

    Chasing after the dead Aryeh is a little like that. The feeling sometimes of getting close. But never close enough.  

    These words. My skinny candles. Lighted. Doused. Lighted again. 

Robert Hirschfield is a New York-based writer and poet. He has spent much of the last five years writing and assembling poems about his mother’s Alzheimer’s. In 2019, Presa Press published a volume of his poems, The Road to Canaan. His work has appeared in Parabola, Tricycle, Spirituality & Health, Sojourners, The Moth (Ireland), Tears in The Fence (UK) and other publications.     

Reflections on the Good Life

How Will You be Remembered?

Moving Closer to Your Family

The post Searching for Aryeh: An Old Man’s Journey appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

You’ve retired after more than five decades working as a nurse and with a degree in gerontology. You know how society treats old folks, especially elderly Black women. You’ve done your fair share, perhaps more than your fair share. 

Isn’t it time to slow down? Find a nice beach, buy a condo and live the good life? 

Most folks might settle comfortably in just that kind of existence. After all, most of us slow down as we age, right?
Who would want to be in a place where, if you had to pee, it would be outside in -30F? 

Most folks aren’t Barbara Hillary. 

After retiring, despite her health challenges, Hillary began exploring. She chose some of the world’s coldest regions, which found her dogsledding in Quebec and photographing polar bears in Manitoba, Canada.  

Hillary developed a taste not only for adventure but also for the physical exertions that those adventures demanded of her.  

The more she explored, the more she discovered she could explore, despite the limitation of her lungs. She was charmed and energized by the people she met during her travels and moved by how the changing world was affecting them. Her passion for the wild outdoors and its people led to a deep concern for climate change, which threatened the landscapes she loved.  

Hillary wanted to do something that would bring more attention to the survival challenges she saw firsthand. 

At an age when many retirees might prefer a warm, sandy beach and an umbrella drink, Hillary decided to hike to the North Pole.  

She prepared hard for a year, secured funds, worked out on weights with a personal trainer, and learned to ski. She had to learn how to pull her own heavy sled.  

The first really bad moment was when the guide evaluated her before she could ski to base camp.  At that point, after all the training, the investment of time and effort, the guide could give you the once-over and decide, nope, you can’t go. 

He did allow her to go and history was made.  

According to Hillary, “The worst of it was having to pee when the temperature was below 30 F.”   

Finally, Hillary raised her hands in triumph after planting her ski poles near the door to Santa’s workshop. She was the first Black woman ever to do so.  

In that moment of euphoria, all the doom and gloomers that she had encountered, all the naysayers were washed away, she said. 

That was April 23, 2007. She was 75.  

After her record-breaking accomplishment, the awards and accolades flowed in.  

The U.S. House of Representatives passed a resolution acknowledging her achievement in 2007. 

The National Organization for Women awarded here the Woman of Courage Award.  

Isn’t that enough?  

What’s enough for someone like Barbara Hillary? 

Most folks might happily settle down after such a crazy-mad successful adventure and rest on their laurels. Write articles, write a book, speak about it. After all, no other Black woman had done it.  

Most folks aren’t Barbara Hillary. 

Four years later, at the age of 79, she hiked to the South Pole. On January 6, 2011, Hillary once again raised her ski poles in triumph in the cold isolation at the bottom of the world. She had come a long, long way from the swampy, humid South Carolina lowlands where she had been born. 

But wait, there’s more.  

Armed with the knowledge and education of what her preparation for these incredible excursions had given her, Hillary used her newly acquired legendary status to become a sought-after speaker. She founded and became the editor of The Peninsula Magazine in New York. She worked tirelessly to raise awareness about climate change. 

Hillary dedicated her trips to her mother, Viola Jones Hillary, who had moved her family from Hilton Head Island, South Carolina, to New York City. It was the Depression, yet Viola believed that the city would afford her two daughters a better chance for success.  

Barbara Hillary has long credited her determined mother with teaching her that the world didn’t owe her anything. The lesson to go after what you want and to do the hard work to get you there is woven throughout Hillary’s life.  

Perhaps above all, Hillary didn’t believe that the aged should simply be a profit source for the nursing home industry, as she put it. As a result, Hillary did far more than just crush these notions—she rose as a symbol of what could be achieved as we age into our final years, what determination and will could accomplish.  

Saddled with ailing health, Hillary made a final trip to Mongolia in 2019 to visit the nomadic tribes famous for herding wild reindeer. This would be her final adventure, before passing at the age of 88. 

Shortly after she died, Hillary was inducted into The National Women’s Hall of Fame.  

Funny, smart, focused, and fierce, Barbara Hillary continues to be an example of what you can do no matter the limitations placed on us by society, by naysayers, and by ageist beliefs—how to finish strong. 

Julia Hubbel is a prize-winning journalist and author of two books. An adventure traveler, she thrives on exploring the boundaries of the heart, soul, spirit, and humor. Horizons beckon for Hubbel, who launched her passion to take on challenging sports in the world’s greatest places in earnest at age 60. 

Scouting for an Outing? It Might Be Time for an Adventure …

Alene Moris is Ready for Action

Running Down Boston

The post How to “Finish Strong:” The Incredible Journey of Barbara Hillary appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

Not much distance from the car to the restaurant’s front door. Do I pop the trunk, lift out and assemble the transport chair, help my wife from the car then push her? She’s actually been feeling pretty good today. Just hold my arm, my good arm, she suggests. We’ll walk. I’m easily convinced, partially because I believe her, but perhaps more so because the cumulative effect of caregiving is exhaustion. I’d originally thought of my assistance as lending a helping hand, but over time, realized I was the default caregiver.   

We make our way toward Good Burger laughing at our meandering steps. Just a few years back, we were two highly active, nonstop, straight-ahead adults. Now look at us, a pair of oldsters excited by the prospect of reaching the front door of a burger joint.   

As we enjoy the food, I find myself thinking about the 19 steps my wife will have to manage when we return home. Physical therapists have taught her what to do. Face the railing and hold it with both hands. To ascend, step up with the inside (stronger) foot. Stabilize. Transfer her weight and bring up the other foot. I repeat the instructions and add a little encouragement while stationing myself immediately beneath her, serving as a kind of barrier from a potential tumble.
We finish our meal and begin making slow, fairly steady progress toward our car. Tackling the slight incline, our pace becomes labored and deliberate. We stop. Linda reports that her legs, the knee, the bad hip, her back, everything, hurts all at once. She’s hoping I can bring the car. 
Unfortunately, that would mean leaving her precariously upright, standing alone in the middle of the lot. I’m feeling like one of the jugglers I used to see on the Ed Sullivan Show rushing back and forth trying to coax a series of vertical sticks, each supporting a spinning plate. Back and forth, tweak this one, wiggle that one, else the plate it holds will tumble. Linda just might have a similar trajectory if I leave her to gravity’s whims. Like Sullivan’s performers, my task is to maintain a constant overview, then zero in where I’m needed most. Car, Linda? Linda, car? The routine is a metaphor for portions of each day.    

I remain at my wife’s side. We take deep breaths, minute steps, silent breaks during which we just hold one another. And finally, somehow, we reach the car, then the house, making our way up the stairs. We are done in but not done. She’ll need a bit of assistance getting ready for bed.     

Before my mother and my mother-in-law moved to the Kline Galland Home, a wonderful senior living facility, each of these ladies stayed with us. Linda’s calm empathetic manner was remarkable. It seemed obvious to me that the number one skill a caregiver could offer was patience. Neither of these women was made to feel like a burden. If anything, Linda made sure they realized we were honored to have them in our home.   

My caregiver tipping point for overextending good intentions reflects my energy level, my own relatively minor, but annoying age-related health issues, and how long the day is getting. At 79, I’m not the spry multitasker I may have been back when. I’m a better caregiver when I allow time for myself, for my own interests, or just for some peace and quiet.   

At first, I tried to deal with writing projects while Linda slept. But she wakes often and there are endless interruptions. Writing requires concentration. I began scheduling personal time, with the caveat that flexibility is foundational.   

We tried in-home caregiver assistance to cover my absences and to help in general, but, even with insurance, were only able to afford coverage for portions each day. You request specific hours and dates in advance when contracting with an agency, but Linda’s medical appointments were constantly updated depending on her needs and her doctor’s concerns. The caregiver schedule was in a state of sustained flux. Experienced, energetic help was appreciated. Unfortunately, not all caregivers met our expectations. I became a conduit, passing along requests and explaining how best to handle various tasks. It was easier for me to complete a task than to explain how we wanted it done.   

Maintaining the house, helping Linda, and trying to pursue a few of my own projects seemed to keep me conflicted. Eventually, our kids convinced us that it was time to let go of the home we’d cherished for more than 30 years. It made sense to move to an assisted living facility, a place with a full-time professional staff and maximum coverage.   

Preparation for the move, downsizing, packing and selling the house competed with Linda’s health issues and treatment. But eventually, we settled into a small, friendly, well-run facility. Being here is a relief. Caregivers stop by, straightening up our small apartment, asking Linda if she needs anything. Showers are offered according to a schedule. The housekeeper cleans each Wednesday. Medication Aids show up twice a day, providing the latest version of Linda’s ever- changing prescription regiment. This small army of associates has reduced my load and taken on some of the more essential aspects of caregiving. But, of course, if you add up the total time they spend with my wife during the course of a day, you don’t reach 90 minutes. I cover the other 22.5 hours. Not a complaint, but an observation. 

Aging is an industry as well as a process. There are thousands of devices designed to assist with tasks. Reachers, gizmos to help a person put on socks, to steady shaking hands as they attempt to manipulate eating utensils, there are an assortment of bath chairs, floor-to-ceiling poles that, when stationed properly, are remarkable for getting into or out of bed. These and more allow people to continue taking some responsibility for their own care. And, of course, the more people can do for themselves, the less aid caregivers have to provide. You cannot see it, but I’m winking. 

Know what I am equipped to do best? Help my wife find ways to continue pursuing her passions. Bring flowers from the store so she can arrange them. Sort through boxes of photographs, framing, hanging, arranging, rearranging, transforming our new apartment to an approximation of home. It will never be our old house, a place she misses even more than I do, but we can and do turn up our creative juices to make sure the new digs reflect who we are. 

Linda spent 30 years caring for the shrubbery and flowers that surrounded our home. Now she is in the process of planting a new garden on our balcony. Trips to the nursery—I drive, she mans the GPS. I push the wheelchair, she holds the pots in her lap. We’ve got a system. As we explore the flowers, I’m thinking that caregiving has its gratifying moments. Still, I’m glad to be holding onto the wheelchair. It just might be keeping me from falling over. 

If my caregiving succeeds at all, it is because my wife and I, known for our balancing act—Linda is a semi-retired perfectionist, while I’m prone to the “good enough” school—manage to interrupt our occasionally charged debates with reflective corrections and laughter. An observation: You can lament life’s progression or deal with it. We do our best to keep our good fortune in mind.  

During our five decades of marriage, Linda has gotten me through my own health challenges, as well as through life in general. I’m a writer and an entertainer. For many of those years, she booked the shows and she continues to edit my essays. I am a hopeless dyslexic and she’s perfected my spelling several times a day since 1970. 

Growing old together means sharing the good and bad; the ratio fluctuates. I take a certain satisfaction in being my wife’s caregiver. It’s more than a responsibility. When I do it well and feel appreciated, the frustrations are held at bay and I bask in satisfaction.   
Still, you are never completely off duty. Late at night when I’m on the edge of a dream, I remain sensitized to my wife’s pain. I’m on alert, always. Occasionally I hear her calling out. You okay, I whisper, only to learn I’ve been dreaming. She’s awake, sitting in bed, and wondering why I’ve asked. 

Charles E. Kraus is a writer, entertainer, and memory improvement teacher. Charles is the author of Baffled Again … and Again, a collection of essays. His most recent book, You’ll Never Work Again in Teaneck, NJ (a memoir) is available in local libraries and on Amazon. 

Caregiver tax credit would help hardworking families 

Every day more than 820,000 Washingtonians perform a great labor of love: caring for older parents, spouses, and other loved ones so they can remain at home—where they want to be. 

Caring for a family member or close friend is one of the most important roles we are likely to play in our lifetime.  However, hardworking family caregivers often spend their own money and may risk their jobs to help their loved ones. In fact, caregivers spend an average of more than $7,200 a year of their own money—making it harder for them to afford groceries and pay bills. Many have had to cut down their work hours or quit their jobs because of caregiving responsibilities. 

That’s why AARP is urging Congress to pass the Credit for Caring Act. The federal tax credit of up to $5,000 a year would put money back in the pockets of eligible family caregivers and help defray the costs of caring for a spouse or other loved one with long-term needs.   

Washington state needs family caregivers, and they need a tax credit. Find out more at www.aarp.org/caregiverswa 

This story was made possible by funding support from AARP Washington and BECU. For more information, tips and resources for family caregivers in Washington state, go to: www.aarp.org/caregiverswa.   

Protecting Your Marriage While Caring for a Loved One

Look for the Helpers, Part 1

The post From Helper to Caregiver—An Observation appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

We know from the scientific literature and common sense how social connections typically decrease as people retire from day jobs, children become enmeshed in their own lives or even move away, grandchildren move on, and relatives, friends, neighbors die or simply are unavailable to sustain a treasured friendship. I remember watching my parents’ friends, who I’d known since youth, pass away, move away to be nearer their children, or lost interest in lifelong friends. 

My parents lived into their 90s, so it’s not too surprising that my mother often said, “All my family, all my friends are gone.” She became the oldest person she knew and the oldest and only person alive from her birth family. 

This, of course, is not news. But I’ll wager it’s not something most people think about or plan for. It is something I heard not just from my mother but also from participants in our decades long Adult Changes in Thought or ACT study, a long-running cohort study of aging. 

SOCIAL CONNECTEDNES: A POTENTIALLY REVERSIBLE RISK FACTOR FOR DEMENTIA 

 According to the recently released Third Report of the Standing Lancet Commission on dementia, social isolation is a potentially reversible risk factor for dementia. 

The Lancet is perhaps the most renowned international medical journal. It charters working commissions that work on important international health issues ranging from hepatitis, high blood pressure, global infection threats, to obesity, and including the early work relating health, energy and climate change. 

I was invited to convene with international experts on aging and dementia to write The Lancet Commission Report on Dementia: Prevention, Intervention and Care. We published our extensive first report in 2017. Unlike other Lancet commission reports that are often “one and done,” the commission has now published three widely circulated reports, which reflect great increases in the population of older persons throughout the world coincident with the ongoing, vast expansion of scientific efforts and knowledge about dementia. 

Summarizing what is currently known about prevention of dementia is a key feature of the Commission’s reports. One of the third report’s remarkable findings was naming the 14 potentially reversible risk factors which, if avoided or  improved, had the potential to  reduce lifetime risk of dementia by almost half. Infrequent social contact appeared in the second report and was supported with more detailed evidence in the third. Based on published research, the commission concluded that reducing social isolation or, conversely, maintaining frequent social contact had the potential to contribute 5% of the about 45% of total possible risk reduction from all 14 factors. I hope to write about some of the other 13 risk factors in future issues of 3rd ACT. 

Maintaining social connectedness, being mindful and, if needed, proactive about the tendency for social connectedness to decline with age is what I wish to highlight now. 

BE AWARE AND BE YOURSELF AS YOU AGE 

My dear mother was an accomplished pianist and on and off again a church organist. Formerly, a lab technician, her second career was working in our school district’s library support center. In retirement she was quite happy playing her piano, reading and puttering about our family home and eventually a duplex apartment in a local senior community. She enjoyed being with younger people, and, as she saw her social circle contract, she redoubled efforts to foster new friendships, participate in study groups, seek out younger new friends, go to concerts, recitals, even attend the Portland Opera for as long as possible. She was not a natural social butterfly but even as her mobility declined due to severe osteoporosis and arthritis she reached out to others. She didn’t deny the impacts of disability but rather presented herself as she was. She didn’t bemoan or deny her challenge with short term memory as it declined but instead generally made light of or even joked about the recent events and even familiar names she didn’t remember. She stayed true to who she had been and had become and expressed the lifelong interest in others and events that she always had. I’m sure, as an experienced dementia research scientist that she avoided some of her late in life cognitive decline by staying socially connected. 

As her son, I’m grateful for the example she provided. It’s not too surprising now that aging science recognizes the value of maintaining social connectedness as a potentially reversible way to reduce dementia risk and cognitive decline. But… 

THANKS MOM! 

Eric B. Larson, MD, MPH, is a Professor of Medicine at the University of Washington. He was Co-Principal Investigator of the SMARRT trial and formerly Vice President for Research and Healthcare Innovation at Group Health and Kaiser-Permanente Washington. With colleagues he co-founded the long running Adult Changes in Thought (ACT) study in 1986. He continues research through the UW Alzheimer’s Disease Research Center and other projects and has participated in The Lancet Commission on Dementia since its inception. With co-author Joan DeClaire he wrote the well-received book, Enlightened Aging: Building Resilience for a Long Active Life.  

The Surprises of Aging: Friendships, Creativity and Satisfaction with Life Can Flourish

Something Greater Than Ourselves

The post Stay Connected to Reduce the Risk of Dementia appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.