If I Get This Right, Will Life Get Smaller?

As we age, we’re often reminded, sometimes gently, sometimes loudly, of the risks we face: falling, cognitive decline, chronic health conditions. Cautious, “prudent” behaviour is presented as the responsible response. Sensible advice, yes, but it can also raise an unspoken question: if I get this right, will life get smaller?

At lunch the other day, one of the guys announced he’d done a full “nose plant.” When I asked what happened, he said he was walking from his car into a store during heavy rain, misjudged the height of the curb, caught his foot, and went down. A few bruises, nothing serious, but, as he put it, a much larger bruise to his ego.

My wife and I often laugh at a local TV commercial for stair lifts. After a sobering montage about falls, the ad closes with the line, “We have a solution for that. Just don’t fall.”  We laugh, even though the message underneath is serious. It suggests that the safest life is the smallest one.

A friend told me his doctor advised that anyone over 65 should never climb a ladder. In theory, it’s good advice. In practice, it’s unworkable. A more realistic approach is using ladders wisely: have someone steady it, climb slowly, avoid the top rung, don’t overreach. Prudence doesn’t have to mean withdrawal.

By that same logic, someone might tell my friend who tripped at the curb, “Just don’t catch your toes,” or better yet, “Don’t go out in the rain.” But if we followed every fear-based instruction, we’d soon be living very carefully, and very quietly.

That’s the real worry behind being sensible. Not the bruises or the risks, but the fear that doing things “right” means doing less, seeing less, trying less. Yet life has never been about eliminating risk. It’s about adjusting how we move through it

Getting it right doesn’t have to mean life gets smaller. It can mean life becomes more intentional, slower, yes, and more deliberate, but still curious, still engaged, still willing to step out into the rain. The real work isn’t avoiding risk; it’s learning which risks are worth taking and which fears are quietly shrinking us without our consent. And that raises the next question: once we stop letting fear set the limits, how do we decide what “enough” looks like, and who gets to define it?

Listening Beyond the Scan

As a group, we meet for lunch once a week. Conversation often drifts to the small aches and pains of aging, and which medications help, or don’t. One of the men who joins us lives with vascular dementia. Each week he tells the same stories, and each week we listen. He works hard to slow the progression of his symptoms and, by any measure that matters to him, he has done a remarkable job.

We also understand the limits of medicine. His medications will not stop the disease, and we know there will come a time when his family must make the difficult judgment to move him into care. Until then, he lives fully. He joins us on outings, at golf games, and at football games. He delights in striking up conversations with strangers, asking them to share stories from their lives. Most people respond warmly, and he thrives on that human connection.

Our role is both joyful and heavy. When we are out together, we watch him closely. He has become lost before, causing real stress for his caregivers, who trust us to bring him home safely. We feel a deep obligation to honour that trust while also protecting his dignity and independence.

He knows his condition is worsening. Some days he speaks about it plainly; other days the subject feels too close, and we let it rest. Over time, we have learned that listening matters more than fixing, and presence more than progress.

Medicine tells part of the story, but not the whole of it. What the scans cannot measure is the value of a shared meal, a familiar laugh, or the simple dignity of being included. Somewhere between clinical outcomes and lived experience lies a quieter wisdom, one that asks us not just how long a life can be extended, but how gently and meaningfully it can be lived.

An Ode to Valentine’s Day (With Apologies to Cupid)

Ah, Valentine’s Day arrives once more,
With cards, and chocolates, and hearts galore.
A day for love, they loudly proclaim
Though our backs still ache just the same.

Once, love was roses, late nights, and thrills,
Now it’s shared calendars and prescription refills.
We’ve traded diamonds for reading glasses,
And candlelit dinners for sensible classes.

Cupid still visits, though slower these days,
He checks the stairs first, then adjusts his aim.
His arrows now come with a safety review
And a waiver to sign, just in case they hit you.

We remember the passion, the spark, the heat
Now romance is socks that are warm on your feet.
True love is knowing whose turn it is
To Google symptoms that don’t exist.

We flirt with glances across the room,
Then forget why we stood up too soon.
We hold hands tightly—part love, part fear
Because icy sidewalks are still out there.

Valentine’s cards now read, “You’re my rock,”
Which really means, “Please unlock the lock.”
Chocolate is shared, one square at a time,
Because moderation is suddenly divine.

But don’t be fooled, this love runs deep.
It’s survived kids, jobs, and too little sleep.
It’s laughter at things that no longer matter,
And comfort found in familiar chatter.

So, here’s to love that has wrinkles and grace,
That knows every line on a well-known face.
Not flashy or loud, but steady and true
The kind that says, “I choose life with you.”

Happy Valentine’s Day seasoned and wise,
Where love isn’t measured by sparkle or size.
It’s joy in the living, the sharing, the cheer\
And being glad you’re both still here.

Just Because We Can, Should We?

In the end-of-life planning workshops I facilitate, the same question comes up again and again: How do I deal with my family? More specifically, how do I tell a son, daughter, niece, nephew, or spouse what I want to happen when I can no longer speak for myself?

What sits beneath that question is something deeper. Most families are very good at solving problems. They are much less comfortable with simply supporting a person through uncertainty, decline, or hard choices. One of the goals of these conversations is to help families move from fixing to supporting.

Modern medicine complicates this in powerful ways.

I’ve had my hips and knees replaced. Those conversations were straightforward. The surgeries were likely to improve my quality of life, and they did. The promise was clear, the trade-offs manageable, and the goal, returning to function, made sense.

But not every medical decision fits that pattern.

A friend of mine is living with rectal cancer. We visited him in the hospital a few weeks ago. According to his daughter, the medications he’s on allow him to function, but he is largely bedridden. He went home a few days later, knowing, and with his family knowing, that if he stops taking those medications, he would not survive.

He understands this. His family understands this. And still, the situation exists in a kind of suspension.

When people phone or visit, he sounds upbeat. He’s pleasant, engaged, and reassuring. I’ve seen this before. When my mother was dying of cancer, visitors would come for short visits, half an hour at most. She put on a brave face. My niece did the same when she was ill. For those brief moments, everyone participated in the illusion of wellness.

It’s a kindness, in a way. But it also sustains the unspoken belief that “normal” might return if we just try hard enough.

Modern medicine offers extraordinary possibilities, surgeries, injections, replacements, and medications that extend life and relieve suffering. But alongside that promise comes pressure. The pressure to keep going. The pressure to pursue the next option. The pressure to treat uncertainty as something to be solved rather than lived with.

The question: Just because we can, should we? isn’t about rejecting medical care. It’s about informed choice. About weighing risk against reward. About recognizing when treatment supports a person’s life, and when it merely postpones a conversation no one wants to have.

Families often support the idea of “getting back to normal” because it feels hopeful and loving. But sometimes that hope delays clarity. It postpones decisions that deserve time, honesty, and shared understanding.

Medicine can do remarkable things. The challenge is knowing when its role is to restore and when it is to support comfort, dignity, and choice. Wisdom lies not in doing everything possible, but in doing what aligns with the life and the ending that a person wants.