BoomerBlix

One Hundred Years Old...Going on Two

 

 

Ailsa at 91

I've always said I don't want to live to be a hundred. Why? Just so I can get my photo on Good Morning America...or is it the Today Show? Receive a letter from the president? Get a thousand "likes" on Facebook?

I've been helping take care of my mother-in-law for about five years. (See my first post about her here.) Ailsa was a lively red-headed 90+ year-old who drove one of those tank-sized cars. She went to the hair salon three times a week, lived alone in a huge apartment, and hosted daily Happy Hours in her teetotaler retirement complex. She could have given Betty White a run for her money. She was a hoot.

One day right before Thanksgiving--somewhere in her mid-90s--she was buying wine when her hip went the wrong way. She went down in the grocery aisle, got a ride in an ambulance, and was quite irritated to end up in rehabilitation. I visited her during her stay in assisted living, sneaked her out to maintain her hair color, gave her wine in a discreet coffee mug every day at 4 pm. She recovered from that broken hip and taught herself to walk without a cane. "I don't want to look old."

A couple of years later, she wasn't so lucky. A devastating stroke took her mind, leaving her body intact. Speech therapy helped a little, but the woman who could tell side-splitting stories was gone. Slowly, memories have faded. The one person she can remember is her late husband, gone almost 15 years. If you show her his picture, she will touch his face and say "Handsome."

Today she hit me. Refused to leave the breakfast table. Told me to go away when I tried to maneuver her to the bathroom. She says "no" to everything, even when she means otherwise. The once-meticulous woman screams during baths and protests when her nails are trimmed. It breaks my heart.

Of course, I don't take anything personally. Dementia makes all of us equal targets for her confusion and frustration. Ailsa is one of 47.5 million people around the world with dementia. The World Health Organization tells us that by 2050 the number will increase to 75.6 million. By 2050? There will be triple the number of Ailsas hitting their caregivers.

Ailsa lives at her daughter's home, with two shifts of caretakers every day. As you can imagine, the cost of home care is staggering, but so is any type of residential care. Dementia costs the U.S. over $604 billion a year, expected to soar as the population ages. That's just the medical price, not the emotional or health toll on family and caregivers. 

I come for my "shifts" a couple of times a year, then I get to escape and go home. My sister-in-law, a tenured professor, has sacrificed some of her research, not to mention nearly all her social life. Symphony, theatre, restaurants--in a world-class city--have had to be put aside. Everything revolves around Ailsa, from diet choices to daily schedule. Not a smidgen of spontaneity.

Why do I tell you all this? Two reasons:

1. Our turn is coming. While dementia is not considered to be a normal part of growing old, it happens. Let's first make clear our intentions for if/when it comes: make arrangements, sign the documents. Don't leave others to decide, it's too hard. When all is in order, get out and life your life to the fullest. Each day is precious. Make memories that will be passed along. Become a legend!
2. Because...every now and then, neurons in Ailsa's feeble brain make a connection. She will suddenly snap alert, her blue eyes will blaze, and she will join us again. It's a temporary, but tender moment. And we all smile.

 

 

 

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It's Time for "The Talk"...about Dying

It's Time for "The Talk"...about Dying

Guess what? We're all going to die. And someone apparently leaked the news to the government. In a startling announcement this week, Medicare has decided to pay doctors to talk about the "D" word, more pleasantly called "end-of'-life."  Not a moment too soon, with 55 million Medicare beneficiaries headed to the Big Woodstock in the Sky.

What's the big deal? The way I see it, physicians can now invoice Medicare to actually discuss the inevitable with their patients. You know, get paid for what was already their job. But death, oddly enough, isn't something doctors are taught or skilled at discussing. So a little reimbursement is the carrot that will nudge them to deal with reality. 

Why is it so hard for doctors--or any of us--to talk about how we want our lives to end? We chat about it casually: "No extra measures for me." "I don't want to be a vegetable." "When it's my time, let me go." But when that day actually does come, for many people, medicine prevails. One more round of antibiotics, let's continue the chemo, there's a new treatment that has shown promise. Doctors peddle hope and many of us leap at the offer. For what? So we don't have to admit the truth and say good-bye.

But what about the person who is actually dying? You may be surprised to learn that they know their life is ending and they have come to terms with it. Consider The Death of Ivan Ilyich, by Tolstoy. Ivan is a 45 year-old man in good health, until he falls off a stepladder. The pain in his side grows worse, he continues to decline, and then he can't walk. Suddenly, the “intelligent, polished, lively, and agreeable man” is incapacitated. His depression grows as friends avoid him and a string of doctors try every treatment known...and a few unknown. Ivan grows furious at the futile remedies: “What tortured Ivan Ilyich most,” Tolstoy writes, “was the deception, the lie, which for some reason they all accepted, that he was not dying but was simply ill, and he only need keep quiet and undergo a treatment and then something very good would result."

Ivan knew he was dying, but his greatest pain? That no one would acknowledge it and care for him as a person whose life was ending. No one to talk about its meaning for him and that he had mattered. To ask if there was anything he still needed to do or say. To find out what he wanted in his final days. To just sit with him and hold his hand. To tell him he was loved.

It's easy to say, well, that's just how doctors are. They train in a "culture of cure" and that to accept death is to admit failure. I simply don't buy that. Every physician sees plenty of patients die. So why do they dance around it? Partly, it's easier to keep tossing out options; that way, you can say "We tried everything" and everyone--at the least the doctor and the family--feels better. Mostly, it's a necessary self-defense mechanism that allows doctors to function in an occupation that deals with heartbreaking sickness and tragedy every single day. When they're done with work, just like the rest of us, they go home and make spaghetti, give the kids baths, and talk about getting that new furnace installed before winter. After all, they're human, too.

Do doctors think about their own deaths? You bet. And in a fascinating article, "How Doctors Die," Ken Murray, MD,  tells us that physicians choose less aggressive therapies and no resuscitation. A survey done at Stanford University found that 90% of doctors facing death decline treatment and choose to die at home.

So. It's good that end-of-life discussions will be happening more often. But even better? Make your own plan--and make sure your family knows. Have "the talk" now. Today. Don't put others in the awkward position of deciding how you exit this world.

 

Can Money Buy Happiness? You Bet!

"It is pretty to see what money can do."   (Samuel Pepys (1633-1703) wrote in his diary entry on  21 March 1667)

There is money squandered, and there is money that returns dividends many, many times more valuable than the cost of the original investment. 

Here are some things I consider my finest use of funds:

• Contact lenses:  Born near-sighted, I had glasses at age three.  Even then, I knew the cute pink frames were poor compensation for this affliction.  In third grade, boys called me "four eyes." By high school, I begged for contacts, but my parents considered them a luxury, and told me I could have them only when I could purchase them myself.  A summer job at a dentist’s office gave me “visual freedom.”  After a hellish adaptation to hard contact lenses--the only way they came in 1967--it would be forty years before I reconsidered putting on a pair of glasses, even for stylish or practical reasons.  Cost:  $100
• My divorce:  The marriage wasn’t going well, and I had started my own Credit Union savings account—against my husband’s wishes.  At the time, I wasn’t sure if I was saving for a new car, a piano…or a divorce.  When the last straw came, it was an easy call.  Cost: $2500
• Wine classes:  At the time, I was dating a chef.  Not wanting to look stupid, I signed up for a class on French wines, which turned into a year of classes on varietals and vintages of every kind.  I found that I really enjoyed wine, and that I had a great palate.  The relationship suffered when we went to a blind tasting contest, and I did better than the chef.  But the lessons have stayed with me all these years.  Cost: $900
• Consultation regarding my life’s purpose:  Here I thought I was supposed to be always responsible for everything and everyone.  Never mind that it was a staggering burden.  Lo and behold, I’m meant to:  Have fun!  Create!  Explore!  I can’t begin to describe the sense of liberation.  Right now I don't even have a houseplant. Cost: $200
• My personal stocks:  Yes, I am the proud owner of shares of Apple and Facebook, with more planned.  And a few others, some pretty successful, which together comprise my Retirement Travel Fund.  I choose them myself, watch over them lovingly, and add a share or two at a time.  My financial advisor is impressed enough to want to count them in my investment portfolio, but I refuse to relinquish them.  They. Are. Mine. Cost:  $100 a month

Small purchases at the time, huge payoffs.  Some more than I ever anticipated.  If anyone tries to tell you money can't buy happiness, send them to me.  Meanwhile, I keep saving for future investments. You should, too.

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Three Reasons to Color

 

Surely you've heard by now. Adult coloring books are the #1 and #2 on Amazon.com. More coloring books than cook books! What's up?

We all remember breaking out our crayons for those dull "time-fillers" in grade school. And you, like me, probably received endless coloring books for every occasion: tonsillectomy, Easter basket, road trips... I was never the biggest fan of coloring. Coloring book= BORING. Why would I spend my time--and precious sharp crayons--on some picture that another person had already drawn? Nonsense.

My mother, however, was all over it. She'd say, "Let's color!" I'd groan, drag out crayons in various states of decay (no crayon sharpeners back then) and we'd color. Rather, she would color--and she was amazing. You could watch her face soften as she focused, outlining with extra pressure, filling in the spaces lightly, always the same direction. I couldn't believe it. My mother was an artist! Me, I had other places to be. What a yawn.

Fast forward fifty years...guess what? Adults are coloring!! Gone are the cheap newsprint books, here are the intricate acid-resistant papers. Tiny spaces, ready to be filled. Crayons? Probably not. Gel pens or pencils are a better bet, for finer control. And be sure to set aside lots of time.

But, what a benefit! Those boring generic spaces of yesteryear are now upscale--and therapeutic. If you haven't been aware of this current trend, here are three reasons to jump in today:

1. It's Proven!  Carl Jung used coloring as a technique to induce relaxation. He did this through "mandalas": Circular designs with concentric shapes similar to the rose windows of Gothic churches. Origin: India.

2. It Makes You Creative!  When you're busy coloring, your brain is free to think of new and different things. Call it Freud, call it whatever, but ideas can percolate while you are making beautiful designs. 

3. It's Fun and Authentic!  It's just you and the page. By now, you have nothing to prove, no one to impress. You can color as you wish. Purple chickens? Orange houses? Go for it! It's both powerful and rebellious at the same time. You get to be in charge. Tomorrow, you may change your mind. That's terrific, too.

I recently ordered adult coloring books for my 86 year-old mother and my 99 year-old mother-in-law. They each needed various amounts of coaching--but once they started coloring, I couldn't have stopped them for anything. In fact, all the adults around them started to color.

Maybe I'm the only one to be surprised at the power of coloring. But I've become a total convert. I'm on the waiting list for those Amazon best-sellers. Already have my coloring tools ready. What's not to love?

 

 

 

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No Regrets About My Regrets

Edith Piaf: "Je ne regrette rien."  Really, girlfriend?

I've been thinking about regrets lately. Why do so many people claim they don't have any? You hear it all the time: "When I look back on my life/career/relationships, I have no regrets."  Even Edith Piaf, the famous French singer who had a pretty miserable life, tried to convince us that all was peachy-keen with her brave "I regret nothing" ballad. 

REALLY??

This is where I scratch my head in amazement. Regrets? I have more than plenty to go around, big and little. In fact, here are a dozen, right off the top of my head:

• Marrying at twenty when I wasn't really sure
• Not telling my father I loved him the last time I saw him alive
• Getting rid of my favorite Christmas sweater
• The night I drank too much Scotch
• Those horrible shoes I bought to please a man
• Not keeping up with my college roommate
• Working the night shift to earn $.25 more an hour
• Waiting so long to travel
• Trusting that hard work would be acknowledged
• Putting my best knives in the dishwasher
• Ignoring the advice of people who love me
• Not buying more stocks during the Recession

See? I could go on, but you get the idea. Surely I'm not the only one who's made a few wrong turns. 

The other thing I don't understand is the "If I had it to do all over again, I wouldn't change a thing." When I look around, I see folks constantly trying to recover from bad mistakes and faulty rationales. Go ahead--ask them if they could turn back time and change an event, which moment would they choose? Nearly always, they'll say that everything's fine, thank you. They can't recall anything that could have used a little buffing and puffing.

As for me, I say that if you don't want your "do-over" ticket, I'll be happy to take it off your hands. I'd gladly make a few refinements.

I understand that life's wobbles are meant to make us wiser and stronger. I also understand the power of gratitude in accepting the lessons that come our way.  But what I don't grasp is the lack of ability to embrace the insight that comes from a sincere "Boy, that was really dumb. I wish I could take it back."

Maybe to admit your regrets means you've somehow failed. Or that what's done is done--let's move on.  Still...in the middle of the night, tell me that you don't sometimes go back in time to a defining day--you know which one it is--and whisper to yourself, "If only..."

 

 

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In a week I travel to help sort through my mother's small apartment and then move Mom into a bedroom at my sister's. Two years ago, I did the same thing--that time it was moving Mom from Henderson, NV, to Gwinn, MI. She has a cool converted storefront apartment which would cost a fortune to rent in any place other than Upper Michigan. She has loved it there, but now says in a sorrowful voice, "I guess it's time to move in with Sally."

Some of you are ahead of me on this. Sadly, both of your parents have passed away. Some of you still have both parents around for holidays, celebrations, and everyday chit-chats. Some of you share my current situation, one parent gone, one now slipping.  Your counsel is welcomed.

My father died thirty years ago, at age 56, from what his internist called "bad luck cancer."  He was a hard worker, often shuttling between two jobs. If you ever went to Hans' Gulf Station, in Lombard, IL, back when men pumped your gas, there's a chance my father helped you. That was his part-time job. He always wanted to travel, and his dream was to retire in Las Vegas, near his brother. He and my mother had finally started to go a few places when he got sick. Diagnosis to death was only took from Spring to Fall. Shit.

My mother is plucky--she went ahead and moved to Las Vegas by herself. She got a job at the DMV, bought a condo, took dancing lessons, and met her second husband, Ray. She started to write a novel, but then put it aside to care for Ray. Ray had been the sole survivor of a WWII plane crash, landing in German territory and spending several years as a POW. His severe injuries hadn't been treated; he would suffer from disabilities and constant chronic pain for the rest of his life.

After Ray died, Mom remained in Henderson. She bought another condo and took up ceramics. She returned to her book, which she declared would be a "blockbuster." She was certain that Dr. Phil would be interested in having an 85 year-old author on his show. She finished the book in 2014 and self-published "What Shapes Our Life," a family saga featuring Nora, a young woman in Southern Illinois after WWII. Mom was especially proud that she wasn't uncomfortable writing the sex scenes. (Lots of heavy breathing and passionate kissing.)

Evelyn Dugger Beavers Tartaglia--Author!

After her triumphant debut--although Dr. Phil has not called--she thought she might like to tackle a sequel.  But she started taking tumbles in her apartment. She fell, sometimes during the night, and would lie on the floor until she could phone my sister. Sally would take her for a few days, until Mom would insist on returning to her own home. "I like my own company," she always says.  Then Sally noticed that Mom hadn't reordered any of her numerous prescriptions. She couldn't remember if she had taken the ones that were still around, despite Sally's efforts to keep the pill reminder boxes up-to-date. 

And so it goes. Apparently she was writing generous checks to a few charities each month. Forgetting to eat, and thrilled at her sudden ability to lose weight. Taking all day to read the small local newspaper...several times. Falling more frequently; we're amazed that she hasn't broken a hip. She's failing and she knows it. "I'm not great and I'm not terrible," she answered when I asked how she's doing. She wants to go to the funeral home when I'm there, to make arrangements. Sensible, yet unsettling.

How much longer will she be with us? It's sad to realize that parents aren't going to always be around. That we will step up and be the oldest generation. That we will fall. That someone will take care of us.

 

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When Singles Get Sick: Not for the Timid

The Single Woman Gets Sick...1857

Last Saturday I woke up, full of plans for the day. A long walk, some writing, maybe a movie...who knows, I might even do a little housework! I went downstairs to make some coffee, but decided maybe I was still a little tired. Plenty of time, so I went back to bed. And slept two more hours, something I never do.

When I woke up, I knew I was sick. Flat-out, nausea-and-vomiting sick. Blazing headache and unrelenting vertigo. I spent the next 24 hours in a horizontal position, either in my bed or on the cool bathroom floor.  Miserable...and alone.

Here's the thing: when you live by yourself, you also get to be sick by yourself. No one pops in to see if you'd like a soothing orange popsicle or a refreshing glass of ginger ale. Craving chicken noodle soup? Great, just haul yourself out of bed and make it. As soon as the room stops spinning.

On one hand, I could sleep for hours without anyone asking me what was for dinner. When you're nauseated, that's a real plus. On the other hand, I could sleep for hours without anyone remotely concerned with my alarming state of health. I managed to get to the kitchen once; otherwise, I was glued to the bed, willing to sell my soul for a beverage. You think I'm exaggerating, but I'm here to tell you that I peed once in 24 hours. Dehydration ruled the day. 

Single people know what I mean. We can plan for the flu, keeping a few items ready. I happen to like canned peaches when I emerge from days of feeling awful. Others prefer childhood favorites, like macaroni and cheese from the blue box. Sherbet. Grilled cheese. Applesauce. Jello. Since no one is going to dash to the store on our behalf, we need to be prepared. Then pull on our old ratty robes, run our hands through our greasy hair, and go to the pantry. At which point we decide it's not worth the effort, and return to our sickbeds. Not a recommended method for weight loss.

In a day or two, we'll recover. (Although each of us vaguely wonders how long it would be before others realize we've gone missing...) We'll manage to shower and brush our teeth. Change the bedding. And re-enter society. We've navigated illness without someone to put a cool washcloth to our brow, plump our pillow, and check to see if we're still breathing. A small victory, to be sure.

People think that solo travel is the hardest part about being alone. I'm here to tell you, that's a snap.

Three Great Things About Movember

Today let's celebrate Movember, a brilliant campaign to raise awareness for men's health. After a month of Pink-Pink-Pink, it's refreshing to watch the men in our lives burst out those moustaches as a reminder that they have cancers to conquer, too.

In case you need a quick reminder, here's the explanation from the US Movember FAQ page: "The Movember Foundation is the leading global organization committed to changing the face of men’s health. We achieve this by challenging men to grow, and women to support, moustaches during Movember (the month formerly known as November) to spark conversation and raise funds for prostate cancer, testicular cancer and mental health problems."

It's no secret that I'm not usually a fan of moustaches. But come Movember, here are three reasons for me to put my bias aside for thirty days:

1. Finally, men have a way to talk about male cancers. By signing up to join the Mo Bros, guys are able to raise money--and awareness--for diseases that have only been mumbled about. This is serious stuff:

• 1 in 2 men will be diagnosed with cancer in their lifetime
• Prostate cancer is the 2nd most common cancer in men in the U.S.
• Testicular cancer is the most common cancer in young men aged 15-35 years

2. Movember also shines a light into the dark tunnel of mental illness. Men may act brave and strut their macho selves around, denying their need to seek help:

• 1 in 4 adults will experience a mental health problem in a given year
• 15 million American adults are diagnosed with depression each year
• More than four times as many men as women die by suicide in the U.S.

3.  Movember is fun! What a super way to approach men's health! Even the rules are clever: "Shave the Date." Look at some of the events and promotions:

• Check out the style guide to choose your mo for the month. Will it be Regent, Box Car, or Rock Star?
• Raise $100 and get a free ticket to your nearly Gala Parté. After a month of raising funds and awareness for men’s health, Mo Bros and Mo Sistas (women who support their men during Movember) around the globe end the month in style at an official celebration.
• Research gets funded. Almost $600, 000 raised! Click here to read about the studies made possible by Movember.

We all have men in our lives who are dearly important to us. Right now, men live an average of five years less than women. Let's ALL work to make male lives healthier and happier, shall we?

Are you a 2014 Mo Bro? Let us know: Boomerblix@gmail.com.  

Want to send a check to to support Movember?

Movember
P.O. Box 1595
Culver City, CA
90232

 

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Obvious Life Lessons: Food and Water

Cafe con Leche: Sugar, fat, and caffeine.                  Perfect energy combination!  
Order a "grande"...it's six ounces instead of four.

At the risk of seeming idiotic--and there is no way I won't--I was reminded of a few basic nutrition principles during my 500-mile walk on the Camino de Santiago. Things that I've known forever--but seem to have tossed aside. They got lost in the shuffle of the daily world. At first I hesitated about writing them in a Blix. But then, I thought to myself, Hey! These are my steadfast readers! They won't ridicule me!  So, here goes...don't laugh.

Like many people, I'm always wishing I could drop a few pounds. My diet is pretty sensible, but not perfect. I could certainly move around more--and more often. Do the boring stuff that becomes important as we get older: strength training, stretching. You know what I'm talking about.

Then, at some point in 2013, I decided that it would be swell to walk the Camino in my 65th year. I'm certainly not young, but neither am I decrepit. Maybe the first few days would be rough--all the guidebooks agree on this--but after that, how tough could it be? With a minimal bit of information, a certain level of denial, and a memory of a friend telling about it ten years prior, I proceeded to plan. I didn't particularly worry about my weight; in fact, since my backpack was supposed to be only 10% of my weight, I indulged in extra calories. (Totally irrational. Highly unrecommended.)

Skip ahead a year, and I was a full-fledged pilgrim. Trekking along, day after day. After 12 or more miles a day, hauling almost twenty pounds, you'd think I'd be starving. But I wasn't. After a couple of weeks, a few things dawned on me:

 1.  Water tastes good.  We all know that water is good for us, but how often do we take a gulp and say, "Ahhhhhh!"  Most days, our water comes in disguises: coffee, tea, sodas, etc. Even plain water needs to be fancied up: little packets of flavoring, fruity tastes or crazy enhancers. It's as if we can't bear to drink anything simple. I understand that tap water may have unpleasant minerals or whatever, but that's not what I'm talking about; there are remedies for that. I'm referring to the taste of ordinary water with nothing added.

Without the option of jazzing up the water that came straight from the public fountains in Spain, I started to taste the water. It was so...tasteless! (Maybe taste-free is a better description.) Thirst-quenching! Refreshing! I looked forward to drinking it, thirsty or not. One day, a man from Australia said, "I didn't know how much I liked water!" Well said, Mate.

This isn't to say that water can't have a slice of lemon or lime. But does it really need to have a powdery mix in order to be swallowed? 

2.  Eat when you're hungry.  Yes, I know. Another brilliant insight. Except that if I had actually been doing that before--instead of eating according to the time of day--I wouldn't be clicking on the latest weight loss stories that crop up on my computer screen. 

Most days I walked a couple of hours before stopping for some kind of breakfast. As I passed the bar in a village, I'd ask myself if I was hungry yet. No? Keep going. Yes? Stop. The food in Spain is delicious, and it's not hard to find. So scarcity isn't an issue. After a few days on the Camino, I would decide just how much I really felt like eating. Tostada, which was a lovely big piece of toasted bread, served with butter and jam? Maybe fried eggs, always fresh, with bright orange yolks? A banana? Or just a cafe con leche for the moment? Every day was different.

More fresh fruit than I usually eat, picked up at the little markets along the way. When I took time to enjoy a peach while I walked, it was fully satisfying. I didn't feel like scrounging around for something "more." At the same time, on days when I needed energy, I bought what seems to be Spain's favorite candy, a Kit-Kat bar. 

For dinner? A Pilgrim's Menu, which includes three smallish courses. Or a big salad, sort of like a chef's salad, if I happened to be craving greens. Maybe a pizza, although they were always disappointing, and each time I swore I would never have another one. Some wine. More water. That's it.

I know my activity schedule and daily calorie-burn were not comparable to the "real" world, but I did stop to evaluate how hungry I was, and listened to my body. That, I can do anywhere. 

A regular-sized apple and a bottle of Coke.                    No Big Gulps!

 3. Portion control, People!  Sure, almost everything came with fries. But not a lot of fries. The three courses of the Menu del Dia (Pilgrim's Menu) provided a substantial meal. First course: Choice of salad, soup, pasta, or a local specialty. Second course: meat, fish, or stew, with a vegetable on the side. Third course: cake, ice cream, pudding, cheese, fruit, or coffee. Bread always included. 

Courses were served in dishes smaller than what Americans use; the second course was on what we could call a large salad plate. Likewise, the portions were smaller. What was interesting was that even the big, hefty pilgrims got full. We all ate what we were given and then we were done. No thought of seconds. It was enough.

As I said, this is all ridiculously obvious. Over the course of 38 days, the lessons were eventually assimilated. Now comes the challenge of maintaining them in my world of abundance and clock-driven activity.

At this point, you are dazzled by my Blix, aren't you? And I totally agree with what you're thinking: How absurd to travel so far to re-learn what I already knew. But it was a lesson that I needed to become reacquainted with. 

Again, please don't laugh.

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Could Facebook Go Away? Maybe…It Causes Loneliness and Miserable Feelings

So. Facebook has over one billion users. But there is growing concern that there could be an upcoming bailout. Why, you ask? We can't be without it! In fact, we're addicted! Updates, photos, recipes, motivational quotes. Connections, long-lost friends, classmates, and lovers. Who doesn't want all those things, in one handy place?

It seems that younger users--and by this, I mean college-aged adults--find themselves feeling miserable after reading what their friends are posting.  According to a study at University of Michigan, the more this group used Facebook, the more glum they felt.

Straight from the abstract: "We text-messaged people five times per day for two weeks to examine how Facebook use influences the two components of well-being: how people feel moment-to-moment and how satisfied they are with their lives. Our results indicate that Facebook use predicts negative shifts on both of these variables over time. The more people used Facebook at one time point, the worse they felt the next time we text-messaged them; the more they used Facebook over two weeks, the more their life satisfaction levels declined over time."

Wow. 

I remember college being one of the best times of my life. All the fun, yet without the responsibilities that would come after graduation. Friends, freedom, and the chance to ease into adulthood. Sure, there were those classes, but it all managed to get done. Visits back home, maybe just enough to do laundry and get a few doses of home cooking...then eagerly returning to campus. I can't say that I ever truly felt "miserable."

Perhaps we were fortunate to be unencumbered by social media; we didn't have great awareness of what others were doing. Participants in the study reported feeling lonely and isolated.  During the NPR segment I listened to, one young woman said that she was considering closing her Facebook account. "Everyone's life seems so much better than mine," she tried to explain. "I read posts about 'We're at the movies' or see a picture of my friends at a new restaurant.  I feel like I'm the only one who's not out having fun."

Really?

I don't quite know what to think about that. Certainly there has to be a basic level of understanding when reading others' posts. No one has a perfect life. Does the ability to either self-filter the posts ("Oh, that's just her, always gloating...") or to be glad for someone ("Yippee! I know he's been craving Thai food!") only develop over time?  Can a bright and promising 20-something actually feel as if he's the only one who's not living the dream on a Friday night? Does comparison by social media matter that much?

More from the researchers, regarding the negative outcomes: "They [the outcomes] were not moderated by by the size of people's Facebook networks, their perceived supportiveness, motivation for using Facebook, gender, loneliness, self-esteem, or depression.  On the surface, Facebook provides an invaluable resource for fulfilling the basic human need for social connection. Rather than enhancing well-being, however, these findings suggest that Facebook may undermine it."

A quick look at the graph below will show why the study's results matter, even though the sample size was small.  If 29% of users become disenchanted with Facebook, there is a lot at stake.

And while Facebook use by older adults is on the upswing--Boomers used to be 4%--we're still not driving the bus, by any means.  I'm also guessing we don't feel bad when we use it. We're enjoying it for all the right reasons: to connect, to chat, to check-in. Then we go do something else for awhile. We're tolerant of our differences, and excited for our friends who are having a good time.  

It's interesting, this notion of social media and how it affects us. We've all read the tragic stories of cyber-bullying and lives cut short.  Perhaps we should be grateful to have escaped this intense way of communicating.

Makes passing notes in class look downright healthy.

 

 

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