Dear Suddenly Single,
I have entered the strange new world of dating in my sixties, where everyone claims they’re “young at heart” while simultaneously comparing knee replacement surgeons.
Eight months ago, I met a lovely man online. Let’s call him Harold. He’s thoughtful, financially secure and well-read – unlike most of the men I’ve encountered. We enjoy each other’s company, laughing often and traveling together well.
Sounds perfect, right?
So why am I writing to you?
Lately I’ve begun to notice a pattern. Whenever we discuss the future, Harold seems remarkably interested in my caregiving abilities. He’ll say things like, “You’d make a wonderful nurse if I ever got sick,” or “It’s comforting to know I’d have someone to look after me.”
He even pointed out that the main-floor bedroom in his house would be “perfect if one of us ever couldn’t manage stairs.” The clincher was last week, when, over dinner, he asked whether I’d consider retiring earlier than planned if he developed health problems.
I answered by asking what he would do if I became seriously ill first. He stared at me for several seconds before saying, “Well… I hadn’t really thought about that.”
Neither had I. Until then.
Now I can’t stop wondering whether he’s looking for a life partner or conducting interviews for an unpaid home health aide.
Am I reading too much into this?
— No Nursing For Me
Dear No Nursing,
Dating after sixty requires us to ask questions we never imagined asking at thirty. Back then we wondered whether he wanted children, where he hoped to live, and whether his mother would ever stop dropping by unannounced. Now we compare prescription plans, discuss estate planning over dessert, and quietly assess whether someone can still lift a suitcase into the overhead compartment.
There’s nothing cynical about acknowledging that age changes the conversation.
What concerns me isn’t that Harold has considered illness because any sensible person should. It’s that, in all of his imagined futures, you’ve somehow been cast in the role of caregiver while he remains the recipient of care.
That tells me less about his health than it does about his expectations.
I sometimes think women of our generation were issued invisible job descriptions at birth. We were expected to remember birthdays, schedule dentist appointments, comfort frightened children, organize holidays, care for aging parents, support husbands’ careers, and somehow still smile when someone asked what we’d made for dinner.
Many of us performed those jobs so well that some men assumed we’d happily continue forever. Only now, after fifty or sixty years, do we finally ask the revolutionary question: “Who looks after me?”
I was having lunch with three girlfriends not long ago, all of us divorced. The conversation drifted toward dating, and one of them announced, “I’ve already spent thirty-five years taking care of a grown man. My next relationship comes with a strict no-nursing policy.”
We laughed because every woman at that table understood exactly what she meant.
Now, I don’t think Harold deserves to be convicted on circumstantial evidence alone. One clumsy answer does not reveal the entirety of a person’s character.
But it does warrant curiosity.
The next time he talks about growing old together, don’t let the conversation skate politely past your concerns. Tell him what you’ve noticed. Say something like, “I’ve realized that whenever we discuss the future, we always seem to picture me caring for you. I wonder why we’ve never pictured the opposite.”
Then listen, not just to his answer, but to whether he becomes defensive or thoughtful.
The happiest relationships I’ve seen later in life aren’t built on promises that neither person will ever become frail. They’re built on a quiet understanding that if frailty comes, each will carry the other for as long as they possibly can.
Notice the wording. Each. Not just one. That’s partnership. Everything else is staffing.
-Suddenly Single
