Last Days

My term as dean is done!

In the 1950s, social scientists observed that as people aged they seemed to be less socially engaged.  Psychologists used that observation to develop disengagement theory in gerontology, the notion that aging brings about an inevitable retreat from social interaction in preparation for death. When I first started studying gerontology in the late 1980s there was considerable criticism of this theory. Rather than disengagement being voluntary or inevitable, it was the result of social structures that devalued age and limited opportunities. People didn't want to disengage, they were forced to.

Today is my last day as dean. (Technically it is Sunday and I turned in my keys yesterday, so I'm not in the office today.)  It occurred to me that over the last few weeks, months really, I had been slowly disengaging from that role. I gleefully removed scheduled meetings from my calendar, advised people to send their emails elsewhere, and cleaned up my office and files. People have stopped by to thank me or, more often, to ask for one last favor. There were some tears yesterday as I said goodbye to my budget manager with whom I've worked the whole 8 years. We have shared many crises and triumphs. But, overall, the last day was not as traumatic as I might have imagined.  In many ways, I stopped seeing myself as the dean a long time ago.

Maybe disengagement is not so bad after all.

Demarcations

 I've been thinking lately of how we move from one state of being to another.  Sometimes the timing of hte change is very discrete--a marriage, birth of a child, starting a job.  But what about the changes that are not so clearly marked.

Ten weeks ago I had a major surgery.  I got differing advice on how long it would take to "recover."  Some said one week for every hour of surgery, some said one month for every hour.  The doctor said I'd feel better "in a few months."  At first, I was clearly recovering. I was tired, experiencing some discomfort, adjusting to changes in my body.  But, when do I say I'm "recovered"?  I have friends who have experienced addiction, either themselves or through a loved one.  In that field you can hear people describe themselves as a "recovering addict" for the rest of their lives.  I understand there is a difference between that experience and mine, but when do I stop thinking of myself as "recovering" and switch to "recovered"? 

I think there must be other states that have similarly murky boundaries. When do you really become a parent? When do you really become an adult? When does grief end?  When do you fall in or out of love? 

How do any of us know where we are??!!

And why did Spain and Portugal get to decide??