Training For Life
What my father’s fall taught me about staying able
My father turned ninety this month.
Until about a year ago he was living independently, managing his days much as he had since my mother passed away.
Then one morning he tripped in the bathroom.
Fortunately, no broken bones. But the bruising was extensive, and his ribs were painfully sore. The doctor advised him to rest in bed for a few days.
Something similar happened a couple of years back, and after a week or so, he was up again - shuffling around the house, climbing the stairs to his study, wandering into the garden to check on his tomatoes.
But this time it was different.
He hasn’t got back up on his feet since.
The loss of muscle tone was astonishingly fast - his legs and arms thinning before our eyes, his hands and feet stiffening. Within weeks, his body was noticeably weaker.
There was something else, too.
My father confided in me that he was frightened to stand again.
The fall had understandably shaken his confidence in his own body.
Since then, I’ve arranged for a physiotherapist to visit five times a week.
The physio, John, and Dad are both big men - tall and solid. A trust has grown between them, and John is the only person my father will stand up with. Together, they now manage a few careful daily steps.
Not many.
But enough to remind Dad’s body what standing feels like - we’re still hopeful he will walk again.
Strangely enough, he now looks forward to those visits.
There is something slightly ironic about that.
For years, I encouraged my father to exercise more. In his youth, he had been extremely active - tennis, squash, golf - but as he grew older and lost his sports mates, he gradually stopped. Whenever I suggested strength training or a class at the local gym, he resisted.
Looking back now, I can’t help wondering how different things might have been if he had been seriously building strength before the fall.
Not training for sport.
Not training for appearance.
Simply training for life.
Watching this unfold has made me turn my attention toward my own body.
At sixty, I’m old enough to realise that strength, balance and stamina don’t maintain themselves indefinitely.
I’ve always moved fairly easily through life - naturally slim, reasonably flexible, happy to swim, walk or explore a landscape.
But I know I could be stronger.
This feels like the moment to approach exercise with more intention - not as my usual gentle morning routine, but as a more challenging discipline.
That thought was already on my mind when I recently visited my GP to discuss the results of a bone density scan.
Osteopenia, it turns out.
Not osteoporosis yet.
We talked about medication, increasing protein intake, and a strength program designed to build bone density. The doctor mentioned a training approach called Onero and suggested I speak with an exercise physiologist.
I left the clinic thinking about bones, muscles and the curious business of aging bodies.
And then something slightly ridiculous happened.
Walking home, I managed to trip over the tip of my closed umbrella, drop an armful of groceries and - in what felt like a slapstick finale - slip on a banana.
Yes.
An actual banana.
Fortunately, nothing broke - just some nasty scrapes and bruises - including my ego. But gathering my scattered shopping from the pavement, I had a sudden and very vivid thought.
These things happen fast.
A fall can be an uncomfortable annoyance.
Until it isn’t.
Watching my father this past year has made something very clear to me: ageing well depends, in part, on preserving strength - and the confidence that comes with it.
Strength training is preparation for the life we intend to keep living.
So over the coming months I’ll be exploring what that might look like for me - speaking with an exercise physiologist, building strength, paying more attention to protein and bone health.
In support of the life I love and want to keep saying YES to - climbing rocks by the ocean, carrying my grandchildren, travelling and exploring with my partner Tom, and moving through the world with confidence.
Staying fully engaged with life.
And for that, strength matters more than I once realised.
That is what training for life really means.
Have you ever had a moment that made you see ageing or strength differently?
Little Things That Matter
Field notes from a curious life.