The Agony of Old Age

"If I am going to be like this the rest of my life, I would rather be dead!"....a pronouncement this afternoon from my 92 year-old mother-in-law, who had a sufficiently lucid moment in the midst of confusion to realize that she was confused.


Before and after this statement, she babbled about her son "Bobby."  When we tried to tell her that he is now a grown man, she rather forcefully declared that she has two Bobbys....a boy Bobby and a man Bobby.  She wanted to know where the boy Bobby was.  When my father-in-law arrived after church, she asked him if Bobby had gone to church with him.  When he said that he had gone alone, she was angry.  Where had he left Bobby?


But then, there was that flash of clarity, when for a fleeting moment she realized that what she had been saying made no sense.  It passed as quickly as it came.


Last evening she was distressed because no one would give her her own nightie to wear.  She was sure it was right there in the dresser drawer.  Trying to explain that she was in the hospital and needed to wear the hospital gown did no good.  I had purchased some night shirts that buttoned all the way down the front for her to wear, thinking since they opened completely, they might work.  Nope....not long enough to suit her.


This afternoon I made a slit straight down the front in two of her ankle length night gowns which had only a few buttons at the neckline.  I bound the rough edges and put snaps below the buttons.  I wonder how she will react to this.  Will she be happy to have her own gowns, or will she notice my alterations and be upset?  I don't know. I don't ever plan to tell her that a week ago, when she first became so ill, I literally had to cut her out of one of her gowns, and it went into the trash.


Old age is agony.  It is painful and confusing for the person going through this end of days experience.  It is heart-breaking for those standing helplessly by.  


I tried today to encourage her by saying that we don't always understand, but we need to trust God's plan for us.  I know she believes this.  I believe this....I hope I remember that I believe it, if I live to be 92.

I Don't Want to Live to Be Ninety

I had my annual physical this week.  I told my doctor that I don’t want to live to be ninety.  He advised me not to come to him if that was the case.  I told him that at some point I would stop making appointments.

As I look toward old age, I seriously don’t know how to proceed.  Do I keep seeking routine medical care and gradually slide into multiple prescriptions that keep me going and prolong my days?  Do I go my merry and un-medicated way hoping that at some point, I will have within me a ticking time bomb that suddenly explodes and takes me out quickly?

I have seen what the tenth decade looks like.  My father lived until a month shy of 91.  My in-laws are currently 92 and 93.   All have by the age of 90 been quite deaf and experiencing vision problems in spite of cataract surgery.  All have been on many, many medications.  All have had issues of balance and mobility.  All have become rather grumpy.

It is heart-breaking to see people who have been married over 70 years struggling to communicate, because they cannot hear one another.  When one raises ones voice loudly enough to be heard, the tone begins to sound disrespectful.  Irritability ensues. 

My father lived with us the last eight years of his life.  My in-laws stubbornly live in their own home.  Many people say some version of, “Oh, isn’t it wonderful that they are still in their own home?!”  Actually, I don’t think so.  They can no longer keep up with house maintenance, car maintenance, paying bills, fixing meals and some aspects of personal care.  We stop in often.  They have help with laundry and cleaning and personal care and yard work.  But it isn’t really enough.  The bathroom is neither safe nor convenient, but they have refused our offers to help them make the changes that would benefit them.

I really don’t want to find myself in that situation.  But, what is the alternative?  I don’t believe in suicide.  If you check yourself into a senior center that provides levels of care….independent living, assisted living, and nursing home care, you have only solved some of the problems.  You are out from under the maintenance issues and the struggle to find appropriate help as ability declines.  But, if you are not fortunate enough to keel over abruptly, you have locked yourself into gradual decline in a skilled nursing facility where multiple medications and good nursing care could keep you around to die inch by inch for years.

While I recognize that I need to trust God to pick the time of my death, I do think we can influence quality of life by our basic health habits, the medications we chose to take, and the surgical procedures we opt for or against.  However, no matter how well I take care of myself, the possibility always exists of a drunk driver hitting me head-on or a "nut case" being near me with a loaded gun.  But then, that is not terribly upsetting to me, because death is NOT the worst thing that can happen to me.  Since I pray regularly for His will to be done, I would have to believe that an incident that suddenly terminated me was not outside of His plan.

I would like to live long enough for all my grandchildren to be able to remember me as a person who loved God and desired to honor Him.  I would like to live as long as I am accomplishing God’s purposes for my life.  I want out, at the point where my death accomplishes more than my life.  That is what I will pray for!

"Ave Maria"

A few days ago, just before Christmas, I was in the car on my way to finish up some shopping.  The car radio was on a station that plays all Christmas music from Thanksgiving to Christmas.  I was struck by the hauntingly beautiful but almost mournful tone in which a female soloist was singing "Ave Maria." 

As I listened to these strains, I rounded a corner onto a street where there is a small private nursing home.  At the curb, an elderly gentleman was getting out of his car...slowly and with obvious discomfort.  He had a newspaper under his arm.  As I drove by, I watched him teeter around the car and head towards the nursing home entrance.

Although that was my last actual glimpse of him, a video clip began to play in my mind, accompanied by the mournfully rendered "Ave Maria."  He slowly ascended the stairs into the building and painfully walked down a corridor.  In my mind, the corridor was much longer than could have been contained in the actual building.  It was dimly lit, and I watched his silhouette become smaller as he got further away.  Then I saw him, the image of loneliness, enter a room.  In the bed was an elderly woman...his wife....who no longer recognized him.  He kissed her brow, and then sat heavily in the chair and opened the newspaper.  He would spend his day there, although his wife wouldn't appreciate it.  He had nowhere else to go and nothing else to do.

The last sad note of the "Ave" was sung and my private little mental video faded to black.
It has replayed in my mind numerous times since.