Thursday, May 15, 2014 

Looks like rain. Smells like rain. Bugs buzzing wildly around your head, screaming Rain!

Awoke from a dream abruptly this morning at 4:45. Mom was taking a bathroom break. So I went downstairs, cleaned the bathroom, opened the window, and crawled back into bed. The dream I had been having was disjointed, except for the ending. I was sitting at a table with Rob and mom. She had decided it was time to be “dismantled.” That was the word. Time to die and be dismantled, like an old car. I was taken by surprise and protested the usual: “But I don’t want you to die. I don’t want to live without my mother.” As cogent as ever I heard her, she said, “My mind is made up. There’s no reason to go on living like this.”

Just before I went to bed last night, I was editing questions for a nursing exam. One of them asked to identify the attitude of a teenager, who said of his grandfather that he didn’t want to become like him, all broken down and decrepid. The answer was to be “ageism.” The boy suffered from ageism. I was floored. Maybe the kid was a little harsh; although, he didn’t say this to the grandfather’s face, but to a nurse. But he had a point. I didn’t interpret his complaint as holding something against his grandfather or elderly people in general, but as fearing of being in such a condition himself.

This “ism” is very disturbing and unwarranted. Tags, tags, tags everywhere. We surely don’t need another. But living to a very old age has very little to recommend it. Of course, I might eat those words myself if I live as long as my mother has. Rob recently pointed out that people shorter than 5’4” live longer. Mom was about 5’2.” Being taller might spare me a few years. Yet, here I write, certainly not hoping for an early demise, but for a better life in the so-called golden years.

Mom’s life isn’t all that bad. She has a good and comfortable home, good food, and good attention. The worst part is having lost her sisters and her friends. She has no life outside of this house and depends on Rob and me for everything—but, we are there for her. The government will refuse her serious medical care, but we will do what we can to keep her comfortable for as long as we can. Being taller than my mother, I might not live as long. Having no one to care for me would make that a blessing. I wouldn’t want to be shoved into some government holding pen until the day I die or worse yet, be given a lethal injection because I am no longer useful to society.

Living with an old woman doesn’t necessarily prepare you for the future, but it gives you pause about it. Still, I enjoy the spring; I continue to take photos of my favorite trees and flowers; I continue to hope that my hydrangeas will revive and flower again; I continue to plan for the window box and buy plants accordingly. Life goes on and joyfully so. I have this weekend’s wedding, then the wedding shower and the second summer wedding. Had to send a “no” reply to a cousin’s wedding, but sent a gift. So much life and enjoyment. And I look at it all so differently now: they have no idea what lies ahead and how little time is left. But you don’t go there. You never utter those words to the young and fearless and joyful. You enter into the spirit with them and with the season—their joy, your joy for them, the flowers, life altogether. Jamie and Stasia are having their second babies this summer, too. And Linda’s son just had a gorgeous baby boy! How much there is to celebrate! And Lucy and Val are still hopping around. I washed some poodle ears this morning and they will be romping in the rain later and tomorrow. It is good to be alive and to have them all with me. And it is good to have mom here, even though caring for her is a challenge. I wish she could go to a wedding or would even know what a wedding is at this stage. I wish she could go on a walk with the pups and make it around the neighborhood. I wish she could help plant bulbs and trim bushes and enjoy the fruit of her labors. I wish she had the strength to hold a baby in her arms or could even recognize that the photo I am showing her is of a baby. Heck, I even wish that when she went to the viewing of her sister-in-law Phyllis that she had not asked “Who is that [in the casket]?”

Ageism, indeed! I wish with all my heart that she could do these things and know people again.

Here’s another question that just came through in an email file requiring editing: “Which age group generally has the most difficulty adapting to major losses?” The answer is “older adults.” One doesn’t get used to loss toward the end of life, because I suppose it shows so clearly where you are headed. And you don’t get inured of death and all the losses on the way either. By the same token, I recall the story told to me by a tow truck driver. He happened to be first on the scene of an accident to which he had been called. The driver of the car was dead and slumped over the seat. The tow truck driver was shaken when he thought that that morning, when the man awoke and brushed his teeth or shaved his beard, he didn’t know it would be his last day on earth.

And, too, I think of Margie, who, 7 years ago, was here to celebrate my birthday. Who would have thought she wouldn’t make it to her 65^th birthday. I am sure glad we didn’t know then what we know now.

When Yogananda’s teacher died, he was devastated. I was floored! Surely Yogananda knew that life went on. That his teacher would always be with him. That they really weren’t separated. But while you are in the physical body—no matter its condition or age—the physical world is your strongest reality, or at least the reality that kicks into gear most easily. And it’s not a very forgiving world when your youth and your memory of it are gone.

Ageism indeed!