aging

Dear older parent(s) of an adult single child

/ C.B. Kent / Leave a comment

As I write this, my 88 year old mother is doing her second stint (within three weeks) in rehab after a brief hospital stay. I’m a day from getting on a plane (second time in 3 weeks) to Florida to see her.

I’m an only child, mid-40s. The reason I’m writing this letter to you, is that I want to do you a favor. I want to give you something to think about, something that you likely don’t want to think about. And it’s likely something your child doesn’t feel comfortable bringing up when you’re spending time together. Assuming you do that sort of thing.

Here’s the favor: I want you to think about your death. I know you’re thinking, what kind of favor is that? Not to mention, who the hell are you to ask me to think about my death? Please hear me out a moment.

About four years ago my mom’s health suddenly took a turn. Nothing that was expected, nothing that was already under treatment. Mom wasn’t exactly in perfect health, but thanks to the wonders of modern medicine, whatever health conditions she had were manageable.

We were unprepared for this turn, and I was especially unprepared for the aftermath. Mom’s situation then was acute, and I had to make a lot of decisions rather quickly, decisions for which I would rather have had her input while she was coherent. Things like executing a power of attorney, healthcare proxy, will, suddenly became necessary, and I didn’t have time to process any of it, I had to just execute and move on to the next thing.

One of the things your child may face is what to do with you if you’re well enough to leave the hospital but not well enough to return home. Remember that thing you used to say to your child, something along the lines of “there’s no such thing as a free lunch”? There’s no such thing as free long term healthcare. Everything comes at a cost.

Speaking of costs, how are your finances? Have you figured out yet that you’re probably going to live a long time thanks to modern medicine? Sure, you’ll be popping pills galore and your joints will sound like the creaky stairs in a horror film, but you’ll be alive. Here’s a secret I learned: you either have to be filthy rich or dirt poor to get the services you’ll need in your elder years. The folks in the middle, the majority, your options are few and you may be reduced to destitution because your money will run out long before you thought it would. Word of advice: get a lawyer and a financial planner, now. In fact, tell your child to get these people, too.

I’m making some assumptions here. One, you’re young enough to do something about the rest of your life – and if you want control of that, it’s not too late to ensure you get what you need, when you need it. Two, you and your adult child have a relationship. Your adult child likely has a life of their own, and I’ll tell you from personal experience that dropping everything when your parent(s) need/s you isn’t easy. Especially if you live thousands of miles away.

Kudos to you if everything I’ve said here is old news and you’re squared away.  And if by reading this you’re thinking about getting things squared away, great. My job here is done. Good luck to you.

A Psalm of Life

/ C.B. Kent / 1 Comment

The older gentleman slowly lowered himself to the empty stool to my left. One of the younger women tending the griddle half-turned, her right hand still expertly flipping the pile of hash browns for an order, and gave him a huge grin. “Coffee?” she asked, and he nodded, returning the smile, dentures gleaming.

“You a local?” he asked me. I shook my head. “From Massachusetts.” He proceeded to ask specifically where, and it turned out he used to live a couple of towns over from where I now live. His eyes were probably not as bright as they used to be, but his voice, though a touch gravelly, was clear and resonant.

I turned to the corn muffin that had been placed in front of me, warm and lightly brown from the griddle and slathered with just the right amount of butter. I was about to take a bite when I felt a light tap on my upper arm.

“You see this?” He was holding a drawing of a barn, the lines so clear and precise I thought at first I was looking at a woodcut. “I drew this,” and a gnarled finger pointed to the name written in block letters in the left lower corner. At first I thought he was going to try to sell it to me, but with a slightly shaking hand he put it back to where it apparently lived, propped up on the corner of the counter. I asked him if he was an artist, and he chuckled, “No, I was a mechanical engineer. I picked up a book on how to draw and tried it.” He pointed to other drawings hung up in various places around the diner, his, and a few clearly made by children. I suddenly felt like I was eating at someone’s house for the first time, welcome yet unsure of the customs.

My breakfast of eggs, hash browns and bacon appeared before me and I tucked in. The woman behind the griddle, I think her name was Nancy, asked the gentleman if he wanted something to eat. “Can I make you whatever I want?” she asked mischievously. He declined, but she gently insisted. A lemon poppy-seed muffin was negotiated.

“She is a lovely woman, so charming. You should watch how she works, so fast, and everything comes out just right.” He wasn’t wrong. The tiny cooking area was just big enough for Nancy and the owner of the place, and side-by-side they produced orders, never getting each other’s way.

He tapped me on my arm again and with a smile intoned the following:

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
   Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
   And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
   And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
   Was not spoken of the soul.
He laughed and patted me on my arm. I laughed with him, because that’s what you do. His words were familiar but I couldn’t place them.
“That woman, she’s just lovely. And watch how fast she works!” He gestured a fast motion with his hands. There was a pause for a bit. A waitress poured more coffee in mugs that had the diner’s – the owner’s – name.

 

“After the War – I was in the Navy – they discharged me to the bottom of Texas. I said, ‘How am I supposed to get home from here?'” I assumed he meant Galveston but I wasn’t going to interrupt. He proceeded to tell me how he hitchhiked up to New Hampshire, given lifts by good samaritans all the way. One of them was apparently a woman in a Buick convertible. My mind’s eye saw a robin’s-egg-blue car, the woman wearing a kerchief that fluttered in the wind. He never said how long it took.
He turned towards me again.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
   Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
   And things are not what they seem.
He emphasized the word “not” with his finger. When he got to the second verse, I listened more carefully, and wondered if in some small church around the corner he delivered sermons.
Life is real! Life is earnest! 
   And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
   Was not spoken of the soul.
And he laughed and patted me on the arm again. Was he trying to tell me something? As I scooped up the last of my eggs, I realized customers where stopping to say hello to him as they left the diner. They call people like him “fixtures”.
During a pause in orders, Nancy  leaned over the counter and said to him, unprompted,”You know you’re my favorite.” He laughed. A moment later he said, “You should watch how she works, so fast! And what a charming woman. Just lovely.”
There was a small mound of hash browns left on my plate and a few swigs of tepid coffee in my mug. Could I, would I, at an age when all I will remember are the stories but not what I had done the day previously, be a fixture in a place like this?
As I started to gather myself to leave, there was a third delivery of the poem, and just as the others, emphatically sincere. He laughed heartily, as if this were a riddle that I was meant to unravel.
I found the answer later, which like all riddles is always hidden in plain sight. He was a sailor, after all.
Lives of great men all remind us
   We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
   Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
   Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
   Seeing, shall take heart again.

Only skin deep

/ C.B. Kent / Leave a comment

Like many women my age, or maybe like many women of all ages, I’ve fallen victim to the myth that I can put off “looking older” by slathering my face and body with some chemical and/or natural concoction. I spent part of my day today cleaning the bathroom, which involved some minor purging of said concoctions that I no longer use or have expired or I didn’t like for one reason or another.  Creams and lotions; anti-wrinkle, anti-aging, anti-blemish; toning, firming, moisturizing…some do just one of these things, some do nearly all of them, and not one of them will stop the fact that I am aging. All the face cream in the world isn’t going to stop the fact that I am getting older.

It’s getting older or death, right? I mean, these are the only choices; I either live, and age as a part of living, or I die.

At some point my body is likely going to stop being able to do the things it used to do. But even if I stay physically active and healthy and live to be 80, I’m pretty sure I’m not going to look 40. Sure, there are interventions that can “help” keep me “looking younger”. Right. I’ll still have an 80 year old body with a 50 year old face. Do I want that? Well, if I have to chose a way to get old, I would take a healthy, active body and healthy, active mind over just looking younger.

So how do you keep your body and mind healthy and active? One of the hardest things for me is putting myself as a priority. I have an active gym membership, but I haven’t gone in 7 months. Do I need a gym to stay healthy and active? No, but it wouldn’t hurt, especially since I have a desk job. Keeping my body moving will be key as I confront the days, weeks and months ahead. I’ll come back to this topic in a month or so, to see what commitments I’ve made to myself to keep healthy and active.