By Bo
Growing old? I can handle my getting older. I barely notice the days sneaking past. But then I barely noticed the days creeping past my mother, either — she lives 300 miles away and has always maintained her independence. Then there was a death in the family — a dear aunt who was the same age as my mom — and I made plans to return home for the funeral.
And as I spoke with my mother and made plans, I faced a fact I tried long to ignore. My mother is not growing old. She is old.
This last weekend she admitted as much to me. It’s the first time we’ve ever tiptoed around the BIG question. “What are we going to do, Mom, when you can’t take care of yourself?”
Ouch. My heart started clanging in a rush to get the question out in the open so I could put out the expected fire. Instead, there was no fire.
She looked at me –- hard — then looked at the carpet, then looked out the window, then finally she looked at me again. This time she looked at me without any emotion at all.
I prefer a hard look to an empty look.
She carefully picked her words. “I looked after your grandmother for 13-and-a-half years when she got sick.” That’s a simple statement, too simple, and I wanted a clear understanding of her message. I asked her to finish her thoughts, but she shook her head and refused. Instead she walked over to the sink and washed her hands. And I tried to align my words into a response, and failed.
My mom did look after her own mother. She cared for her 13 long years. She was the only caregiver. My mother allowed no one else to assist her after her sister refused an initial request to help. She tied herself to my grandmother and to their home with a short tether, and fumed and fussed, but she refused to untie the cord.
She missed the births of her three grandchildren. She missed their birthdays. We weren’t able to celebrate many Christmases or Easters or share summer vacations together. Those times together were always denied with tears and pain and her statement, “I can’t leave your grandmother and she’s too ill to travel. And the disturbance would be too much for her, so please don’t bring the children.”
My mom grew weary with the responsibility of caring for her mother 24/7. She knows I know this, but she was afraid of reminding me of it. She didn’t know exactly what she wanted from me. She didn’t want me to take care of her; she didn’t want me not to take care of her.
Stalemate.
Well, not quite. I have a chronic illness. We don’t discuss this issue as she prefers “not to know about stuff I don’t understand,” but she does know enough. She knows I do not have the physical ability to care for her. That scares her. And that scares me.
Last weekend we finally began the discussion we should have had ten, maybe twenty years ago. We waited too long and her age has started making its mark in scary ways. And now we have to make decisions quickly. Too quickly.
The attorney has been called and we are awaiting his return call. We’ve taken a trip to my mother’s bank and a trip to her safety deposit box. I’m returning next week and we’re going to the funeral home for information on pre-planning her funeral. She insisted on this part. (“I don’t trust you to do it the way I want it done.”) Once my mother, always my mother, I think in exasperation.
And so I write, searching for answers in my journal. Putting my scattered thoughts into written words settles things in my mind, and I see where the two of us have to go. And I see the need to make difficult choices soon.
But I also see this. Getting old, even though we all know its progression, seems to catch people by surprise. Maybe it’s the ostrich game in a different guise, but I’ve made one decision that I will see through to fruition.
My husband and I don’t feel old at 50 – I certainly hope not – and we probably won’t feel old at 60 or 70 unless we are faced with circumstances of severe disability or illness. But it is likely we will need assistance with living at some time in our lives – those are simply the percentages speaking. I’m thinking (and hoping) maybe 30 or 40 years from now, but I’ve learned my lesson. I’m not waiting until the last moment. And I’m not putting my children in the position I face now.
I made an appointment with our attorney to do some estate planning. And my husband and I have set aside some time this weekend to talk about all those “what if” questions. Neither of us wants to spend our precious free hours dealing with these issues. But we will.
Then my daughters and son won’t spend silent years of their lives wondering what the answers will be to those “what ifs.” Those questions that always need an answer — someday.
Tree Trunk, photo © 2008 by Bo. All rights reserved.
Bo is a poet and writer, and a self-described “wannabe photographer who can make enough money selling photos to buy better photo equipment.” She lives in Wisconsin and loves to travel the state in search of photo ops and inspiration.
About writing and her writing process, Bo says: I have a very tiny trailer that I park in a campground several times a year — it becomes an instant writer’s retreat, solo and cheap. Often I’ll search ’til I find a tree trunk in the middle of the forest and sit and write there.
I’ve also adapted a home writing routine that works for me. First tea and meditation — the easy kind where I just shut up and try to feel quiet. Then an hour of reading and research to bring in new ideas, and 2 to 4 hours of writing, editing, and attending to the business parts of writing. Plus there are the spontaneous strikes. The writing time adds up quickly.
I also work with a life/creativity coach and mentor, and I find this immensely helpful. She provides just the right amount of nudging to keep me engaged with my work. But it also helps that there is really nothing I would rather do than write and take photos.
Bo keeps a blog called Seeded Earth.
-This piece is based on a writing practice for red Ravine’s WRITING TOPIC – GROWING OLDER.
Reading this made me want to reach out and give you a hug, Bo. I think that says a lot about how powerful your writing is.
My husband and I have been having those kind of discussions lately, too. It’s not always easy, but better that we do it now as well as discuss it with our children so it will be easier on them later. I hope.
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This piece is so poignant, and the photo of the tree trunk, with all its rings, seems especially appropriate. There’s a lot here that I want to comment about, so maybe I’ll save some of the writing process questions for later and just comment on the content of the piece. A lot of women from your mother’s generation took on the role and burden of caring for their aging parents. My mother did the same, although in her case it was her dad, and he was pretty independent to the end.
I wonder where so many of these older women got that they should sacrifice a portion of their lives for their own parents. I know my mother now is so concerned that we, her children, not sacrifice our own lives should she and my dad need a lot of help. It’s a real balance, I think, that our generation is dealing with. How to give back to our parents without having it be such a huge burden.
I also see a lot of siblings try to figure out how to share responsibility. It seems like this can be such a divisive issue, and I don’t know, Bo, if you have any siblings. I have seen siblings fight with each other over who has done more, who’s not done enough. It’s so hard.
As I said, so much in the writing is poignant, but I was especially struck by this line: But I also see this. Getting old, even though we all know its progression, seems to catch people by surprise.
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Bo, this is a wonderful piece. I love the photograph, too, and ybonesy and I are happy to have you as a Guest on red Ravine.
Like ybonesy, I was struck, too, with the amount of sacrifice that many women seem to make to take care of aging parents. It was strange, but when I went to my accountant’s office to do my taxes, a woman about my age came in trailing behind a man and a woman, probably in their late 80’s. One had a cane, the other a walker.
It was a long process for the woman to get them settled into the accountant’s office, and afterwards, she sat down beside me in the waiting room, exasperated and exhausted. I asked her how she was doing and if they were her mom and dad.
She said it was her dad and her step-mom. And that she had been a primary caregiver in her family for the last 25 years. First, her mom had gotten sick and she had taken care of her until she had passed on. Then her dad had remarried, then gone on a walker, and the step-mom could barely get along, too. So she was now taking care of both of them. She said she was exhausted and going over to get some coffee and shop, just to take a break.
When I asked if the other siblings were helping out, she said they lived in the same town but had not chipped in much. They had left it all up to her. I could tell she resented it. It really struck me what a huge issue this is and will continue to be as people live longer. I admire the planning you and your husband are doing with your own kids, trying to change the patterns.
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Once I watched the whole scene play where my grandmother was the hot potato – I don’t mean dis-respect there – but it is an apt analogy, I knew that eventually my time would come. But I had a hard time facing it. It was so easy to put off. I hope I can inspire others to do something now as far as planning, if they haven’t already done so.
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The best gift of your writing is awareness. Having gone through a similar experience, and taking care of my stubborn, angry mother, but not in my home, I want to make it easier for my family. I’ve planned a course that will allow me age in place, made a move to a one-level home, and purchased long-term care insurance so I don’t impoverish my family. But the insurance before you are 55 or the price is prohibitive.
Facing death when you aren’t scared of it is an excellent time to do it.
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ybonesy, QM – My mother never questioned her ‘responsibility’ towards her mom either- it was a given. Partly in play was the fact that I lived in a multi-generational home – at one time, 4 generations lived in one home- and it was a natural progression. There was always someone around to take care of family members in need. The simple truth, now, is the family structure has changed. And families are smaller so it is harder to divide the care, even if the family members are willing and able.
I was the first member on either side of my extended family to actually leave my hometown and go to college. And then of course I didn’t return, but moved further away for a good job. I broke the chain, in someways.
But even if I had remained close, the fact exists I cannot take on the care of another person at this time in my life. So the solution lies outside the family. Dealing with attorneys and trusts and outside care is not only expensive, but really requires careful thought and planning and TIME. It should never be rushed, and I admit to feeling WAY too rushed.
Q is giving her family a great gift – having made plans for her future. My husband and I have drawn up an outline to begin planning for our wishes, and the relief it provided the both of us has been astonishing. And my older daughter, 27 yo, who lives 1000 miles away from us, gratefully said “Thank you!” when I told her what we were tackling.
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Bo,
My mom (72) is currently taking care of her mother (my grandmother) who is 100. My mom is exhausted and frustrated. My grandmother is still fairly independent, living in a small house across the street from my mom (my mom’s rental house), but still, this last year has been tough on my mom.
I am starting to think the same thing with my mom. Who is going to take care of her? For some reason I keep thinking its going to be my responsibility, I don’t know why, but I just keep thinking this.
Good piece of writing. I enjoyed that. It hit home pretty hard.
MM
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This is a brave piece of writing, in so many ways. It takes a lot of honesty to acknowledge, not just issues of mortality, but also our own uncertainty in the face of such issues.
The part where your mom said, “I took care of your grandmother for 13-and-a-half years when she got sick.” and then wouldn’t say more but went and washed her hands, really struck me. I could see her, worry behind the words, but also a sort of defiance. The uncertainty of that meaning between you. And the washing hands part was meaningful because to say ‘I wash my hands of it’ means to be done with an issue, finished. And yet, there’s no walking away from your own mortality. It comes.
I also really liked the colors in the picture. It’s a stump, cut down, at the end of its life, but the vibrancy against the dark background makes it seem particularly alive.
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MM,
In a way, you are in a situation much like my own. Not one family member to plan for, but possibly two. My mother – with those strong caretaker ‘genes’ – cares for my only sibling who was severely disabled in her 30s, even as she now struggles to care for herself.
The logistics can be mind-boggling. But the hardest thing I face – no one wants any change in their current living conditions, even when a change is the only feasible answer. I’m finding any kind of compromise negotiation tricky going.
I find this one of the most difficult challenges I’ve faced. You are right, MM. It packs a wallop. Good wishes that advance planning will help you.
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filial piety makes and breaks families. good luck in your journey. that photo is an apt illustration of your thoughts.
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amuirin,
The hand washing did strike me as terribly symbolic while she was doing it, though I’m certain she simply didn’t know what else to do with her hands.
The photo really has a lot of meaning to me surrounding this issue. If you notice, the tree has not been totally cut – only two of the three trunks are leveled. In a way, I see my family in this tree – I’m still standing. I can still provide some support. If you rest upon the two parts of the tree trunks, you can support your back against the remaining tree. My mother and sister can look to me for some sort of assistance and comfort.
And the annular marks of the tree, a visible sign of its age, the beauty of it, its connection to nature and blessings. All combined for some thought-provoking writing when I first sat on this trunk to write. I’m glad I had my camera along to also record its photo.
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Thanks, jpt.
When I think of going on a journey as you mentioned, I always think of the quote, “Life is the journey, not the destination.” – an adaptation of a Chinese proverb. It helps me stay in the present, where I can actually do something, get something accomplished.
That is, when I remember to remember the quote. 🙂
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Bo, I am glad you talked about the significance of the photograph, and the way the different trunks augmented your thought process, the Writing Practice, the final post, and your process around writing when you sat down on the trunk to write. The layering of words and images can make a piece come even more alive.
I also love how you mention in your bio that you take a trailer to a campground twice a year and that becomes a kind of mini-writing retreat. I wondered if you could talk more about that. When did you begin that practice and how do you decide where you will go next?
I also thought it was so great that your daughter who is 1000 miles away responded positively to your efforts toward clarity (comment #6). It reinforces that we don’t need to be afraid to approach the subject with our families.
I have learned more about my own mother’s wishes in the last few years from travelling with her back to her place of birth. Many things I didn’t know before. And since I live about 1200 miles away from her and the rest of my family, I really cherish the time we get to spend together and talk. Then my questions begin to be answered and I don’t have to wonder.
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My writing retreat trailer is one of my newer brainstorms. The trailer is tiny – 14 feet long and built for a max of two campers – a bed that can turn into a table and couch, and a little galley kitchen, but it really is a spoiler because it does provide almost all creature comforts.
I was going on my first retreat of 2008 in mid-April until it snowed – again! (We had 110 inches of snow this winter.) Now I’m planning on early June. Midweek is a must, because it’s quiet, and I can use a tiny site so usually one thick in the woods is available.
I write, draw, eat, write, hike in the woods, nap, read, dream, write, name the wildflowers, collage, photograph, eat, keep a campfire burning, think, stare at the fire and stars, sleep. Repeat. I find I meander from one item to the next for awhile, and then I can usually dive deeply into a bulky project.
I also create huge lists while I’m surrounded by all that silence. I don’t bring a radio or music – just me and a lot of chirping by the birds.
When I was younger, I could do this all in a tent, but I’ve sold out to the passing years. Sleeping on the ground and eating bugs and hot dogs and beans are events in my past. NOT in my future! 🙂
And since I’m a bit of a chicken at night, I camp close enough to someone I know, so either my husband or a friend come stay with me when it gets super dark out. Wisconsin is dense with good camping, so I have lots of choices – usually wooded, maybe with a lake or river. I’ll go anywhere that’s quiet and nature-y.
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Bo – “I prefer a hard look to an empty look”. – this line speaks volumes about the difficulty inherent in a conversation about this issue between parent and child. her washing her hands is symbolic too, of washing away her expectations of the outcome of such a discussion. While no parent wants to feel burden to their child, there is a knowledge that sometimes this is not an option, and that they could be a n inadvertent burden due to circumstances outside their control.
Good for you that you are already looking to find a solution to this for your family.
I love the meaning potential of the photo. Just Great! G
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G – The whole key, I think, is at least having a plan in place. It may not exactly work out in the end, but at least the starting line would be moved ahead quite a bit.
Thanks for the photo comment, too. I appreciate it.
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I’d be a chicken at night, too. Too many horror stories. The camper sounds great, Bo. And how you weave photography, writing, walking into these retreats.
I’m wondering, have you ever done any other writing retreats? If so, did you get something out of them? Your daily home writing routine sounds disciplined, which is why I’m wondering if you got there through a path of trial and error or perhaps learning this kind of discipline via teachers/mentors. I’d also like to know more about your life/creativity coach, if you don’t mind. How did you find her, how often do you meet?
See, I told you I had a bunch more questions 8) .
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BTW, I was struck by how you learn the names of wildflowers. The names of trees, flowers, birds — one of the things I wish I had much better mastery of. I recall a woman who was in writing retreat with me in Taos, and she was from Tanzania. She worked in the national environmental department, I believe. I remember one day when she read about a family house and property, her descriptions of the flora just blew me away. Since then I have tried to be more awake to what plant/tree names are, but the truth is, I haven’t made very much progress 😦 .
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Well, Ybonesy, I went to a weekend writing workshop – once. There were a few moments that were helpful, but for the most part I didn’t find the experience much fun. And it wasn’t the workshop’s shortcoming, but mine. Evidently I do not have a very well developed thick skin, especially in group situations! 🙂 In fact, I think I have some highly developed hermit tendencies.
But that, in fact, is why I find working with a coach so beneficial.
Coaching provides the feedback loop I really need, but with the benefit of having someone who is sensitive to my own needs and personality. Best of all, she doesn’t tell, she asks – asks the questions that help me come up with my own solutions. So it’s been a good fit for me.
We coach by phone. Three times a month for an hour each, plus emails whenever something comes up, and we’ve worked together for nearly a year. (And one of our goals is to get me involved with workshops in the future, because I do see the need for face to face interaction, too.)
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Bo,
You did an excellent job of handing a very difficult subject. You raised the issue in a personal and yet universal manner and I think made some very vital points. I wish this piece could be widely published because it might be able to elevate the consciousness of this issue and that certainly needs to be done. Very nice job!
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This was VERY touching Bo and beautifully written!
My sister and I have been talking about our situation with our parents. They are divorced and have been for over 40 years. We have step parents in the mix..who takes care of them? Especially when we do not have a close relationship with them! We have not stepped foot in our Father’s home in over 30 years..yet we are family.
Ahh…the circle of life, and ours is such an imperfect circle!!
Thank you for sharing this. 🙂
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Bo,
Thanks for inviting me to read your essay. It is a thoughtful, poignant piece that captures the emotion and angst involved in dealing with an aging parent. My parents are long gone, as is my husband’s parents. Both sets died relatively young, so we were never faced with the care dilemma. Our kids are pushing middle-age themselves, and they need to plan their own impending aging without thinking about ours. Statistically, I am considered part of the young-old group, and my husband, who is 12 years older, in the mid-old group. We were always good at planning for the next stage of life at whatever stage we were in, including having everything “in order” so not a lot would have to be done for us should we become disabled or unable to care for ourselves. Pragmatisim has an upside, but also a downside in that it forces one to deal with the future, no matter how unpleasant. Thinking about old age when one is still active and productive is more than a bit depressing–but our pragmatic thought process called for it.
Now, if I could just get my office and closet “in order”–as I would hate for anyone to see the mess should I unexpectedly buy the farm.
Aiyana
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while no one can escape going old, my whole life was as one of the aged already. I had head trauma in 1974 and it was the miracle that I was returned to life after a long walk on the edge of the death. I was returned to life for to live further as the disabled – as the jobless and without the health – as the dependent on the grace of my surroundings… In the light of above, my going old don’t change anything literally.
My story sounds sorrowful, but the reality looks much more confusing – I have no outward signs of any disability. Thus other people frequently just can’t understand my weakness or inability to do what looks like ABC.
Thus I live and talk with my computer …. You are heartily welcomed to my Online Art gallery http://www.artmajeur.com/colourrain
I hope you will enjoy my meditation in color.
Please visit my blogs too.
http://candleday.wordpress.com
http://arthiker.wordpress.com/
http://trustlight.blogspot.com
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Bo, the heaviness of this discussion, this decision, the decisions that this decision spurs must weight on you as if you’re carrying that tree. I pray that you will have clarity of direction and lightness of burden as you move forward.
Thank you for sharing and for showing me another way to talk about the painful without self-pity or nonchalance.
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Montucky,
Thanks. You are so right that it is a universal situation – and one most every one would prefer to put off until a better time. The better time doesn’t come though. I put off even exploring options for nearly two decades, waiting for that better time. And I never considered how slowly things would move once I did start the planning. I’m running out of time and the solutions are not yet in place. Maybe my experience will nudge others.
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gypsy-heart ,
Thanks, gypsy. You write of a hard place – no relationship, yet still the responsibility of sorts.
It brings up a thought, not on a personal level, but on a broader level. Do you extend yourself so that you can be satisfied with your behavior and treatment towards a person as simply another human being, no matter whom that person might or might not be? I’m just asking. I sure don’t have an answer. We are all a part of that imperfect circle. I certainly feel the heaviness of that circle myself.
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I think I might have spared myself a lot of angst and sleepless nights if I had chosen pragmatism over denial. As for your office and closet – now on that subject I have no opinion.
I’m considering a clause in my will mandating a stranger and a dumpster and secret removal by the light of the moon. 🙂
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Tomas, You have done amazing things in your digital art – what a source for you. I do like your meditation series – very much so.
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Thanks, Andi. Once I journaled for a long time about the situation, I found the answers came easier. And when I had a long list of potential solutions, in parts and in wholes, I was able to concentrate on the job at hand. One more time where the practice of writing slowed me down enough to give me time to carefully consider and evaluate.
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Bo, I very much appreciate the depth and honesty of your writing, and about this subject. You’ve touched a tender (if not sore) spot in my own heart. We cared for his mother in our home until I thought my life would never be normal again, and then we cared for my mother in our home until again I thought life would never be normal again. Well, normal certainly evolves!
Thank you for your gift of an open heart.
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I’m considering a clause in my will mandating a stranger and a dumpster and secret removal by the light of the moon.
Bo — I’ll have to use the same clause. And a special note as it applies to all my notebooks and journals and who gets to read them and who can’t. 8)
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Bo, thank you for inviting me to read this and for your writing this. I totally resonate as I have been going through something similar. My mother, who remarried three years ago, after being widowed for four years, has already arranged what needs to be done for her as far in the event of her death. We have not spoken in detail about a nursing home if she should be alone and sick as she lives over two hours from me. But we do have an agreement of sorts that is where she’ll go if that should happen.
I’m 49 years old and with a chronic illness too. I do not have the strength or wherewithal to care for my mother if she should became unable to care for herself. We both know this, though.
I was faced with doing estate planning and lawyers not too long ago not because of my mother but because of my daughter. She has a heart problem. For some reason, while she was in surgery, it hit my husband and I that we are growing older and we need to be prepared for her. We travel a lot on our photography shoots and the odds go up for accidents. We decided to get everything settled for that just in case so we will not leave our daughter burdened.
We’ve had a good talk with our daughter and covered a lot of ground for in case she should die and what to do, if we should die and what to do, and if my mother dies and what to do. She knows where all the paperwork is and who the lawyer is to contact. We’re prepared and it is necessary.
Bo, I appreciate reading your beautifully written essay and your honesty. I really like your stump photo.
~Anna
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Anna, it sounds as if you have really taken charge of planning. It must be a relief to have it settled in your mind. I know I’ll be relieved when I have things put in their proper places.
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Every time a topic goes out, as the topic “GROWING OLDER” did, I am amazed to see the different directions writers go with that topic. The piece you wrote, Bo, struck such a chord with many of us whose parents are entering that old-old stage (like mine). And it has been so enlightenling, at least for me, to hear about the planning that many middle-aged folks (which I am) are taking to ensure that their kids aren’t saddled with the same concerns that we have. I think that has been an eye-opener for me, something I wouldn’t have thought to do but will now definitely consider.
You’ve been an awesome guest, attentive to comments/readers. I’m sure they will continue to come in, but while the post was still fresh, I want to say “Thank you” for being a guest on red Ravine. So, thank you.
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Bo, I can’t begin to tell you many emotions I experienced while reading your essay. I have read it 3 times before deciding to comment. Without a doubt this is one of the most honest & realistic essays that touches each & everyone of us who have read it.
My parents are prepared. They have been for a long time, making only minor changes from time to time. Their headstones are already in the cemetery where they will be buried. I cannot visit it yet.
Over the years, I have watched many relatives succumb to various illnesses, requiring personal care, robbing them of the quality of life. My Mother, an angel of mercy, has cared for many of them. An uncle who had an inoperable brain tumor, my grandmother, who was bed ridden at home for years prior to her death, another uncle who’s body was consumed with a cancer that my Dad & another uncle were all diagnosed with at much the same time. They were the last surviving siblings in their family. It seemed bizarre that this was happening to these 3 brothers. Each took a different medical approach. My Dad, took the most radical approach, which involved surgery last September, to remove his prostate. His physician was concerned, because my dad has survived 3 heart attacks, including by-pass surgery. But Dad was determined. He told me he would rather die than suffer the way his eldest brother did. He is ready when his time comes. I worried, but his cardioligist gave the ok. My Dad so far is cancer free.
My husband & I are prepared for the most part. Your essay brings to light how important it is for all of us to face facts.
Thank you for such an enlightening post. D
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Thanks, ybonesy. I really enjoyed it. And I’m glad I could speak out on an issue that I’m finding so relevant at the moment.
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Bo,
Reading you piece brought back memories of my mother who died on February 28, 2008 after almost 5 years in a nursing home. She had cared for my father 24 hours a day for almost 16 years. Once I asked her why she didn’t put him in a nursing home and she said, “When I married him, I said for better and for worse.” She didn’t have much of a life for those 16 years. As she aged, she would sometimes tell me that she didn’t know if she had done the right thing by caring for him all of those years. “He was never going to get well again. If I had placed him in a nursing home, he might have died sooner and been out of his misery.” I have sometimes wondered if she lived so long in the nursing home, which she hated from Day One, to absolve herself of the guilt she felt about keeping him at home. I guess I will never know.
The piece was very moving. Thank you for sharing it.
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I’ve scrolled through these responses until I’m conveniently out of time to add my own. But I’ll say this. I’m in my 50’s. In good health, beautiful family, children age 3 months to 35 years, grandchildren. Sometimes I feel tired and sad, sometimes energetic and cheerful. Mostly upbeat. Learn from my wise and funny wife and children, my sisters and my friends. Lost my mom, my dad, a number of relatives a number of friends. People I didn’t want to let go of but had to. Am still ambitious but it is easier to put that aside when faced with more important things.
I helped take care of my parents, some of these friends as they died. We have been lucky, we have been blessed. The immediate and extended families pitched in, grew stronger. The aching mystery of it all has been driven home again and again.
But I see my own days shortening, the weeks and months racing by, the children morphing into youngsters: smart, aware, quick, beautiful, funny, long-legged things. I, of course, want to make it easy on them. I tend to trust the universe to make that happen but I know I have to do some planning, too. These conversations tend to be easily interrupted. This post is a good reminder to come back to the conversation. Thanks, Bo. I’ve been caught up in the swirl these last few months and haven’t gotten out much. It is good to see you again, and your photographs. I want a coach, too. How do I find one? So many things yet to do and time speeding up. Funny how much our work means to us.
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[…] Growing Old by Bo […]
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