Growing old is...lucky! by Sheila Claydon

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I know this book cover doesn't seem to match the title of my blog, but bear with me!

A couple of weeks ago my cousin was 80, so I called him to wish him a happy special birthday. Our whole life we have teased one another so I knew our conversation wouldn't be emotional nor full of the cliches often used on such occasions. What I wasn't expecting when I laughingly asked him how he had got to be so old, however, was his answer.

"It's because I'm lucky." he said.

Wow!

Then, on 9 Feb, I read fellow author Barbara Baker's BWL blogpost 'He's determined to Ski again' about her 90 year old father, and I clicked on the link to her YouTube video of him doing just that Dad Skiing Again - 90 years young - YouTube . He was amazing. So graceful and determined.

Double wow!

That video together with my cousin's words, were so uplifting. And my cousin is right. To achieve a very old age relatively healthy in both mind and body is not just lucky, it's a privilege. A privilege not granted to everyone. Like many people, I have lost friends in their forties and fifties. I also know two children who lost their mothers while they were still in reception class and another girl who died from a brain tumour when she was barely in her teens. The unlucky ones.

So old age needs to be celebrated. Medication, even operations, might be needed to keep some aches and pains at bay but they need to be celebrated too because, even as recently as the mid twentieth century, very little of it was available.  We are the lucky ones, which is something we should never forget, which brings me on to my book Saving Katy Gray the final book of my When Paths Meet trilogy.

It is a romance but behind the romance is the story of a bright and intelligent woman gradually succumbing to dementia and how, with Katy Gray's help, she found herself again. Not completely but enough. Enough to live a fulfilling life. Enough to use the skills she never forgot even on her worse days. The hero, the heroine, the romance are still there but I hope that readers will take from it the wider lessons. The ones that make growing older just part of life's story. 

I have two favourite sayings about ageing. The first is a slick throwaway, attributed to the film star Bette Davis.  And there is a lot of truth in it for even the healthiest of us as we grow older.

Old age ain't no place for sissies 

The second, by Albert Einstein, is the one I want to live by though.

Do not grow old, no matter how long you live. Never cease to stand like curious 

children before the great mystery into which we were born.

If I can do that right to the end, then I will indeed be lucky, and privileged. I hope you will too.

Other books in my When Paths Meet series deal with autism, childhood trauma, adoption, desperation and death. Not subjects that are usually associated with romance you say! Don't be fooled, these books are contemporary romance with a capital R. It is romance that is embedded in real life, however, because very few of us tread a smooth path where love is concerned. If you decide to read them, I hope you enjoy them.

The Importance of Family Stories by Eileen O'Finlan

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On February 25, 2022 my Aunt Joan passed away. She was 88 and had been living in a nursing home in Vermont for years while her Alzheimer's progressed. A few days before her passing, she fell and broke her hip. Her condition made it impossible to operate as she would not have lived through the surgery so the only option was to keep her comfortable. On the evening of the 25th, she died peacefully in her sleep.

My aunt's passing means that out of a family of seven kids, my mom is the only one left. She, too, is in a nursing home. At 95 and stricken with dementia, she is unable to comprehend that she has lost her last sibling. Knowing this, we have made the decision not to tell her. The necessity of that decision made all the more profound for me the wealth of family lore that is now gone. I know many of the family stories, but until I no longer had anyone to ask, I didn't realize how many questions I have about them. For years, we'd been asking my mom to record her memories. She'd always promised to do so, but somehow never got around to it. Now it's too late.

Family stories are important. They tell of a shared past, of lives lived, relationships built and cherished, sorrows endured and shared, and joys celebrated. They express the things that were important to a family. Pay attention to the stories that get handed down, told repeatedly. Commit them to memory or, better yet, write them down. And ask all the questions you can think of while you still can.

I remember one day when my mom and I were washing dishes together. She was in a reminiscing mood so I heard all about the time when she was thirteen years old and her mother was hospitalized for weeks with a serious illness caused by drinking contaminated raw milk. As the second-to-oldest child and the oldest girl, it fell to her to run the household and care for her younger siblings while her mother was in the hospital and her father was working. This story was told to me only a few years before her dementia progressed to the point where she had to go to a nursing home, but unlike many family stories it was the first time I'd ever heard it. She also regailed me with details of how she and her mother worked in a factory together during World War II. They were working on a project for the U.S. Navy, but each group of women was making a different part and none of them ever knew what it was they were building. I thought about how many of the events from my mom's life would make great stories, but I have so many questions. I've no doubt a lot of them will find their way into my future novels, but I so wish I had the opportunity to ask all the questions that come to me now when I ruminate on them.

My aunt's passing and the inevitable day when my mom follows her, signals the end of an era in our family. But the stories will live on as best as we can continue to share them. No doubt we'll add new ones of our own for future generations. I hope they ask a lot of questions.

Rest in Peace, Aunt Joan

 

A short story from Tricia McGill

Find buy links to Tricia McGill's books here

My dear sister was in a nursing home for the last nine months of her life, and so through regular visits I came to meet a lot of people, male and female, who suffered some form of dementia. One lady in particular, a sweet old soul, asked me every time I went in, “Where am I?” and “Why am I here?” So I explained each time where she was and why she was there. The reason being that her only son could not care for her any more as he had to go out to work each day. Strangely she never forgot her name. Most of us have been touched by this illness, be it a family member or just someone you know.

I wrote this short story a long time ago when I knew nothing about Alzheimer’s or the effects it has on the loved ones of the sufferers. One of my other sisters had dementia before she passed away 19 years ago. We had little idea at the time and merely thought she was becoming forgetful and having hallucinations, and only found out from her doctor after she passed. She died at home so was saved having to go into care. It’s those closest to the dementia patients who suffer the most torment as they feel they would rather have their loved one with them. But mostly it becomes unsafe for the patient to be left alone as they tend to wander off and forget whether they are coming or going. Thank God that every day our amazing scientists and researchers move closer to finding a cure.

So, here is my little story called “Who Am I?”

 

            Why am I in this hospital bed? I know it's a hospital so why don't I know who I am. I'm a woman, and when I looked in the mirror I had quite a pleasant surprise because I'm not bad to look at. The doctor who keeps checking up on me and asking strange questions is not a bad looker either. He gets that certain look in his eye when he examines me; I know he finds me attractive.

           

I look as if I've been around for a while, but I feel like a child. This is most annoying, this not knowing. I seem to recall I came from a nice place, at least I had decent underwear on when they brought me in here. My dress was a ruin, but it was a nice colour, sort of green and . . . I can't quite remember what other colour.

            I didn't have any shoes on, which seems strange. I somehow feel that I don't like walking about barefoot. The doctor said they've put my picture in the paper so surely someone who knows me will come forward soon to claim me. Perhaps I hit my head and that’s why I can’t remember my name.

            The doctor has just walked into the room, his clip-board in his hands, as usual. What nice hands he has, so well-manicured. My hands are nicely shaped too, and apart from the two broken nails are in pretty good shape. They certainly don't look as if they have to do the washing up often. Perhaps I'm a film star. Or a society queen. Could I be a television star? It's most annoying.

            'Here's a visitor, Mrs Jacobs,' he is saying, but I don't think he can know what he's talking about, because that's not my name. At least I'm sure it's not. And I'm sure they must have got the rooms mixed up, because I've never met this man who is standing over the bed. He can let go of my hand too, the old fool. I don't know him. How dare he touch me?

            'Hallo Maisie old girl,' he's saying. Who does he think he is?

            'Go away,' I tell him, but he just looks very sad and keeps hanging onto me tightly so that I can't get my hand away, no matter how much I try.

            'We're going home,' he is telling me. I have no wish to go anywhere with a complete stranger. I shall scream and then that nice doctor will take pity on me and tell this strange man to leave me alone.

            'Perhaps you'd better come back later Mr Jacobs,' the doctor is advising him and I have to have a little chuckle. I've got my way again - I think.

I wonder what we'll have for tea today. Is it Wednesday or…what comes after Wednesday? Oh dear. I wish I could remember what I was just going to do.

            'Your wife is probably better off in a nursing home, Mr Jacobs,' the doctor is now saying to the stranger. Wife? How dare they talk about me as if I'm not here? I feel like shouting at them, but I haven't got the energy. Why am I so tired?

            'She must have walked a long way, for she was found in Brighton near the beach. When they reach this stage it's better for them to be cared for by well trained staff. She's not safe to be left alone, and you can't have your eyes on her every five minutes of the day.'

        The stranger looks as if he's crying. I don't know why he's so unhappy. It's a lovely day. Look the sun is shining.

The subject was handled very sympathetically in these movies:

Still Alice: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt3316960/

Iris: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0280778/

Help and information is one click away on the internet or one phone call away.

Tricia McGill's Web Page