When the Parent Becomes a Child
As Alison and I prepared to deplane in Minneapolis, the older woman in the seat in front of us struggled to rise from her seat, then faced the daunting task of getting her carry-on from the overhead bin, needing an assist from another passenger. She quipped, "The Golden Years aren't so golden!" Having just left getting my parents situated in a skilled nursing center, I could not have agreed more.
Our culture is fixated on youth and the myth that no one dies. Look at all the anti-aging products offered. Look at the surgeries that are now routine meant to reverse the signs of aging. Look at a pervading philosophy of medical care that refuses to accept the reality of death. Look at the attempts to extend our lives indefinitely. Somehow, we are supposed to exist as if death never happens.
The truth of the cosmos is that everything passes. Nothing exists eternally--certainly nothing organic. The Appalachian Mountains were once as high as the Himalayas. The mayfly lives less than 24 hours. A coastal cypress makes it a few hundred years. Some turtles push 200. We generally last about 80. A star may last billions of years, but then it, too, will explode and collapse out of existence. Nothing escapes an end.
For me, it is best to accept reality as it is.
When I was a child, my parents were always. I never thought of them as not being here. I never really thought of them as children like me. I certainly never thought of them as being as old as my grandparents. They just were.
As I grew older, so, too, did my parents. I began to notice the marks of time on them. Lines appeared. Wrinkles came. Hair thinned. But, still, I held onto the fact that they would be always.
Then, my brother died.
I saw my parents age overnight. No parent I know can contemplate outliving their child. It is not to be. When it happens, the existential catastrophe leaves scars. My mother had a heart attack. My father's Parkinson's seemed to worsen. Mom began to fall. A lot. Dad had periods of immobility. Still, they seemed to be always.
But then came inescapables. It took more effort from their caregivers to give care. They were outstripping the abilities of their Assisted Living facility. They were on first name familiarity with the EMTs. Sadly, their appearance began to deteriorate. Their clothes were not as fresh. Their apartment was not the pristine home home had always been. Things began to wear, but not be seen to. Finally, the phone call came. "Your folks need to move to Skilled Nursing at the other end of the building." There was no discussion, no further assessment--it just was. Always was no more.
Now was the issue.
We went and began to pack up always. Dad spent a lot of time rummaging back through papers and books, remarking, "This is who I was..." Mom simply left us to it, choosing to stay in the new place to watch it become home. Always was gone. What was now was two frail, elderly human beings. This will be their last move. There are no more levels to enter.
They need the care now offered. They need the people with them. They need the help. They are completing the circle of being human. We begin dependent on others, and so we end.
The truth is that we actually need others all through our lives, we just fool ourselves into believing ourselves to be self-sufficient. It's easy to do when you get up, go to work, tend the family, tend yourself, tend the house, watch TV, and go to bed. We've got this! But so many people make each day happen. So many see us through each thing before us.
But we only allow children and the frail elderly to openly express it.
How silly.
We are wondrous creatures, but we were made to complement one another, make one another whole, and complete one another. The myth of always seeks to negate this truth, but it is a myth. My parents are now in need of care, mercy, and help like never before. I intend to do my part, finally completely leaving the state of dependent child. They are now dependent. Our love for one another is opening a new chapter.
Always is now.
And it might provide its own gold...
Our culture is fixated on youth and the myth that no one dies. Look at all the anti-aging products offered. Look at the surgeries that are now routine meant to reverse the signs of aging. Look at a pervading philosophy of medical care that refuses to accept the reality of death. Look at the attempts to extend our lives indefinitely. Somehow, we are supposed to exist as if death never happens.
The truth of the cosmos is that everything passes. Nothing exists eternally--certainly nothing organic. The Appalachian Mountains were once as high as the Himalayas. The mayfly lives less than 24 hours. A coastal cypress makes it a few hundred years. Some turtles push 200. We generally last about 80. A star may last billions of years, but then it, too, will explode and collapse out of existence. Nothing escapes an end.
For me, it is best to accept reality as it is.
When I was a child, my parents were always. I never thought of them as not being here. I never really thought of them as children like me. I certainly never thought of them as being as old as my grandparents. They just were.
As I grew older, so, too, did my parents. I began to notice the marks of time on them. Lines appeared. Wrinkles came. Hair thinned. But, still, I held onto the fact that they would be always.
Then, my brother died.
I saw my parents age overnight. No parent I know can contemplate outliving their child. It is not to be. When it happens, the existential catastrophe leaves scars. My mother had a heart attack. My father's Parkinson's seemed to worsen. Mom began to fall. A lot. Dad had periods of immobility. Still, they seemed to be always.
But then came inescapables. It took more effort from their caregivers to give care. They were outstripping the abilities of their Assisted Living facility. They were on first name familiarity with the EMTs. Sadly, their appearance began to deteriorate. Their clothes were not as fresh. Their apartment was not the pristine home home had always been. Things began to wear, but not be seen to. Finally, the phone call came. "Your folks need to move to Skilled Nursing at the other end of the building." There was no discussion, no further assessment--it just was. Always was no more.
Now was the issue.
We went and began to pack up always. Dad spent a lot of time rummaging back through papers and books, remarking, "This is who I was..." Mom simply left us to it, choosing to stay in the new place to watch it become home. Always was gone. What was now was two frail, elderly human beings. This will be their last move. There are no more levels to enter.
They need the care now offered. They need the people with them. They need the help. They are completing the circle of being human. We begin dependent on others, and so we end.
The truth is that we actually need others all through our lives, we just fool ourselves into believing ourselves to be self-sufficient. It's easy to do when you get up, go to work, tend the family, tend yourself, tend the house, watch TV, and go to bed. We've got this! But so many people make each day happen. So many see us through each thing before us.
But we only allow children and the frail elderly to openly express it.
How silly.
We are wondrous creatures, but we were made to complement one another, make one another whole, and complete one another. The myth of always seeks to negate this truth, but it is a myth. My parents are now in need of care, mercy, and help like never before. I intend to do my part, finally completely leaving the state of dependent child. They are now dependent. Our love for one another is opening a new chapter.
Always is now.
And it might provide its own gold...
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