Older and wiser

It’s hard to imagine what we will be like when we hit old age ( assuming we will still be around). Obviously I would like to think that I will be the perfect old lady, delightful and charming to all, a joy to be around, with herds of grandchildren ( hint hint T, L and  M ) hopping about as I take them camping and teach them how to cook for 30 over a fire. 

I simply can’t  imagine that my kids will do the” you have her this Christmas, we had her last year” conversation but I daresay this is inevitable. Much as I like to think things will be different,  getting old and having to accept  you are  having to rely on others for the day to day things you used to do yourself isn’t an easy transisition,  as we are finding with our sprightly and fiercely independent dad. And there is every chance I will prove to be just as fierce and challenging to my children who in turn will struggle as they try and persuade me to accept their help,  so once again history repeats itself. 

Its almost as if they have found themselves in their spacious independent living flat by mistake ( like Withnail and I, except it isn’t a holiday ).  I do not for a minute underestimate the heartbreak and sadness involved in having to leave their beloved large house and beautiful garden, a garden that kept them going but ultimately would have finished them off. Downsizing made sense, but it has been a miserable process and they, like so many others have not flourished.  Why would they? It was a choice made for practical reasons, not out of desire, a decision forced on them because there were too many stairs, it was too isolated, too big to manage, a disaster zone. Unfortunately  (and perhaps fortunately) the move coincided with increasing failing health and falls, like a  game of Jenga which can only be stacked up again and again so many times after each tumble. But at least the move has meant that in every room there are alarms and a capable and friendly warden down the corridor to pick up the pieces and reach for the phone.

But there is still one major hurdle. Ending up somewhere that is still  a couple of miles from the nearest shops is, as predicted coming back to bite them. The distance between the old house and the new place from the nearest town is about the same,  so although their current living situation is more suitable, they are now even more isolated in a sense. In their  village, at least they knew people, they had friends who would pop in from time to time, a church and a community, a post box to walk to, passing neighbours on the way. Now, even though there is a film club, a book club, coffee mornings, the odd outing etc on offer  it requires effort and time to establish new relationships, which is less easy the older you get. 

If you live in a town, even if you are pretty frail and wobbly it is much easier to get out for a pint of milk or a paper, or even to escape for a breather and to sit on a bench in the high street and watch the world go by. But after a nasty car accident (which luckily they have both recovered from ) they  no longer drive and their world is shrinking. This is a huge relief to the rest of us and to the Wiltshire public at large, but it has added another layer of difficulty and my father understandably feels as if he is a prisoner in his own flat. He spends most of his days sitting at his desk looking out on a lawn that is not his to mow. Shopping trips or collecting the dry cleaning and pensions need  to be planned, taxis have to be booked, life has lost any spontaneity, the only question mark hanging over each day is what’s on the menu for lunch. 

So many of my friends are seeing their elderly parents going through similar scenarios and I know I am not alone. It is extremely complicated trying to tiptoe  round an elderly  persons basic sense of independence by trying to help, because in many instances they  would rather be left alone. I can quite see that having a bossy daughter on the scene is about as welcome as a bucket of sick, but us grown up children are inevitably tasked with trying to sort out the inevitable muddles and confusion that go hand I hand with getting old , even though at times  it feels as if our roles have reversed and we have ourselves become the parents. And after all this is exactly as it should be because they are family, and family is more important than anything else. It’s not always easy, but it is what it is and we love them and owe them our best efforts because they have made us who we are . 

My fathers refusal to accept any help,  to the point of slamming the door on the carer we had organised, referring to her as “that woman” is sadly familiar to many others. Then again you have to admire his spirit in a way, though we are extremely lucky that the said that woman has the patience of a saint and takes it in her stride. At a recent meeting between us all as we discussed how best to proceed, with the aid of a spread sheet which is now stuck on the fridge , he sat on the sofa, eyes tightly shut, his hands clamped firmly over his ears like one of the three wise monkeys. 

If you ask me, the answer to all these problems  is to get together ands to form a kind of community with like minded souls, friends, colleagues, people who believe there is strength in numbers and that the way forward is to face old age together, while still maintaining your own independence and way of life. This way, people are not so isolated and can help each other because everyone is at the same stage ( in theory). I have a dear friend who is in the process of doing exactly this up north, having sold up and collectively bought  a farm with land and outbuildings which are now being converted into self contained and communal spaces, with provisions for carers and individual requirements. He described the planning meetings  as serious cards on the table sessions  but if there was ever a time to be honest then surely this is it. This kind of living situation wouldn’t suit everyone, but I could imagine this working for me and my tribe. 

I think the best comment on all of this came from a cheerful  and lively neighbour who I often bump into as I  visit. I saw her last week, dressed in a jaunty pair of orange tights with foxes on them ( which had been given to her, along with a new loo seat  by Father Christmas).  As we chatted about the weather and enquired after her general health  she said, ” you know, none of us really want to be here, so we might as well make the most of it”.