Old Age Isn’t for Sissies
My mother had a magnet on her refrigerator that somebody had given her when she turned 60. It was a little rocking chair with the words printed on it, “Old age isn’t for sissies.”
She kept it on the front of the refrigerator door to hold her groceries list, and the various receipts and reminders that punctuated her life in Indiana. I hated the magnet because I thought it implied that my mother was entering some sort of diminished existence. She told me I was giving the magnet entirely too much space in my thoughts, and that she liked it because it did a good job of keeping her stuff stuck to the refrigerator where she could find it.
That same magnet survived the great Funny Paper Inferno of the late 1980s, when all the little newspaper clippings she stored on her refrigerator caught fire when she forgot a pan on the stove. She got a new kitchen out of the ordeal, thanks to insurance. But her treasure trove of newspaper wisdom was gone, and the only survivor was that magnet with its somewhat prophetic message. When my parents moved to Arizona to be closer to family, the magnet made the journey in the bottom of a box of kitchen utensils, and found its way onto another refrigerator.
My mother’s actual old age was punctuated with great health challenges, a gradual loss of her physical abilities, and progressive paralysis that made her completely dependent on other human beings. However, instead of becoming embittered over the changes in her existence, she adapted. The once avid golfer, public speaker, Garden Club blue ribbon collector, and writer avoided self-pity as much as she had avoided water traps on the golf course. She became a favorite of every visiting nurse and caretaker that helped sustain her mortal existence. When I went to visit her, I would often find her bed surrounded by healthcare workers taking a coffee break, and enjoying a few minutes of conversation. She was never lonely, because she was a welcoming and positive presence. As damaged as she was in terms of mere flesh and bone, she was whole and unwavering in spirit.
As her life was drawing to an end, the weather was wildly stormy. I made my way over to the care center, and went into her room to continue my vigil. A nurse’s aide – one who had already worked an all-night shift and gone home, only to drive back in a downpour – opened the door slightly. I motioned her in, and she said, “If it’s okay, I wanted my two little girls to meet a great lady.”
I said, “Please bring them in. She can’t answer you, but I am sure she can hear you.”
The young woman retrieved her children from the hallway, they came inside, and we boosted them onto the bed. They touched Mom’s hands, and we all sat together and talked about my mother. The nurse’s aide said, “She was wonderful. I love her.”
I said to her, “I think I can say exactly the same thing.”
Later on, I realized that of all the tributes paid to my mother, one that would have touched her deeply was the young mother, and her two tiny daughters coming to say goodbye. We never told each other our names.
And the magnet with the pronouncement that “Old age isn’t for sissies” remained on my father’s refrigerator for the rest of his life. When my sister and I packed up his little house, we put it away as a reminder that life is whatever you make of it. And the possibilities of old age require a certain amount of courage to pursue.