OOPS

Outspoken Older People Subverting

Post #1 — Monday is Now OOPS Day

I have had a lifelong career in care and community that has been exciting, fulfilling and full of challenges. Alongside colleagues, I helped to shift the dial on how social care — and the people who draw on it — are understood. When I retired, I thought I would be bereft.

I wasn’t.

Retirement brought new opportunities to innovate, create and challenge. Now, at 71, I am as busy as ever. I am also (self-evidently) getting older and starting to reflect on what ageing is doing to my body, my perception of myself, and other people’s perceptions of me.

For some time, I’ve been talking to Angela — WIGO’s co-founder — about writing a weekly personal blog: an insider’s account of getting older, with all its joys, challenges and frustrations. Angela thinks I’m slightly mad to commit to a weekly post. She may be right. But I know myself — I won’t write a word unless there’s a deadline.

So Monday is now OOPS Day.

I live in a multigenerational household. My working life included a strong focus on safeguarding, so I won’t use real names — but I must call them something. So meet my husband Jack, my daughter Rosie, my son-in-law Ben, and my two rambunctious grandsons: Harry (10) and Noah (6).

As I write this, I can hear the thud of a rubber ball being hurled down the landing by one boy to the other and back again. Over and over again. All part of the joy of living in the same house.

We’ve lived together for three years now, and it works well for all of us. It helps that Rosie and Ben are easy-going and generous — and that the house is big enough for each of us to have our own space, as well as a kitchen where we come together to cook, eat and talk.

Jack and I help with childcare — but not too much. Rosie and Ben are careful about that. I love being part of the boys’ everyday lives. Jack particularly enjoys Ben’s company and can retreat to his study when the noise and energy get too much.

Living together means we can afford a bigger house than we could separately. It also means animals.

So meet Max (a golden Labrador with a gift for noble poses), Lucy (a black Labrador with some German Shepherd — protective, loving and permanently worried),

Lily (a three-legged Maine Coon with attitude), and six chickens (named, but you’ll be relieved to know I won’t list them).

At the moment, Jack and I run the house. We do much of the shopping, share care of Harry and Noah, and I do most of the cooking. Rosie and Ben are freed up to focus on their work and the boys. Our parenting instincts are thoroughly satisfied.

The deal is this: when Jack and I get crumblier, Rosie and Ben will take on more — and give us help if we need it.

But with limits.

I don’t want Rosie — and definitely not Ben — to provide personal care. And, like my mum before me, I don’t want to be a burden.

We’re working out what that really means.

Mum began to develop dementia just before she turned 90. She was so afraid of being a burden that it became… well, burdensome. She wouldn’t say what she needed or wanted so we had to guess. And as she became less well, guessing became harder.

I want to avoid that trap – but I also want to avoid the trap of asking for more than is fair.

So far, we’ve put our Lasting Power of Attorney in place — for finance and health. I’ve written a sort-of living will: no personal care from family, and if I need more support than can be managed at home, then find me a small care home that doesn’t smell of wee and has a bar.

I suspect this blog will become the place where I work the rest of it out.

Because ageing isn’t theoretical anymore.

It’s happening — in my body, in our household, in my relationships, in our planning for the future.