Welcome to OOPS, my occasional reflections on the business of getting older — what catches me by surprise, what makes me think, and what seems to matter more with each passing year.
Last week wove joy and sadness together in almost equal measure.
I volunteer at a town-centre church with a big outreach programme, much of it built around food. We feed people who are hungry, of course. But food does something else as well — it brings people together. People of all ages and backgrounds and in all kinds of situations. Around our tables everyone has a place and splendidly unlikely friendships are formed.
Saturday was our regular fundraising lunch.
It began with a shock when one of our oldest volunteers collapsed.
Other volunteers sprang into action and thankfully the paramedics arrived within minutes. I sat with Barbara* while we waited, speaking quietly, trying to keep her awake. At first she drifted. Then suddenly she opened her eyes, fixed me with a look and said crossly:
“Getting old is not for wimps.”
She’s right.
Barbara is in her late 80s. She lives alone, has no family and is in constant pain. She is fiercely independent. Church friends are her family, so she hauls herself in two or three times a week to do whatever jobs she still can. She can be sharp but she never complains. She is utterly determined to stay in her own home.
I admire her and worry for her all at the same time – we all do.
By lunchtime, there was another blow.
Martha*, a long-time volunteer, came to me at the till and said starkly
“I don’t know where I live.”
We went into the office for privacy. Over the past year we’d noticed she was becoming forgetful – but then who isn’t forgetful from time to time. This was different. Martha was convinced she had moved but couldn’t remember where. She couldn’t remember the phone numbers of any of her five children. She was frustrated, embarassed and …..frightened.
After fifteen minutes or so a friend arrived who was able to reassure her that she was still in her familiar flat. I sent them home together in a taxi.
We know that her children are deeply worried. They don’t think she should live alone and are trying to persuade her to move into residential care. Martha is utterly resistant. She wants to stay at home until “the end”.
Barbara, Martha, so many other older people facing their last years with dread. They have too much money to be helped by social services. They either have no children or children who are worried sick and just don’t know what’s possible and how to help. ‘A home’ seems the only alternative but they have seen friends move into care homes and lose independence, purpose and identity. As WIGO members say – there has to be a better way.
And yet…this week also carried joy.
I have three children. Rosie — and Laura and Chris.
Laura lectures at a university in the south-west. Her new book is coming out in the spring, and she is just beginning a major six-year research project. We have been planning the celebrations for months.
Chris, married to Matthew and working as a lawyer in London, sent us their 20-week scan picture this week. A tiny miracle due in July.
Endings and beginnings. Fear and hope.
An 88-year-old determined to carry on. A frightened woman desperate to stay in her own home.
A new book. A baby due in July.
Friends and family loving, worrying, rejoicing. Being human.
