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aging #4

26/11/2017

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We were chatting in the kitchen this morning about our parents, how we didn't really know what they were facing in their old age. I have no regrets about how I related to my mother, right up to her death on March 2 2006 at 2.30pm. A friend this week asked what was my father like. I got all animated and was surprised how I could sum him up in a few sentences. They were like chalk and cheese, much like my marriage. She was more complicated in an extrovert way, he as an introvert hid much.
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photo arrangement © Rightasrain Studios 2004
Picture
photo © Rightasrain Studios 2004
Someone once said to my father about my mother, "klaagt wel veel, he?". I said to my friends this week - we complain, not because we want to whinge but because WE WANT TO MAKE THINGS BETTER. They agreed.

And that is how I believe elderly people are often seen - as complainers, whingers, stroppy, bucking the status quo, bucking the way "old people are supposed to behave - I mean, after all, we are looking after them so they should be grateful". "Sweet little old lady" is heard often these days. But do they really know that person? And yet as I get older, I feel that frustration of a build-up of years where things I thought as a young person should be fixed by now, should be understood by now, should be addressed by now, aren't. I broke my shoulder a little over a year ago, and as an older lady was shocked at how I was mistreated - patronised, spoken down to, cajoled, literally shut up for speaking the truth about my situation. My sister (older than me) was treated rudely in hospital, mocked for "not being able to speak English properly" when she had had a mini-stroke and language was affected. Numerous medical situations confirm the trivial way the elderly are treated.

So complaining may not be such a bad way to go. Stand up for ourselves as the older generation, speak up at the risk of hearing "klaagt wel veel" ("complains quite a lot") and say "I'm not complaining. I want things to change for the better and here's why".

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aging #3

1/11/2017

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photo © Rightasrain Studios 2004
As I'm aging, more people around me are dying - friends, acquaintances. Thankfully, not family. Yet. I have 5 sisters, all older than me, the eldest 80. Who knows how much longer any of us will live but we (or some of us anyway) have longevity (pronounced lon-jevity not long-jevity) on our side, back a few generations. At least half of us have inherited heart defects. Our father died at 73 on a Saturday morning from two heart attacks in a row. One of my sisters said she'd been terrified at 73 that she would die that year.

I was secretary in the 1970s for a kind man who died last year. I was an accompanist in the 1970s on the piano to a singer who died in his 80s the year before. These people take my memories with them. It's true yet harsh to think my death will make way for the next generation.


Over the weekend friends visited. He already has an out-of-alignment posture, he has no idea why, and then he tripped two weeks ago, busted his hand, bashed his head in, unconscious. He is in his mid-70s and wonders what's ahead, his body caving in, doctors unable to come up with why, his mood flat. This is aging in the raw, the bare bones stuff where we come face to face with what we can and can't do. When we realise that all those trite little phrases of "you can do anything you dream" and "you can be anything you want to be" is for the young. Only.

I broke my shoulder a year ago. I'm still not out of the woods. Will it be all downhill from here?

This blog is my reality. I will not be sugar-coating. There are people who need to be heard without a pat on the back and "you'll be fine dear" or "you're so negative", "things will improve", "life will get better, you'll see".

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