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I am an observer.
I watch people in a convalescent
home get old
get frail, get ill,
get well again
... or let go
Sometimes easy –
as easy as slithering out of a slip.
Sometimes hard –
like struggling out of a corset.
I am an eavesdropper.
I listen to the conversations
of old age.
Anxious, fearful, and
confused:
"Where am I?"
"Can you take me home?"
"Mama! Help me!"
Angry and resentful:
"Look at all these old
people!"
"I don't belong here."
"Would somebody shut her
up!"
Stunned by reality:
"How did I get like this?"
"I can't believe I'm in
this horrible place."
"I pray each night to
die."
Accepting, compassionate,
and grateful –
"I think it's time to
get rid of my big house."
"Poor soul. At least I
still have my mind."
"Thank you. That was a
good lunch."
I am a tourist.
I visit the places where
I might spend my old age –
vast vacant plains of
no memory
shadowy ravines of haunting
memories
fertile fields of fond
memories.
Prison cells of loneliness.
Self-imposed solitary
confinement.
Traps of speechlessness
set by strokes of desolation.
I am a student.
I study my teachers for
lessons on surviving
the loss of a child or
spouse;
divorce, when it was shameful;
chronic pain;
wearing diapers, again.
Smile, or turn away; talk
about it, or don't.
Get a haircut; put on
your face
curl up in a ball; babble
like a baby.
I am a dreamer.
I hope to spend my old
age in a cozy cottage of contentment.
No dark corners or hard
edges,
soft as the cat in my
lap.
I am a realist.
I know that old age comes
with no guarantees –
how I will look,
will sound, will be.
How I will feel.
Wandering the halls where
I work, looking in,
balancing fear and anticipation;
I cannot look away.
With curious fascination
I watch my patients
in a parade of possibilities. |
