The Tyranny of Aging

Shortly before my father died, he asked me what I thought about buying a bicycle.
“For you, you mean?” I asked.
“Well, it would need to have good gears,” he answered.  “But I could use it to get fish & chips from the Upper High Street.”

As his house was on the edge of Epsom Downs, it might have been downhill to the chippie, but it was most definitely up on the way back, just a choice of gradients from the two approach roads.  Considering this was barely two months since the stair lift had been installed, and then only after several major arguments and a promise that it could be removed once he was more mobile, I wasn’t quite sure how to answer.

My father’s battle with cancer lasted several years and there were various near death experiences, spells in hospital, followed by recovery periods, some of which necessitated either my brother or me staying with him until he was well enough to cope by himself.   I visited him once or twice a week and both of us phoned daily.  He was also blessed with good friends and neighbours, but like Dylan Thomas, he had no intention of going “gentle into that good night” and there was definitely plenty of raging against the dying of the light.

Some of my friends are going through similar experiences at the moment – all of them are familiar with the sudden dashes across country, fights with hospitals and difficult conversations with doctors and social services.  You get to the point where, whenever the phone rings, you don’t think “I wonder who that could be?”  It’s “Oh God, what now?” and you never relax.

But it’s just as bad for the ailing parent – as memory and/or mobility diminishes, they find themselves increasingly dependent on others.  Simple pleasures like reading or going for long walks become more and more difficult.  As their social circle dwindles, so too does their ability to get about under their own steam.  Having to give up driving has to be one of the bitterest blows, relying on public transport, family or friends to go any distance at all.  It took a trashed nearside wing mirror to convince my father to hang up his car keys.

As we grow older, the relationship we have with our parents evolves but nothing prepares you (or them) for the time when you have to take over the parenting.  Maybe it’s payback for all the heartache you cause them when you’re growing up!

My father was away a lot when I was at school, and I left home a couple of years after graduating, so I didn’t see that much of him.  As his health deteriorated, we spent far more time together and as a result, became really good friends.  He loved prowling round charity shops, claiming to be a true hunter gatherer, and these outings always included his beloved fish & chip lunch.  No matter how angry, bitter or resentful I felt, sooner or later there would be a funny remark or a shared memory that made it all worthwhile.

Although he was frequently in pain and he was less and less able to get about independently, his mental faculties were largely unaffected.  He was able to indulge his passion for movies, read avidly and continue with his writing: short stories, novels and poems.  The two that follow express how he felt far better than I can.

 

 

 

Storm warnings

 

Yesterday again the pains came back,

sudden tremor, contraction in the chest,

those hints once laughed aside in sayings,

A goose walked over my grave.

 

It is no longer prudent to assume

a wealth of years ahead, safe in a bank.

The currency of life fluctuates and falls,

each rumour setting off another change.

 

So much to do, so little time.

Hollywood's words in Zola's mouth

but health variable as clouds

does put careful husbandry in doubt.

 

Today's urgent need so easily becomes

tomorrow's forgotten yesterday.

Excuses sprout like weeds,

the garden runs to wilderness.

 

The fabric of the house is in decay.

bricks need pointing, slates split,

frost takes the structure apart,

Judas silver in hands of clay.

 

Today the pains have yet to strike:

tablets and powders keep the weather sweet.

Time perhaps to write a sort of peace

bought with the wasting assets I have left.

 

 

Coming to terms

 

I had to come to terms with silence:

turning on the radio didn't drive it away.

It became my landlord… made the rules,

dictated when my sun could shine,

summoned rain like a steel screen

to keep me penned indoors, the better

to acknowledge my isolation.

 

Silence is a compendium of loss,

a telephone that does not ring,

mute photographs of those I loved,

dead leaves of words unspoken,

those last missed opportunities

to say exactly what I meant.

 

Tangible fall-out of the aging process

I had to come to terms with silence.

The dead deserve their moments of repose:

why disturb the darkness they inhabit now?

The invitation will arrive some day

for silence has its own allotted span.

No point in wishing precious days away.

No welcome for the guest who comes too soon.

 

 Peter Stanford: 18 November 2000.