I just named this story now, some 45 years after I wrote it. Well, not really is it a story, but a memorialization of what probably was something I saw when I used to ride the bus in New York. Going through the "memory drawer" which had spread to all sorts of places in my apartment, and trying to prune it down to the "I can't let this go yet!" state, I ran across this effort of mine. I seem to remember that I did it in response to some writing opportunity for some magazine. But I am not sure. I also, think it was rejected, but I'm not sure. In any case, when I read it again, I am rather pleased with myself that I even cared about the old when I was in my early to mid-twenties, and rather non-plussed to realize that I am an age I mention therein, 70. How did that happen?! (I also learned a new word recently interrobang, which is the combination of the question mark and the exclamation).
Anyway, I have also realized that much of my writing style is not dissimilar to that of my father. That is purely a matter of genetics I'm thinking as he never instructed me in writing. But there you are. I clearly was not adopted. So as I wish to tear up the hard copy of this thing, and yet wish to preserve it, I am transcribing it here. About six of the upper right of lines somehow got torn off in the last decades, but I think I can reconstruct it enough to get the start of the thing. So here goes.
The woman snapped loudly so that everyone on the bus concomitantly snapped their head to look at her and the hunched, wrinkled old man struggling slowly behind her. "Over HERE, pa!" The shouting was not without reason as the aged parent wore a hearing device. Still louder she admonished him, "Over HERE, PA!". Then she shouted "No, not THERE, the seat is wet!" He looked at her puzzled. What did she want him to do? He could barely hear her. He hesitated, then finally obeyed. He sat. He said little. The passengers watched. I recall that I thought it was such a terrible thing to be old, to be so unnecessary. I felt a surge of apprehension because I knew that in time I would also reach that stage of life. It was easier to shut out such feelings, to remind myself, after all, I am very young.
Still, I could not help but consider his plight. How ironic that this man who had worked, played, married and raised a child, that this once active, intelligent, vital human being was now conditioned to react to stimuli like a puppy. It was a terrible thought, but as Pavlov's dogs would salivate at the sound of a bell, this man responded to the hard shouts of an anxiety-ridden, seemingly bitter, middle-aged woman. But he is old. He has no choice. It is unconscionable.
Here was one man, among many like him, condemned to inaction and slow deterioration because his advanced age makes him a symbolic menace to society. The old should be hidden away, tucked quietly in the nursing home to be viewed once a week, once a month, once a year, by a "dutiful" family that is footing the bills. Strange benefactors are we who keep grandma alive physically, but who see fit to smother her spirit by reminding her of her age, her frailty, her uselessness.
Grandfather awakens early, perhaps five or six in the morning. He washes. He shaves, missing a short, white, but visible section of beard, but making himself presentable for the day to come. But what will he do? He will pace back and forth on the sun deck, often stopping, and staring, lost in thought. He will remember days so remote in time they seem to have been a dream, of a youth full and happy, perhaps a company presidency that brought respect, maybe reward. We prefer he not remember. He is old; he can have no dreams. No memories. He returns to his room, sitting in a chair, listening to the ticking of the clock, hoping that someone, anyone, will come and speak to him, to make the wait easier, the wait for death. No one comes.
The old really are not forgotten, no, never forgotten. They are very much on our minds, but we implicitly hope that their forced absence will help us ignore a fact of life, that we too will die. The old are frightening reminders that one day climbing stairs will be an adventure and that no amount of make-up will hide the dryness of skin, and the lines of "character". It will take twice as long to cross the street. We will be retired from our jobs to make room for young-bloods with creative ideas, with revolution, not evolution on their minds.
We refuse to accept the inevitable and those who have begun to pass through the portal of age and death become victims of our fear. The child knows nothing of his mortality. "Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies," goes some poem. Somehow realization of the existence of death comes, but not acceptance. We are creatures that seek permanence, security and comfort. Yet, we fin only insecurity and change. Change is the order of things, and we fight it. If old age is a stepping stone to the ultimate change of death, then we will inhibit its onslaught. We will extol all things youthful--music, clothes, hairdos, language. We will avoid things old, laugh away our fears, laugh at the old codgers and their complaining ways. Perhaps you have overheard a conversation between a husband and a wife and you might be reminded of the prevailing attitude. Grandfather is a nuisance. Whenever he comes to visit, he stamps around in the early morning waking the household. He is always in need of company. He is just so. . . .old. He is not a good influence on the children. Wouldn't it be better if her were out of the way, somewhere where they could take care of his every need?
The media of communication perpetuate the attitude toward age. Jokes are bantered about as though none of us will ever reach the age of seventy. An old person is generally cast as an eccentric little mouse who wears bifocals and has a penchant for mixing a great arsenic cocktail, charming but silly crazies like the two in Arsenic and Old Lace. The aged are perhaps the most stereotyped group of all, the librarian notwithstanding. If you see a little old lady with an umbrella, she is likely to swat you with it for a minor transgression. The elderly, cranky and troublesome are embodied in the darling of The Tonight Show, lovable, old, Aunt Blabby. I laugh. I love Aunt Blabby. But then, we think we can afford to laugh. We are not yet shriveled. We are not yet facing death. We refuse to believe we ever will.
I recall a youth who once, watching an old couple struggle to get up to exit from another bus, commenting in a voice that was genuinely intended as a whisper, but which was painfully heard--"It looks like they can barely hold each other up."
Well, young one, your time will come. It is later than you think.
Of course, since I wrote this little piece, I have learned things about life. Sometimes, there is nothing to be done but for a friend or family member to become resident of a nursing home. We live in times, even more than when I was writing in the 1970s, where people are all over the place. Families do not stay together as once was the case. Someone, in the blossom of youth, decides to leave his or her home in another country, travels all the time, can visit with anyone he or she wants until that devil age hits, with its concomitant decrepitude. Oh, yes, some people remain sharp and fairly well mobile, but there almost always comes a time when they simply cannot handle the affairs of everyday life. It happens insidiously. Imperceptible almost. (For me, taking a heavy bag of used cat litter down the stairs has become anathema!)) And they cannot go back to their place of origin. Or the dementia simply makes their being alone at home too costly--and physically impossible. How many people have promised to keep mom or dad at home, but they not being terribly young and becoming health impaired themselves, have to make the decision to send mom or dad to the care of others? But there remains that distancing attitude I observed when I was young myself. Not so long ago, before my corticosteroid injection for hip issues, I was limping sufficiently I needed a cane to reduce the discomfort (and at the two month mark for the shot, I am keeping my fingers crossed!). People simple treated me as if I were invisible. And I wasn't terribly disabled. Go into a store in some hip shopping area, and note how the young respond. I could have sworn the other day that a couple of teenagers were laughing at me. What was I doing? Nothing unusual. But something about me generated giggles from Generation Z or Alpha (I wasn't sure of their respective ages). I have developed enough of a thick skin that comes with age that I noticed but remembered the line from Moonstruck, "You know you're going to die, don't you?" They don't, of course. And, differently from the time I wrote the original piece, I have returned to the practice of my Catholic Faith. I have a slightly different perspective about death, Memento Mori. Death is, for people of faith, not an end, but a door to eternity. That doesn't relieve of anxiety, but it buffers it a bit.
I think.
No comments:
Post a Comment