July 2, 2014--Ending It

We hadn't seen each other since last September and there was a lot to catch up about.

After the how-was-your-winter and the obligatory you-look-good, we moved on to other things.

Remembering that late last summer she had arranged for her brother to move to a care facility in Pennsylvania, I asked how he was doing.

"As good as one can expect. He's not happy there--who is--but since he is descending into dementia in truth he is not that aware of where he is or who he's living with."

Remembering that my mother was very old she in turn delicately asked if she was "still around."

"Indeed, Saturday was her 106th birthday."

"Amazing. And she's . . . ?"

"As you said about your brother, how good can anyone be at such an age." Knowing I put it this way as a gesture of solidarity about her brother and the effects of very old age, I wanted to add more of the truth. "In fact, though 106 is new territory for me, and of course for her, I think she's doing remarkably well."

"I'm so happy to hear that. Where does she live?"

"In Florida. In a so-called senior residence. She lives with some assistance but is quite independent."

"That's wonderful. Look, I myself am getting on in years," she glanced over at me, indicating she suspected I too might be having similar thoughts, "and live alone, my children are far from here and I don't want to be a burden on them, so . . ."

"If I may," I don't know her that intimately, "What are you thinking when . . . ?"

"And if I may," she winked at me, "What about you?"

"Well . . ."

"Ditto for me. Well indeed."

"I hate to think about these things, but I suppose I'm old enough to have to."

"I hate those nursing and assisted living places. You give up your home, you essentially give up your friends, give up the foods you like to eat, you even have to give up your pets." She tugged on Jojo's leash. To him she said, "I couldn't leave you."

"I hate those places too. Unfortunately I've been to a lot of them. I hate the look, the smell, the plastic plates and utensils, even the food looks and tastes plastic to me. I know this sounds superficial, talking about plastic plates and forks, but still I hate it and can't stand the idea of living out my final days that way."

"Have any people where your mother lives, I don't know how to put this, committed . . . I mean . . ."

"Funny you should mention that. So many there seem depressed enough to want to do so. Most, though, I should add, like my mother, have a strong will to live and find things in life to enjoy. But just the other day I asked her about that. She's lived there more than 15 years and it's a big place so you would think . . ."

"But?"

"But, in spite of that--and there are a few hundred residents--my mother, who knows everyone, says she hasn't heard about even one person . . ."

"That's amazing. My plan it to . . ." She lost her thought as Jojo lunged at a chipmunk.

"Is to?"

"Well, how to put it--end it."

"End?"

"My life."

"I think that way too. Have a wonderful dinner, a great bottle of wine, put on a Bach cello suite, take a fistful of pills and . . ."

"That sounds like a plan to me. Though I think instead of wine I'll cuddle with a bottle of Chivas Regal."

"On that happy note, I need to get back to my weeding."

"It's such a beautiful, good-to-be-alive kind of day. Whatever possessed us to . . . ?"

"Getting older probably possessed us. The facts of our lives. And, I think, living so closely here as we do with nature puts you in touch with the entire cycle."

"True for me too. I find it to be a kind of preparation."

"For?"

"What we've been talking about."

"Jojo wants to get going. There are gophers to chase and rabbits will be out soon."

"That's my point."

February 24, 2014--Snowbirding--At Publix

Rona was planning to bake oatmeal cookies and needed a few ingredients--sugar, dried currents, oat meal, and butter.

Publix was not crowded and it took just 15 minutes to round things up. Even the checkout lines were shorter than unusual--it was a beautiful afternoon and we assumed everyone was either at the park or on the beach. But after paying and halfway to the parking lot, Rona slapped her thigh and said, "Butter!"

"Butter?"

"Can you believe it, I forgot the butter. Sit there for a minute and I'll go back to get some."

The "there" was a bench right by the entrance which is usually where elderly folks sit while waiting for the bus to take them back to their assisting-living places in west Delray. I had never sat there or wanted to be seen anywhere near those benches--I didn't want anyone to confuse me with the ladies from Brookside.

"I'm fine hanging out here by the ice cube chest. You'll only be a minute so I'll be fine and  . . ."

"You look exhausted. We've been running around all day and it's hot and humid. Sit. It won't kill you."

"If it won't kill you maybe it won't kill me," a woman on the bench who looked to be well into her 90s called to me and patted the space just to the right of her.

She sensed my hesitation and smiled, tapping the cushion again. "Come. As your niece says, you look exhausted."

"She's my wife," I said, examining the bags of ice cubes, humming to myself.

"Sorry Dearie. My eyes aren't what they used to be. Nothing is like it used to be," she laughed, "But I can see, if I squint, that she's maybe older than she looks. And maybe," she was quick to add, "you aren't as old as I was thinking." Again she chuckled. "Living here everyone, everything looks old. The only young people I see are the aides where I live and some of the shoppers. Which is why I sit here. The bus takes us to shop but I don't shop. What do I need from Publix? Brookside gives us everything we need."

She pointed again at the seat next to her and nodded her head toward it to indicate it was for me.

I was tired, that was true, and so with a shrug of resignation I plopped down next to her.

"Isn't that better? Rest while your wife does the shopping. What else is there to do." She didn't pose this as a question.

"Well, actually, lots of things." I didn't want to appear to be agreeing with her. "All we need is butter. We, she, Rona is baking oatmeal cookies and we forgot the butter. And I'm . . ."

"Like you said, doing 'lots of things.'" She smiled knowingly.

About what she was knowing I wasn't sure, but it felt as if she was having fun at my expense. There was an edge to her, which I generally like in someone her age. But not when directed at me, especially when I'm overtired. All we needed was a pound of butter. What I needed was a nap. I hadn't been sleeping well and the humidity and pollen in the air were getting to me.

"So you live here?"

"Not really. We're here for the winter primarily to be near my mother, who is quite old. She's good, but still . . ."

"I know the 'but still' business. My son lives in Chicago and comes four or five times a year for visits. He's retired and could be here more; but . . . "

"I also know the 'but' business." I thought fair was fair in the needling business.

"I know what you're thinking. But still it's better this way."

"What way is that?"

"Visiting, not living. Though, like you he could be a snowbird. It's so cold in Chicago." She sighed, then added, "To tell you the truth, I'm glad my son only comes for visits. I don't want him to turn into me."

"To tell you the truth . . . ," I tried to say.

"The truth is that you actually like it here." I attempted to remain expressionless. "You don't want to admit that. You say you're here because of your mother, but I can tell. You look to me like you're enjoying living here in spite of yourself."

"I don't live here." I didn't understand why I had allowed myself to be drawn into this. I was tired and . . .

"OK. I misspoke. You don't live here. Have it your way. But, you do like it here? No?"

"In a way," I confessed under my breath, hoping she wouldn't hear. And then, to change the subject, I said, "I wonder what's keeping Rona. All she needed was butter."

"But you hate it, don't you, that if you told people you live here or spend half the year here they'll think you're an alta cocka, which means . . ."

"I know what it means."

"That you don't like. For people to think of you that way."

"Do you?"

"I hate it." The intensity of her response surprised me. "People look at me, actually they avoid looking at me because they think I'm just a little-old-lady. They know nothing about me but that's all they see. Or rather try not to see. Like I don't exist." She paused then said, "I hate being old. Living the way I do. With people half of whom don't know who they are or only talk about their 'conditions,'" she made air quotes, "and their grandchildren. They're like clichés--complaining about how their children never call or visit."

"I know what you mean," I said softly.

"So you're lucky to still have your mind and such a beautiful wife. Even if she wasn't so beautiful you would still be lucky. Just having someone is lucky." I was glad to see she was smiling.

"I don't know what to say. But I am . . ."

"Lucky. Say it. You can say it."

I said, "Lucky."

"Does that make you feel better?" She had turned to face me.

"Yes, but . . . not really."

"Because?"

"Because that means that tomorrow I could be just as unlucky as I am lucky today."

"That sounds very complicated--lucky today, unlucky tomorrow. Remember I'm a little-old-lady with only half a mind."

"That I doubt."

"Doubt what?"

"The half-a-mind business."

"So why did he put me in Brookside?"

"He being?"

"My wonderful son."

"Are you being sarcastic?"

"Partly," she confessed and then interrupted herself, "Look. See what I mean?" She was pointing to a thirty-something couple with two young tow-headed children who had entered the store. "That's why I like sitting here. See how happy they look. It reminds me of when I was younger and looked forward to the future. Now to me the future looks less happy. In fact, not happy at all."

"But you're . . ."

"Like I told you, a little-old-lady."

"In a nice place, well taken care of, with a son who calls and visits, and . . ."

"A little-old-lady," she repeated with a flat voice.

"Old, yes," I said, "But not little."

"If I could stand up I would show you little."

"That's not what I'm talking about. Not how tall or short you are but . . ."

"I appreciate you're trying to make me feel better. That's very sweet of you." She touched my arm. "But soon you'll see what I mean. I mean you won't turn into a little-old-lady, but there is the inevitable." She sighed and said, "I don't know what made me say these things to you."

"That's all right," I said, "I understand."

"Maybe yes. Maybe no. Well," she began to get up using her walker for support, "I think I see my bus. They're here to collect me. To take me back." She shook her head about that prospect.

"Can I help you?" I stood up and reached out to help her.

"I'm fine thank you. That is, for a little-old-lady." She laughed as she shuffled toward the door.

At the same time Rona reappeared. "What you been up to?" she asked showing me the butter.

"Nothing much," I lied. "Just hanging out waiting for you."