Hello, My Friend!
Perhaps it’s because of my sore knee that has me walking at a snail’s pace lately, but I’ve been thinking about a certain demographic of the human population.
Old people.
“How old,” did you say? “Pretty old,” I replied. “Pretty, pretty, pretty old.”
When I was in elementary school, I think it was my 4-H Club that took fruit baskets to the local nursing home at Christmastime. Even though my mom and older sister had worked there at certain times, I had never been. I didn’t know what to expect and hadn’t given it much thought before joining the group. We distributed the baskets to residents’ rooms, and then we may have even sung some Christmas carols afterward. I was not prepared for what I saw that day.
Following our leader’s instructions, I entered a room with my basket and approached a woman lying in bed. I was instantly taken aback.
She was very frail. I’d never seen such a thin frame before. The skin on her face was stretched so that I could almost see her skull. Her hair was gray and wild and unkempt. She turned toward me and made a noise that I’d never heard come out of another person’s mouth before.
I stopped in my tracks and couldn’t take another step. I was terrified. Horrified. Petrified. Take your pick; any of those “fried” words work.
I set my basket on the nearest surface and beat it out of there.
A few years later, my mom went to another nursing home to visit someone. I was with her, much to my chagrin. I remember standing in the hallway as my mom visited this person in her room. I’m not sure if I refused to go in or was asked to remain in the hall, but an elderly man wheeled up to me in his wheelchair and asked if I knew what time it was. Looking at my watch, I answered him. I’m sure I didn’t speak up because I never did, and he replied with a, “Huh??” I responded again, perhaps slightly louder, and received another, “Huh??” We went back and forth like this several times until he finally gave up and continued his path down the hallway.
Strike two. Not waiting for strike three.
I vowed never to step foot into another nursing home as long as I lived.
And then I went to college. I majored in music therapy. Music therapists can work with several populations, one of which is geriatrics. Well, I knew without a doubt, 100% I would not work in any nursing home. No way, no how. I put all my eggs in the “psych” basket and knew without a doubt that’s what I wanted to do. I even did my internship at a psychiatric facility in a Minneapolis suburb.
Lo and behold, when I went to try to find a job after graduation, guess who were the only folks hiring music therapists?
Nursing homes.
God save the queen, now what do I do? I can’t. I just can’t! But you know what? I did. It took a while to get hired because I had no experience in nursing homes (aside from being freaked out). But guess what I discovered pretty quickly into my new job . . .
. . . I liked old people.
I mean, I really liked hanging out with them. Once I put those old memories aside of what I experienced as a kid and saw each person for who they were, those old feelings started to melt away.
One of the first people I met that changed my view was Pearl. I first heard the phrase “pleasantly confused” when a coworker described her. She indeed was confused but not agitated at all, just—pleasant. (Lord, I hope I’m like Pearl someday. Maybe I am already!)
Then there was Mable and Rose. They were best friends. Rose was in a wheelchair, but Mable was ambulatory. Mable pushed Rose along as they went everywhere together. Once, I witnessed Mable turn tightly into a doorway, bumping Rose into the doorframe. No one was hurt; it just caused some giggling. Rose turned around to Mable and, through her laughter, said, “What are you trying to do? Massacre me?”
Oh, I could tell you stories for days about those people. They could tell you stories for days about their lives. They were fathers and mothers, musicians and doctors, teachers and preachers, soldiers and farmers. Some were blind, and some could barely hear. Many couldn’t walk, or if they could, walk very slowly. I found myself wanting to show them regard. Respect.
You see, I think we too highly regard youth and too regularly disregard the elderly. We try so hard never to show our age, and I’m the first to admit if something is advertised as “anti-aging,” I’m interested!
But think of everything those old people have lived through. I mean, if I even think of what I’ve seen come to pass in my lifetime, it’s a lot! I guess I’m getting old too.
Why on God’s green earth am I writing to you about old people? What in the name of Geritol does this have to do with encouragement? I don’t know, but maybe it’s just to say, “Start Seeing Old People.” (My apologies to the “Start Seeing Motorcycles” campaign.) Rather than trying to skip ahead of them in line because you just know they will take forever, let them go first. If they drive slower than molasses in January, give them grace, and don’t lay on your horn.
As my mom got older and older, it was harder for her to get out and go places, but she sure loved a ride in the car, even if it was just driving around with no end destination in mind. Since she lived to be 98, we made many drives through the cemetery, as she had outlived most of her friends. Some of my favorite last memories of my mom are driving through the cemetery and splitting a turkey sub from Subway as we sat, ate in the car, and looked out over Lake Superior.
So, go out and hug an old person today! Now, don’t scare anyone or get arrested; maybe just try to show extra regard and respect for those folks that have been through so much more living than most of us.
Mr. Disney said it well: “Laughter is timeless, imagination has no age, dreams are forever.”
Written with love – – – Patti XOXO 
“Age is simply the number of years the world has been enjoying you!”
– Unknown