Who Wants to be 100?

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January 2, 2016
My mom would have turned 100 on January 1, and I miss her. I always thought she'd make it to the century mark, but she died in early September 2013, almost exactly six months from when I wrote this post in March of that year, after she'd relocated to a foster care home.  She entered hospice care soon thereafter. Stumbling upon it today brought back bittersweet memories of her final months, and even though it is old news.....maybe you can relate. Especially if you have a parent or two in their 80s or 90s. Or, if you are personally staring down those ages, and, given how we know that time runs at a hot pace, those years are not that far away.

March 2013
This week I'm moving my mom from assisted living to adult foster care. She'll get more one-on-one attention—exactly what she needs. She hates to be alone, and believe me, regardless of a manic and motivated activity director and kind caregivers in a facility occupied by 40-some residents, she has been most often alone. If not in her apartment, which she avoids, then sitting in the lobby or dining area, or navigating the long hallways in her wheelchair. Most evenings, I'm told, she yells for help, when all she really wants is company.

I'm glad that she knows how to ask for what she wants. No one wants to be lonely. No one deserves it. The loneliness of our elders is described in a heartbreaking song by John Prine. If you haven't heard it, please listen. I cry every single time, because I have seen those "ancient hollow eyes."

Since 2008 when PK and I moved her to Oregon from Minnesota, my mom has been a large part of my ordinary life,  and I visit four or five times a week. Still, I feel terribly guilty that she's yelling for help while I'm home just a mile away. Children of aging parents might relate. You love them, but you have a life.

Waiting. Endless waiting. She's waiting for me, mostly, as I am her only nearby family. But also for something to break the monotony. She can't read, watch TV, do the needlework she loved most of her life, play cards, or chat with other residents Her isolation, due to losing her sight and hearing is heartbreaking and haunts me. (It haunts me still, in 2016)

How has she lived so long? As doctors often remark, genes have a lot to do with longevity. Although her father died of appendicitis during kitchen-table surgery in 1920, her mother prevailed until age 98, even surviving surgery for a blocked colon at age 96. Her name was Dorothea, and what a trooper. I don't think anybody was more surprised at getting old. Gardner, painter, ceramicist, mother, wife, fisherwoman, clam digger, cook, poker player, thigh slapper, life lover. When she died at 98, it was a miserable process that began with a stroke that made it impossible for her to swallow. Let's not go there.

I'm approaching 70, inching closer to 90 as the previous decades recede into photos and memories. Amongst assisted living residents, I see surprise, sorrow, and resolve about the aging spiral. These people are old, but they're still present and wondering what the hell happened. They too were dancers, singers, artists, soldiers, cooks, circus performers, parents, grandparents, writers, investors, academics, recyclers, thinkers, lovers. They were lovers. Now they're survivors, some daring to peek around the corner at death and others refusing to accept reality. Some are diminished by dementia, which is, in a way, a protection. Who wants to be fully aware of the losses? Dementia blunts the hard truths and the sharp edges of hurt and need.

Back to my mom, LaVone. She has a greedy sweet tooth, and always has. But eating an outlandish amount of sugar hasn't drilled any holes in her life boat. So much for the sugar-free theory of longevity. In fact, except for being nearly blind, almost deaf, confined to a wheelchair, and suffering from extreme osteoporosis, she is the picture of health. She takes one mild prescription drug, low-dose aspirin and not much else. When caregivers attempt to give her prescribed anti-anxiety pills on nights that she calls out for help, she tosses them over her shoulder! Gotta love that spirit.

A year ago her young doc pronounced her sound, and noted that "her blood work looks better than mine." Ten years ago she had a panic attack and ended up having a cardiac workup. The cardiologist said she had the "heart of a 26-year-old." As of New Years Eve 2013, when she fell and spent five hours in the ER and had a battery of tests, all of which cost $5,000, (!!!!), everything still looks good.

Except, of course, for the vision, hearing, and mobility, which constitute quality of life. But vision, hearing, and mobility are unnecessary, apparently, for living to 100+, which I predict she will achieve. Dementia? She's been diagnosed as "mild."

She is 98 years and 3 months old. What's with the months? She told me around the time she turned 90 that the ninth decade is like the first, except rather than reaching achievement milestones, she'll be in reverse. Losing ground rather than gaining.

Well, she didn't say "achievement milestones." But her meaning was clear, and she was correct. We all know this happens, but seeing a parent age at warp speed is horrible. Well, hello. Seeing your very own self age at what seems to be warp speed is also a delicate topic. Isn't it?

My sister, Monette, on the right, with her son Micheal, and daughter, Lisa. That's

me with the lavender shirt. My father and mother share a headstone at Fort Snelling,

a military cemetery in Minneapolis.  We visited their graves in June 2015.

Looking back at the photos and words about my mom's life in Oregon, which she began at age 92, I see the bigger picture and remember all the good times she had, especially the first few years. After age 96, not so much. Several months before she died, she told me she was "ready to go, any time."
I have not written yet about my wonderful father, Floyd Strube, who died at 93, from kidney failure? We're not sure. One day he was on hospice care. The next day, he was gone. My mother always thought they killed him with morphine at the nursing home where he spent his final weeks. The last time I saw him, on a visit to Minnesota from Oregon, he complained of severe shoulder pain. He couldn't walk. He could barely chew food, as his dental appliances no longer fit. But one of the last things I heard him say? I want to go home. He did go home. If there's a heaven, he's there.

Other posts about time passing:
Time is too long for those who wait....
Happier times at age 93
The end of life...
But let's not forget about Pauline! Is 90 the new 70?