In Love in the time of cholera, Gabriel Garcia Marquez wrote with perception, empathy and wit about the sorrows of growing old. I know whereof he spoke. As news filters through to me of deaths in the 'family' of my medical class, the 49ers from the University of Adelaide, it's a reason for quiet satisfaction to find myself among the handful still living. The original 60 of us were reduced at last count to fewer than 10. To be living, however uncomfortably, with however many disabilities and incurable afflictions, is decidedly preferable to the oblivion, the nothingness, of being dead. I am sure there is no afterlife. When we die, we end. We cease to be. There is no paradise, no valhalla, no doe-eyed houris to provide endless sexual gratification, no heaven, no hell. This one life each of us has is all we will have, all we will ever get.
Maybe I haven't made the best possible use of my life, but I haven't wasted it. I can look back with satisfaction and pride, on what I've accomplished. That's one pleasure of my old age. I do my best to shrug off the sorrows. It's gratifying to have had recognition, honorary degrees conferred by two great universities, Uppsala and Edinburgh, the gold medal, the highest honour, of both the Canadian and American Public Health Associations (I'm 1 of only 2 or 3 people ever to have received this honour from both Canada and USA); I've been given about a dozen other awards and distinctions; and then the ultimate mark of recognition, in 2012 I was admitted to the Order of Canada as an Officer of the Order. At the banquet after the investiture, the Governor General gave me the Queen's Jubilee Medal as well. One of my sorrows is that Wendy wasn't here to share the pleasure of those two decorations in 2012.
My greatest sorrow is that Wendy isn't beside me, holding hands as we often did when walking, or watching a DVD collection of our favourite BBC miniseries, or engaging in one of our other shared pleasures. Our supreme shared pleasure was what she sometimes called wee romps, more often earthier terms. I get vicarious pleasure from memories of those times but it isn't the same. For 55 years she was beside me, sustaining me, my reason to strive always for the best outcome of whatever challenge confronted us, or her, or me, at the time. Losing her was the most devastating sorrow I ever faced, prolonged over the 14 months of her terminal illness. She died of motor neurone disease, known here as ALS, in the USA as Lou Gehrig's disease. It's regarded as a horrible way to die, and it is for young adults and for people in the prime of life, at the height of their vitality and productivity. In old age it lacks the dismal features that make it so dreaded. We were reassured by the neurologist who made the diagnosis and the superb palliative care physician who looked after Wendy, that almost its only impact on her would be progressively longer periods of sleep until one day she would go to sleep and not awaken. That's what happened. The most distressing aspect was that she lost her voice a few weeks before she died when the muscles she used to speak stopped working. She had no pain, no loss of intellect. Our anguish was softened by superb support services, many provided here in our apartment: personal care worker, visiting nurse, physio, appliances etc, from the ALS Society, others coordinated by the ALS Clinic or the Community Care Access Centre.
I console myself with the thought that I behaved as a gentleman should, letting her go first.
All my other sorrows are trivial by comparison with the anguish of Wendy's final illness and death. These are almost entirely due to one or more of the incurable disorders that afflict me. I take pills to arrest or retard the progress or soften the impact of some, and rely on mindfulness meditation to help me adjust to their cumulative impact. I take fewer pills than most people in my age group, 2 in the morning, 2 in the evening, plus vitamin supplements. A cane or a walker give me confidence to walk with a sense of balance that's less reliable than it used to be. A footstool makes it easier to reach my feet to put on my socks. My vision is very good, thanks to successful cataract surgery in 2008. This enables me to keep driving my car despite slow reaction time, and this freedom of movement is a pleasure I shall miss when inevitably I have to give up driving some time soon. Nothing is as boring as a recital of someone else's ills so I'll say no more, and change the subject.
Some collegial relationships have been better than others. Looking back over a working lifetime of well over 70 years if I include university and mature school years, I can't recall any that were detestable. Collectively and individually these relationships have generated far more pleasure than sorrow. Most pleasurable are teacher-learner relationships that became long-lasting friendships. I can't recall any of these ever going sour. Much pleasure there, and very little sorrow. I've always been a loner and since Wendy died I've lived alone in my apartment. When I need help with activities of daily living, I hope to stay here, with a personal care worker to help me, just as I now have a cleaning lady and another lady who comes in to cook for me once a week. Rebecca and Richard feed me once a week too, so between these I rarely have to cook - which is just as well because I'm a terrible cook.
A small pleasure is boasting about my age. Next month I'll be 89, and unless things change I'll mix and mingle as I do now. I proudly announce my age when I'm asked, and in some circumstances, I state it unprovoked.
Reading is my greatest pleasure. Buying books - to support struggling authors and small independent book shops - is my one remaining incurable vice.
There's much more, and pleasures far outweigh sorrows. I am very fortunate.
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