I wrote the following post a few weeks ago after a particularly difficult visit with my dear friend, Wilma. I left it to sit in my drafts for a while so I could attempt to put some space between that day and trying to make sense of it. But now that I've had some time to process and really consider what I have to say, I have come to some conclusions about memories and getting older, so here it goes...
(written 10/20/2010)
I have to confess that my visit Wilma has left me with a very heavy heart. I love Wilma as if she were my own grandmother and when I discovered she had fallen and broken her leg a few weeks back, my stomach dropped. At 97, Wilma has battled debilitating arthiritis for years, and a break at her age is something a lot of people struggle to make it back from. I reassured myself that if anyone could do it, it would be Wilma... She is, after all, one of the strongest people I know. But it wasn't until she cried on my shoulder and begged for an answer as to why she was still waiting to die that I realized how much pain she was really in.
For a long time while I was at Miami, Wilma's tiny room at Woodland Country Manor was where I would go when I wanted to feel safe. When I had a bad day, was frustrated with friends, needed a break from school or missed my family, Wilma never ceased to make me smile. I would spend hours sitting in an overstuffed chair with her, listening to her stories and telling some of my own. Her simple advice somehow stretched across the decades that divided us and formed an incredible friendship.
Wilma can remember the day her older sister's took her to the train station to wave goodbye to all the young boys being shipped off to the first world war. She can remember her mother teaching her how to stitch and bake apple pie. She can remember the way FDR inspired a nation to make it through the Great Depression. Her frail fingers dance across lace when she tells the story of sewing her granddaughter's wedding gown at the age of 91. Wilma remembers. Everything.
I can remember when I first met Wilma my freshman year. She was sitting in her room at the nursing home, her short, wiry white hair was pinned back and she had a beautiful brooch pinned to the chest of a floral blouse. I remember how excited she was to finally have a visitor. But nearly four years later, she was still there, sitting on her bed, wincing every time her joints would start to ache.
And then she said, "Honey, I just want to go to sleep. What does God still want me here for? I just want to sleep."
I tried to find some sort of explanation that might help to ease her frustration, but all I could some up with was that she was still here on this Earth to bring a smile to my face. But how selfish is that to say that her daily suffering was all a part of some master plan to give me something to look forward to every few months?
After five years of sitting with Wilma, I find myself questioning what I always held to be true: that to live to be nearly 100 years old and to still have your mind, your memory, was a blessing. Listening to her stories about falling in love and the beautiful fabrics she thread to make a beautiful gray silk and black taffeta ball gown for Franklin Roosevelt's mother used to leave me starry eyed and full of fascination. I realize now that somewhere along the way, for her, those memories have turned into a curse. To have the ability to look out the window at a beautiful fall day but never step outside to smell it; to remember what it felt like when her husband walked through the door only to be met with the crushing loneliness that came with the void his death had left for the last fifty years.
(written 11/4/2010)
So what's the truth? When we get to the end, are our memories a blessing? Or do they become shackles that keep us prisoner and remind us of what it used to mean to live?
While I am no authority on the matter--my 23 years don't add up to much in comparison-- I think it's safe to say that once you get to the end of it all, you find yourself thinking about the beginning. And for most of the elderly people I have met, that seems to stay the same. I don't know... Maybe it's all about perspective. Some people are inherently happy and others can spend a lifetime struggling to see the good in the world. While I still get an ache in my chest when I think about such a dear friend sitting somewhere in Ohio just waiting to die, I also think about the alternative; To not live long enough to see and experience and remember.
I think it's different for each person, but for the most part, all we are as human beings is the sum of our experiences. So even when we're old and our eyes fade, to still have our memories to look back on has to be a pretty incredible thing.
(written 10/20/2010)
I have to confess that my visit Wilma has left me with a very heavy heart. I love Wilma as if she were my own grandmother and when I discovered she had fallen and broken her leg a few weeks back, my stomach dropped. At 97, Wilma has battled debilitating arthiritis for years, and a break at her age is something a lot of people struggle to make it back from. I reassured myself that if anyone could do it, it would be Wilma... She is, after all, one of the strongest people I know. But it wasn't until she cried on my shoulder and begged for an answer as to why she was still waiting to die that I realized how much pain she was really in.
For a long time while I was at Miami, Wilma's tiny room at Woodland Country Manor was where I would go when I wanted to feel safe. When I had a bad day, was frustrated with friends, needed a break from school or missed my family, Wilma never ceased to make me smile. I would spend hours sitting in an overstuffed chair with her, listening to her stories and telling some of my own. Her simple advice somehow stretched across the decades that divided us and formed an incredible friendship.
Wilma can remember the day her older sister's took her to the train station to wave goodbye to all the young boys being shipped off to the first world war. She can remember her mother teaching her how to stitch and bake apple pie. She can remember the way FDR inspired a nation to make it through the Great Depression. Her frail fingers dance across lace when she tells the story of sewing her granddaughter's wedding gown at the age of 91. Wilma remembers. Everything.
I can remember when I first met Wilma my freshman year. She was sitting in her room at the nursing home, her short, wiry white hair was pinned back and she had a beautiful brooch pinned to the chest of a floral blouse. I remember how excited she was to finally have a visitor. But nearly four years later, she was still there, sitting on her bed, wincing every time her joints would start to ache.
And then she said, "Honey, I just want to go to sleep. What does God still want me here for? I just want to sleep."
I tried to find some sort of explanation that might help to ease her frustration, but all I could some up with was that she was still here on this Earth to bring a smile to my face. But how selfish is that to say that her daily suffering was all a part of some master plan to give me something to look forward to every few months?
After five years of sitting with Wilma, I find myself questioning what I always held to be true: that to live to be nearly 100 years old and to still have your mind, your memory, was a blessing. Listening to her stories about falling in love and the beautiful fabrics she thread to make a beautiful gray silk and black taffeta ball gown for Franklin Roosevelt's mother used to leave me starry eyed and full of fascination. I realize now that somewhere along the way, for her, those memories have turned into a curse. To have the ability to look out the window at a beautiful fall day but never step outside to smell it; to remember what it felt like when her husband walked through the door only to be met with the crushing loneliness that came with the void his death had left for the last fifty years.
(written 11/4/2010)
So what's the truth? When we get to the end, are our memories a blessing? Or do they become shackles that keep us prisoner and remind us of what it used to mean to live?
While I am no authority on the matter--my 23 years don't add up to much in comparison-- I think it's safe to say that once you get to the end of it all, you find yourself thinking about the beginning. And for most of the elderly people I have met, that seems to stay the same. I don't know... Maybe it's all about perspective. Some people are inherently happy and others can spend a lifetime struggling to see the good in the world. While I still get an ache in my chest when I think about such a dear friend sitting somewhere in Ohio just waiting to die, I also think about the alternative; To not live long enough to see and experience and remember.
I think it's different for each person, but for the most part, all we are as human beings is the sum of our experiences. So even when we're old and our eyes fade, to still have our memories to look back on has to be a pretty incredible thing.
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