Growing Old

    Gladys is in her eighties, unable to move around without a walker, with a sharp mind and poor hearing. I was sitting with her, and would be for the next several hours. Her family had left for an event--a funeral--and she could not be left alone, but nor did she have the stamina to go sit and fellowship for hours, especially since her son and his family were taking her to dinner after they got back from the funeral. So my thirteen-year-old sister and I were hanging out with her for several hours.
    Our visit started with a scrapbook. The lady's daughter-in-law had made a scrapbook with pictures going back to before the lady was married, up through her marriage, her children's marriages, the cruises she took with a friend, and some pictures of her extended family. It was a well done scrapbook, and the lady took us through it page by page. But as I listened, I realized something that startled me.
    For ever picture in the book, the lady told us how the person was related to herself. For every friend, she spoke of how good friends they were to her, and how Gladys still kept in touch with this one, or that one, or how often that friend called her. For every accomplishment pictured (and some that had no pictures), we were told what the lady had done. Looking around the room, I saw pictures of her skill in singing, pictures of when the mayor of the city she grew up in included her in his official affairs (she worked for the city), pictures of her as a manager for a sunglass store, pictures of times when she had influence, attention, and, in the American sense, worth. I looked at at the contrast between the smiling face in the picture as she cut the red ribbon at the opening of a new building, and the shaking, wrinkled hands pointing to it.
     I had always disliked the way aging is viewed as the loss of youth, rather than the gain of wisdom. But here I was, sitting beside a lady who could not carry on a conversation (she could not hear to do so), and whose whole attention was focused on what she had accomplished in the past. It was not that any of those around her who limited her worth (for the family she stays with love and respect her), but she herself seemed completely focused on her own past, and she wanted others to know what she had done. She had no worth in terms of what she could do, but I knew she had worth before God. I just wished there was a way I could see that played out in her life.
    The hours passed very, very slowly, where I found I had to let her dwell in her own world, and let her think I said whatever she heard, and pretend to understand following her thoughts, in order for her to be comfortable. I felt better when she wanted to get ready to go out that night, and she could pinpoint every article of clothing, even if she couldn't get up and get it herself. She knew exactly what she needed, she knew where everything was, and she knew how long it would take to get ready to go. I was her hands and feet, and she was the director of the play. Her family came home, I left, and I was left with a memory to store away, to be learned from later.
    Until my great-grandmother's funeral. That, too, is a few weeks ago, coming about a month after my visit with Gladys.
    My great-grandmother was 102. She had three children, several grandchildren, and numerous great-grandchildren. I did not know her very well, but I find it hard to picture her without her husband; they always went places together, and often stayed in the same room, though this was something I only noticed as I got older. They were married 74 years until my great-grandfather's death a few years ago. Gram had increasing dementia at the time; by her death, she struggled to remember her children, and had no memory of her grandchildren. She was also, in the American sense, worthless.
    But as her children spoke of what she had done, the difference rang between what was said of her, and what Gladys said of herself. Her family praised her for handing down a legacy of poetry, music, pottery, creativity, and capability to her family. Her legacy was love of beauty and love of people, and it was passed to her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. There were no great events, no photographs of her with a mayor, but photographs of her with family, photographs of her creating a kiln, photographs of her and her husband. Her life was not nearly as accomplished, but she had the same love Gladys had when she was older. But that was all she wanted, as she grew older, and until she grew frightened because of her memory loss, I think she was probably happy.
    I late found out that she and great-grandfather left a large fortune to be split among children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, but, listen to the reactions to that and the memories at her funeral, the delight in what we received after death was not nearly as strong as the love for what had been given during her life. She grew, and grew old, while still giving out - and that legacy is something that will not be forgotten, or undervalued. It never became worthless.