Pop 89: Perfectly Natural Crap
By Madonna Hamel
I was on my way to lay some flowers on the graves of Val Marie’s ancestors last Sunday evening when out of the corner came a flashing light. And then, another. It was as though there was lightning in my head. Then came the flock of gulls. I’ve had floaters before, but these were far busier and more numerous. The gulls kept swarming by, over and over, like a recurring video clip, diving through smoke rings immersed in champagne bubbly. I decided not to go to the cemetery and returned home to phone my brother instead.
My brother knows about disturbing eye activity. Two and a half years ago, he realized he was having a stroke when his eye slowly went dark. It was four in the morning, and he was just sitting down to a cup of coffee and some “light” reading on the history of consciousness before going to work on a construction site. Suffice it to say, he doesn’t take eyesight for granted, so when he reassured me I wasn’t having a stroke, I decided to postpone my drive to Swift Current emergency until morning.
Last Sunday was also my mother’s birthday and All Souls’ Day. In his homily, spoken outdoors, surrounded by venerable old Verano cypress and cedar trees, Pope Leo reflected on memories of our dearly departed: “Often, something brings them to mind, and we recall experiences we once shared with them. Many places, even the fragrance of our homes, speak to us of those we have loved and who have gone before us, vividly maintaining their memory for us.”
He also assured us that love is the glue that helps us maintain our link with the dead, because love conquers all, and “whenever we dwell in love and show charity to others, especially the weakest and most needy, we can anticipate an unbreakable bond with those who have gone before us.”
I try to align myself with this sentiment, but I admit it’s far easier to do so when I’m not the “weak and needy” one needing attention. As I age, I have to accept that moments of frailty will become more frequent. I was reminded once more of this act when, in emergency, the doctor, who was thorough and very kind, and young enough to be my kid, “assured” me that I did not have a detached retina, but vitreous detachment. “It’s a common condition where the gel that fills the eye, called the vitreous, shrinks and separates from the retina. A natural part of aging.”
Oh, that’s good. So good to know these “common” and “natural” parts of the process of aging happen to everyone. But there’s nothing “common” when they're actually happening to each individual. It’s personal, especially when it’s for the first time. It does NOT feel “natural” to have birds dive-bombing into and dancing with ink splotches while you’re trying to read, drive, make supper. It’s an exceptional, one-of-a-kind experience, even though the professionals see it hundreds of times a month.
These inescapable experiences would be less disconcerting if treating older people as Precious Fonts of Wisdom was also a “common” and “natural” part of aging. If taking advantage of their knowledge happened hundreds of times a month, as well.
But I am the first to admit that throughout my 20s—hell, my 50s—I was so self-absorbed and confident in my immortality that I never took advantage of all the opportunities to sit at the feet of my elders and learn a thing or two about life. About winning and, especially, losing. About inhabiting a body with a limited span. About watching people you love leave. About the humbling disappearance of abilities taken for granted, like running for the bus, staying out all night, hitting a high note, dancing at weddings, pall-bearing at funerals, hiking steep mountain passes. Not to mention struggling for meaning as you rise and fall every day.
Pope Francis believed “when the elderly are listened to, society becomes wiser.” But he also observed we live in a disposable culture that is involved in a “conspiracy surrounding the life of the elderly. This may seem an exaggeration,” he said, “but not if we consider that the loneliness and abandonment of the elderly is not by chance or inevitable, but the fruit of decisions—political, economic, social and personal decisions—that fail to acknowledge the infinite dignity of each person.” Indigenous cultures have understood, for centuries, not just the “dignity” of the elderly, but the rich and powerful teachings that come from the lived experience of elders, wisdom we are desperately in need of.
But how do we turn the juggernaut of our obsession with youth, performance, skin-deep cultural standards of beauty around to face farther shores? We can begin by listening, not with an impatient, patronizing, merely tolerating ear, but with a hunger for nourishment that goes far deeper than needing to have it “all under control.”
I realize you don’t really “get it” until you lose it. And by that I’m referring to that aha moment when something—usually a medical diagnosis—breaks your bubble and says: hello! You’re going to die one day! So, it was with great relief and gratitude that, when I went for coffee after my visit to emergency, I found myself sitting with three older and wiser farm women.
And sure enough, each woman had a story about her eyes. From a glass eye you could pop out, to floaters that looked like fishing nets, to cataract surgery that’s as “common as going for a haircut.” It’s all “perfectly natural crap” that comes with aging. The women downplayed fears and howled with laughter at the many crazy and lovely memories life provided them. They were enjoying their day, thankful that coffee hadn’t been crossed off their list of “allowed” treats. They saved my day. (As did the simple joy of the fragrance and flavour of a cup of coffee.) Their well-lived lives enriched mine!