(I don't know if this is the right place to post this. It's from my LJ -- wanted to know what others thought --, and slightly long...)
I've been thinking, a lot, about the residents at the old people's home where I work. And their lives; how they lived, how they were, what sort of personality they had, their family...
All I know about them are their names, their room number, whether they've got dementia/Alzheimer's/this/that/the other, whether they have to have liquidised food, whether they are vegetarian, if they're allergic to something, what drinks they have to have. With some, it's their personality now, such as this person is so particular and neat, that person shouts a lot, the person over there doesn't like sandwiches. With others, it's their inability to talk or something. I know this, I know that.
What I don't know is what's defined them these past few decades. I mean...were they mean? Were they kind? Did they marry? Were they a husband, a wife, a mother, a father? Did they have any brothers or sisters? Were they a fighter, a soldier, a painter, a builder? Did they fight in a World War? Who did they vote for? Did they have children? How many? What are their names? What were their hobbies? Were they born in Gloucestershire -- was the family from Gloucestershire, or did they move from somewhere? Childhood memories; school subjects they hated. Teachers. Did they do anything interesting with their lives? Did they win medals, go to university, have children, earn enough money to get by? Did they fight for their country? Did they save a life?
My nan's recently said something to me that made me think. She has no-one left now that knew her before she met my Granddad. They've been together since their early twenties, and her parents, her sisters, her brother...they're all dead. She's the only one who knows what happened in her childhood -- all the summers, the memories. And that must be incredibly lonely.
It's the same for my Granddad. He doesn't have any brothers or sisters (he's an only child). His father died in the 1960's, his step-father died later, and his mother's really ill, though she's still alive. But he might as well be the only one left, as her memory's going. He's really the only one who knows anything about what happened in his childhood.
Is this what it all comes down to? At the end of it all, you're pushing ninety, a hundred, and you're in a nursing home, unable to walk, being fed by someone else. You may or may not have visitors -- if you have children, and they don't feel uncomfortable coming to see you, they'll visit. If you don't, you've been survived by no-one, and who's going to say goodbye? The people that take care of you...the carers...they know absolutely nothing about you, about your life. They know bits and bobs, they assume things from photographs and things that you may be able to tell them, but your memory'll be going, you won't remember yourself, and then suddenly you're this shell and you can't do anything yourself and some may say that you're better off dead. Because what's life if you can't enjoy it, if you can't do anything?
And what if you're the only one to remember things from your past? Your childhood? It must seem incredibly lonely when you can't talk to anyone who was there about it. You can't say "oh, remember when...", because no-one does. It's just you.
You could be the only person in the entire world who knew what your childhood was like.
Old age just must be incredibly, incredibly lonely. I absolutely never want to grow old -- would rather die earlier than later, and with as much control over my body as possible.
Any thoughts?