Tag Archives: ageing

Listen and Live

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Ageing is niggling in the back of my mind. My body is changing, I am dreaming of leaves in which the chlorophyll has turned yellow, and in a moment of clarity, I woke up and knew I could just as easily die from an unexpected heart attack now as I could from dementia twenty years down the track. Nothing should be taken for granted.

The deeper nuggets of wisdom in the niggle arose out of the realization about the timing of my death. Is my Will up to date? Maybe now is the time to get around to working through an advanced care plan? I need to ensure my meagre assets aren’t devoured by hefty admin costs and I need to ensure I have a say about what happens to me should an unexpected downturn assault my body.

Ageing and death naturally surface in human consciousness as time goes on. As with any other time in life, we can easily get caught up in fearful thinking – and miss the wisdom that sits in the niggle. Many adults plan for retirement – probably because someone makes money out of it and dollars are invested into advertising. Media promotion however creates an expectation of what these periods in our lives should look like and they miss the non monetary forms that many elect. When people listen to the niggles in the back of their mind, a broader range of options resonate.

When it comes to frailty and dying, the two biggest service providers are Residential Aged Care and Funeral Services. Options are appearing on the horizon for lower cost and different form funeral services, eg. Tender Funerals. Advanced Care Planning provides a framework to consider living arrangements when frail, and the timing of a good death rather than a long depersonalized one.

So I listen to the niggle and book an appointment to review my Will. I also dedicate a day to work through the excellent resources available for Advanced Care Planning and Directives. This is inner work, using the questions raised to explore my values, to imagine different scenarios and to influence choices down the track when I may not have the faculties to do so.

Whilst I incorporate the wisdom of the niggles into my tasks, I continue to live what is present. I keep up with my home based exercise regime and walking; I eat healthy, home cooked meals; I work, I laugh, and I care. I enjoy all the the nuances of my life, including this little fella.

A wild bird feeder began as a ‘nice idea’. What I didn’t realise is that they tell their friends and before I knew it, I had flocks fighting in my front yard. Three birds emerged as needing help. Being a clean bird by nature, filth reflects poor health. This one is the healthiest looking of the three. With eyes like dark empty sockets, one looks like Uncle Festus from The Adams Family. Its beak is broken and its feathers are falling out. The other is covered in red dust with mauled tail feathers. I enjoy the slowing down and being present they require in my day.

Listen to the wisdom in the niggles in the back of your mind, continue to live your life, and enjoy its contents. If we get caught up in the fearful thinking that can surface, not only do we not do what’s needed to enable a good end of life, we miss out on all the living in between.

Always Learning

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When we think of learning, what comes to mind? Babies learning to walk, children at school, learning to drive, learning on the job, and learning at university. In these contexts – early childhood, new skills and educational environments – it is easy to identify that learning is taking place. But what about the learning demanded of us when we become new parents? Or learning how to be in relationship? Or the learning required at the tail end of life?

Because the need to learn never ceases – not until our final breath. The older adults I work with in residential care are learning to live in an alien environment; they are learning to live with bodies that lose functioning every day; many are learning to live with impoverished family connections; they are learning to allow strangers to support them; and they are learning to die.

As with all learning, some do it with grace, whilst others struggle. Some only see the loss, and become frightened. Whilst others accept, and see the opportunity for learning about their deeper selves; about the people around them; about relating; about life … and death; and enjoy the final ride.

When our old people in residential care are whining about their medical woes, or their lives, remember two things. (a) They are attempting ‘personhood’ in the best way they know how. By talking about what they know but from within the diminished context in which they now live. Everyone outside residential care has the breadth of life in which to engage, and discourse. They have functional bodies that move in varied contexts, with varied people, with varied purpose. In outside contexts, it is easier to have something to say that others will find interesting and engage with. And, (b) They don’t realise they are learning. In time, if their social circles and engagement with activities increases, their narratives will change. If not, their narratives and vitality will diminish. And if open to learning, what they understand and think will find a depth incomprehensible to those busy with life.

Our older people are learning, and transitioning into residential aged care demands it even more. Validate the learning they are doing. Talk about earlier times in which they valiantly met similar challenges. Talk about what they are noticing in themselves. Get curious about what it is like. Harness their learning. Adjusting (learning) requires that we allow new experiences, people and understanding in. Recognise the inner being learning to adjust to different physical, social, familial, personal and spiritual circumstances. Listen and affirm their efforts. Champion the hero/ine within and help them to flourish as their bodies and lives diminish.

Practising What I Preach

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No life avoids the need to change. Resistance to growing up, to deepening in relationship, to heeding the body’s needs, to leaving an abusive situation, to changing unhealthy habits, to confronting mortality, to moving on … leads to psychological and physical distress. Embrace the change needed and life unfolds afresh.

Last week, at 18, my only child gained her driver’s licence. With two fulfilling part time jobs and an expanding network of friends, her licence affords her increased freedom with which to explore and craft her adulthood. Life naturally invites her in that direction and she has accepted.

Her driver’s licence brings my intense parenting to an end. After years of supporting school and sporting commitments, a year of driving her to and from her workplaces (5 times a week), and more recently, a year of teaching her through 50 hours of driving, I now faced vast swathes of time, underdeveloped social networks and faded memories of pastimes nearly forgotten.

Some months ago, I could see this transition looming on the horizon. Either I could sit at home lamenting the empty nest, or I could choose to move forward with me at the centre of my attention. This I wasn’t familiar with. My energy levels pulled me to the sofa, a future I didn’t want. If I was going to experience a better quality of life than years in front of the TV, I needed to craft it from within, listening for what fit and to slowly take the journey.

Whilst my daughter was growing up, I enjoyed camping and music festivals. With each new adventure, I learned something about myself. I learned I needed comfort when camping – managing insects and heat well, being close to water to swim in, lying on a comfortable mattress, all make a difference. I also learned I needed to reduce my responsibilities when camping – leave the dogs (and my parents) home. I learned I needed to reduce the amount of work required of me – ‘air pole’ tents are great, camp kitchens suffice and no one needs that amount of ‘stuff’. I also learned I don’t like large music festivals, and smaller ones that are safe for children allow single parents to enjoy a rare moment to relax from vigilance.

These two activities, together with a commitment to regularly connect with neglected friends and a resurrection of journalling workshop emerged as the entrypoint for crafting my ‘later life’ years. I now check in with friends at least once a fortnight and have booked two night camping trips once a month.

This weekend gone by, I camped at Herron Point, just south of Mandurah, Western Australia. It is located on the ‘estuary’ and is well known for ‘crabbing’. The campsite was very rustic. West Australian grey sand in the campgrounds, with pristine white sand on the estuary foreshore. Thankfully there were many shaded trees for cool comfort as a warm easterly wind blew most of the time. Whilst some children swam in the estuary, there are signs suggesting people refrain from doing so after floods as there are elevated levels of nutrients in the water. I erred on the side of caution and simply waded to cool down. ‘Crabbing’ adults wore rubber trousers.

Setting up my new swag, table, chair and cooking area took 20 minutes. Time to explore before a friend arrived later that evening. Children and their fathers carried nets and buckets whilst searching for crabs, whilst mums sat on chairs in shallow water. The sculpted shoreline ran in bays with an occasional long stretch. Dried sea plant life lay in clumps along the beach and gnarly dead trees, roots exposed, provided interesting contrasts against the skyline. Pelicans abounded and at times could be seen in large groups feeding from the water below. Red hot orange skylines ended each day, whilst pastel pink, blue and mauves welcomed them in. With so much activity, the campsite was asleep not long after 9 pm – but was in full crabbing mode again at 6.30 am. By 10 am Sunday, ours was the only campsite remaining.

My dog had eaten all her dry food the night before, so I suggested we go into Mandurah for a quick shop. On our return, I recalled a family holiday on the river near Yunderup when I was young and on a whim we decided to explore. It was winter when my parents and grandparents rented a weatherboard shack from a wharfie mate of my father’s. Campbeds in a sleepout, rough wooden floors, a wood stove, tea tree bushland and a jetty on the river made it a rare magical time. I remember the men fishing for cobbler in the gloomy black water of night, hurricane lamp burning nearby. Those jetties are still there. So are some of the more modern shacks. But mansions have also shot up, as have white picket fences, and a large number of river craft. The fish are few.

We walked along a river path, my red cloud kelpie exploring the water’s edge and occasionally falling in. The placement of chairs, and gates, and signs, telling the story of how people now lived their lives. I enjoyed the juxtaposition of carefree, communal living with displays of more modern single minded ownership.

This was my first foray in crafting an independent life that I hope will eventually be filled with activities and people and places I really enjoy. It took time to feel comfortable with my start. I learned it is important to follow the impulse to explore, to write, to read, to sit and to chat. I learned I could organise new experiences that were outside my comfort zone but not so far out that I wouldn’t begin. I learned that slowing down and listening for what feels right for me supports a great time. I learned that I might quite like exploring country towns and the people who story them. I learned that if I make a start and don’t shut the endless possibility of my mind down with judgements and criticisms, new ideas and thoughts of ‘what next’ emerge. I learned that my choice of which thoughts to follow determines the quality of the life I lead. Which do you choose?