When you're two months away from your 96th birthday, chances are that the people who sit with you at your table in assisted living will be younger than you. Chances are that the people everywhere you go are younger than you. Maybe not as full of life or determined to live, but younger.
Such is the case with my father. I think that is probably one of the rough edges of life in assisted living. You sit with the same people for every meal (the staff tries to put people of similar life experiences together) and they come.... then they go. They go to the hospital and don't return. They go to the Alzheimer's unit and don't return. They go to the nursing center and don't return, though my father sees them staring vacantly into space while parked in the dayroom in their wheelchairs when he goes to the nursing center to visit my mother.
He's enjoyed the company of a younger, more vigorous (though still old as dirt) man at his table for the past few months. All was well until the other night when my father was in the shower and this man walked in. The man asked, "Where do you get water for the dogs?"
My father said, "There aren't any dogs." And the man walked out.
The man is now missing -- he's been moved somewhere where he can't wander off. The staff doesn't talk much about what happens to people when they suddenly disappear, leaving their friends to wonder if they're dead or just elsewhere. Probably with the HIPA (if I used the right initials) regulations, the staff shouldn't talk at all. But these people are living together. They need to know what happened to their companions. My father misses his friend.
The list of his dinner companions has turned over many times. It's depressing. Not only does he miss his companions, but he has to wonder if he's next.
My father has developed some kind of lung infection within the last few days. Nobody has used the pneumonia word, or any word for that matter. He's on antibiotics and two other kinds of medications (in addition to the usual bowl of pills). He sounds terrible, says he feels terrible. But he tells me that if only he would take the time away from the garden to work out and get in better condition, then he would be all right. He says he's been too busy to work out and he's gotten in terrible shape. Working out would fix it all. (This is of course not true, as he has congestive heart failure and aortic stenosis. He's on oxygen and falls all the time.)
I got him to agree not to work out (he has free weights in his room) until after his lungs are clear. I don't know how worried to be about this illness. If it can be shaken off, he will shake it. The will to live is a powerful thing.
In the meantime, those of us who are not 96 have no excuse. Go work out -- while working out still works.
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