The black hole of Goleta
That’s what my husband calls the place where his mother lives, and where we have come to visit. He calls it that because it is a cinder block building, so it’s difficult to get cell phone reception, and also because for a long time there was no way to get an internet connection here. He solved the latter problem by seeting up a computer room for the folks here at Friendship Manor, and now I am working in that room, on one of nine computer stations, complete with flat screen monitors. Very snazzy.
It is the black hole for me because it is the place where so many of my hidden fears are lodged.
Earlier yesterday we stopped at a nursing care home, where my husband’s aunt has gone. It is probably her last stop on this earth. She is a sweet woman, and she was fully cognizant when we were there. But she was also angry in ways I hadn’t seen in her before–she was angry about her nightgown, and angry that her best friend had had a stroke, and angry for not being able to get dressed and feel like herself again. That anger seemed so obviously related to fear.
Sitting and talking with her, it was as if I was on the pillow. I kept bringing myself back to the present, to sitting in this room with the fear of loss of control and loss of life just coming at me. My brain was begging me to think about something else, and I did, but I kept coming back.
Here at Friendship Manor, it is not the last stop for many of these people. They must be ambulatory to stay here, so these people are doing pretty well, in comparison. They have activities, they have gossip, they can make a lot of choices about their lives. But they are no less angry. Many times they will be angry about things that happened sixty years ago.
At Friendship Manor my fear of not being loved surrounds me like a miasma. I tense my body to deny it entrance, and so I often leave here sore, as if I’d worked out lifting weights. I talk to some of these old folks as they go on and on about the tiny things in their lives, their dissatisfaction, regrets, judgements; their fears leaking out of ever phrase. And I have a hard time feeling compassion for them because I am so afraid. So afraid of the same things they are afraid of.
I decided I must get rich, and get all those lifts and things so I can look like Gloria Vanderbilt at 85. That’s the true route to a good life. Forget all this zen stuff!
I too fear growing old. I fear becoming feeble, becoming marginal, losing my independence, losing my mind. There are no days when some part of my body doesn’t ache. As a friend of mine likes to say, “Growing old–it ain’t for sissies!” Then today my mother-in-law told me about a memorial service she had attended at her church for a young man, 19 years old, a Marine who had been killed in the Middle East. I thought, growing old is a privilege. (But not if you’re a sissy.)
Brave girl, V.
Most people make a wide detour around such places; I suspect in an effort to avoid just what you’re allowing yourself to feel.
I too fear growing old and dying. And it’s been a complete surprise to discover that. It’s now part of the background of my life, one of those recurring themes in my “Top Ten Hits” on my mental jukebox. It’s a gnawing in my midsection. Part of the tension in my numb shoulders. Entwined in the aching of my low back. Will I outlive my money? Will I be physically able to enjoy my wilderness home by the time I am able to live there full time?
An interesting switch from my usual focus on the past and all the guilt that entails, but no more pleasant. So, like you, I gently pull myself back to the present: the feel of the typewriter keys on my fingers; the soft cloud cover, pregnant with rain, outside the window. Fear is such a great poke-in-the-ribs to practice. Unlike anger which so often sweeps me away before I have a chance to grab the lifeline of breath.
Eep!
Tried to make a small editorial change and the program reprinted the whole thing! Apologies. I feel somehow exposed and embarrassed. More grist for the mill, hmmm? Could you give me the name of your plastic surgeon?
Surgery accomplished. First post deleted. S’arright?