As I’m writing this, I am staring at the body of my grandfather as he naps in bed.
It is approximately 3:50 PM.
He’s recently been telling me that he feels useless, worthless.
He never expected he would have to learn what it feels like to have his body not do what it has always done.
I’ve always been of the mind that growing old is a privilege, because isn’t it so beautiful to look back and know that you’ve lived? If sun spots mean that I’ve enjoyed the outdoors, bring them on. If wrinkles are a testament to all the joys and laughter of my life, I long for them. If gray and white hairs mean that I’ve cared enough about something to give a sh*t about it and maybe gained some wisdom along the time… I’m dying (pun intended) to be crowned by them one day.
Maybe I’m just overly sentimental, but I think that growing old is amazing.
Don’t get me wrong – I understand that it’s a painful process. Losing a sense of identity and purpose as your career ends. The aches, pains, and mobility struggles that threaten your capacity for independent living. The grief of seeing your friends pass away too.
But learning to rely on others, being faced with your own vulnerability – maybe it’s not just painful. Maybe it’s an opportunity for further growth and transformation as well.
My grandfather is hardly what people would call a “sweet” and “charming” old man.
His mind is sharp, words sharper. He means everything he says, and he says everything he means. He isn’t used to being told “no.”
He loves to complain about things, and supposedly, some therapists who have heard about him have said he is “narcissistic.”
And yet, curiously, our family has rallied around him.
Even my Tito – the one who can hardly stand to be in the same room as him – is the first one to order fancy restaurant food at the drop of a hat. Heck, he’s spent literal days cooking for him, himself.
Not a single day goes by where a family member isn’t by his side.
And to see him like this, it’s strange and paradoxical.
Just as he worries about being a burden, there is simultaneously an outpouring of love occuring here.
All of us rush to ensure he gets the best of everything.
Brand new specialty mattress that we pestered the medical equipment saleslady to procure from new suppliers after the first one wasn’t deemed good enough? Check.
An extra wide, padded wheelchair – the comfiest on the market – bought above market value for expedited shipping and delivery? Check.
A complete rearrangement of the upstairs furniture, allowing him to eat outside his room as he pleases? Check.
One of his favorite Filipino foods – talangka (crablets) – purchased from a place over an hour’s drive away? Check.
In fact, we’ve been so eager to ensure the best possible care for him, that we’ve even fought about it amongst ourselves.
“Who gets to be the one to take care of this?”
I know this isn’t always how it is.
In the States, I used to volunteer at a senior assisted living facility throughout the time I was in high school. I would spend my weekends helping facilitate bingo, serving meals, and socializing with the residents there.
Many of them were so lonely.
And even when they had memory challenges, it was clear they were sound of mind enough to tell whether people cared.
And it makes me wonder, why do we not want to grow old?
Is it the physical pain? Or is it the fear of how we’ll be treated?
Statistically, older adults are at higher risk of being abused by caretakers, and in many scenarios, their medical care isn’t prioritized with the same level of urgency it might have been earlier in their lifetimes.
When I grow old, I wonder, will I still be grateful for the life I lived, or will I find myself still yearning, greedy, hungry for more –
more running, feeling strong and free
more knowledge, wondering what else I could learn if I only had time
more dancing, light and sound around me
more knowing, borne from long and deep conversation
more purpose, having the chance to serve others
more love, knowing what it really means to be a neighbor in the village
Will I wallow in grief and desperation, depression taking over as I pray to return to the days of my prime?
Will I struggle to remember the people I have loved?
Will I need help to bathe myself?
Will I allow my vulnerability to be a source of shame, or will I remember that the people helping me are
kind.
compassion.
patience.
the sunrise.
They are beautiful.
I was the kind of child that hated asking for help.
I thought it was kind to be independent. To not bother others for a single thing.
In a surprising parallel, the situation with my grandfather reminds me of my childhood. Not because I seek to infantilize my grandfather, no. But because I remember the same outpouring of love from my friends.
At just seven or eight years old, they fought to get me to accept their help with even the smallest of things.
I always shied away, saying I didn’t want to trouble them.
Whether it was sneaking me extra food during lunch or carrying my backpack after school, their kindness was eager. Excited. Hopeful, every time.
At the time, I was embarrassed to accept their help, because I always wanted to be the one doing the “helping.”
My mom, seeing this, told me that accepting my friends’ help was a gift to them.
She asked me how I felt when I got to do things for them, and she told me that refusing that help was robbing them of the meaningful opportunity to be of service to another person. To feel needed. To demonstrate their love and friendship.
It made me look at accepting help in a different light.
And then, when I was suic*dal, well, I had no choice.
Help was brought to me, whether I wanted it or not.
And somehow, being on the receiving end of so much support, didn’t break me. It didn’t mean I was weak or incapable of being independent.
It was transformative.
I rediscovered wonder, because how was it, that even at what felt like my most pathetic moments, someone was still reaching out to me, believing I was capable of getting better, doing better, seeing myself better?
There’s a Bible verse somewhere that talks about growing up and the need to put away childish things. Maybe that’s true in some ways. Adult relationships benefit from responsibility and maturity.
But seeing the world through the wonder of a child’s eyes, the love of a childhood friend – it makes me want to bask in the warmth of a child’s perspective forever – even when I’m old.
I hope I’m the type of old person who doesn’t see life as a burden as my physical limits change.
I hope I’m the type of person who chooses to live for the small moments.
A smile, when I make someone laugh. A hand, warm in my own. The sound of cheerful conversation around me.
Right now, we’ve said that depression may very well be one of the biggest risks to my grandfather’s life if he determines that life is no longer worth living like this.
I hope he chooses to live.
Because even as he is snippy and short, I find him cracking jokes with his physical therapist. Talking about his children with pride. Finding comfort in each song I sing for him. Waggling his eyebrows at me to make me laugh.
He is so full of life and everything that makes us human.
He’s imperfect, but aren’t we all?
I’ve long held the belief that love is very different from sparks or attraction or other fairytale bullsh*t.
Love is a choice and a commitment.
It’s more than words – it’s action. Service. Showing up.
Maybe life is the same.
And maybe, we grow up like the Velveteen Rabbit.
We need to love ourselves enough to become real.
It is only when we love ourselves that we can truly live.
And loving ourselves, maybe that means embracing ourselves at any given moment, imperfections and all.
Not just loving the version of ourselves that we were 10 years ago.
Loving ourselves even as we age.
Not growing resentful of the years as they appear upon our face or in our aches and pains.
Loving ourselves, even when it’s hard.
Loving ourselves as we are maybe means we can live, even as we die.
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