"I used to have a sign over my computer that read OLD DOGS CAN LEARN NEW TRICKS, but lately I sometimes ask myself how many more new tricks I want to learn. Wouldn’t it be easier just to be outdated?”- Ram Dass

My bank, usually uninterested in me (as I keep a very low balance in a checking account) sent a letter inviting me to switch to a "Senior Advantage" account. My first thought: "Why are they sending this to ME?", then I realized that they knew I had just turned 60. Fine, I'll take any discounts offered, but it did feel weird to step up for my first age-related deal.

On Sunday, I thought of my father, a doctor who took such deep meaning and confirmation from his work that he continued in an administrative role after he couldn't perform surgery anymore, into his 80s. 

I always said, I'd retire when I turned 60 (next month) and live on whatever I had by then. My old assumptions have proven (once again) to be only cherished and fragile myths.

Last night I lay awake in a wild electric storm and while the sky strobed, realized I like my work, I just don't like the setting. I'm disenchanted with the behaviours of the megacorporations I've worked with, despite the 'values' they espouse. And I am not their employee- they hire me for projects. I determined to seek more congruent work- not to stop working.

I've put off shopping for Mom's Christmas gift till the 11th hour, given trans-border shipping. My husband says, "Oh, I took care of it."

He ordered a Choclolates by the Month program from some ritzy gourmet mail order place: permier cru this, planatation-grown that, chiles, rosemary, twelve exotic confections in hand stencilled boxes packed I suppose by Columbian elves... the cost is staggering. How will she eat it all? She hoarded the box I brought her in August till Thanksgiving, offering select friends a treat, the candy filmed with white from the Florida heat.

I point out that at 98 plus, she may not be around for the year's worth of deliveries. "Something to live for", he says cheerfully. I'm reminded of someone's aphorism that there are three components to happiness: something to do, someone to love, something to look forward to: the Monthly Chocolates of Hope.

Mom's madder than a wet hen: "They took my Tums!" She is not allowed to take her own medication, great move, 'home'! But they also took away her Tums, and that is going too far. First she berated the nursing assistants who come by to give her 13 different pills each day, then their supervisor. No luck. She got wheeled to the Executive Director's office and told her she was paying $200/month to have them give her meds, but she'd be damned if she'd pay them to confiscate her over the counter Tums.

Victory! She phoned to crow with delight: "I got them back." A triumph of personhood, about far more than a half-empty bottle of antacid.

Monika generously sent me her Byron Katie books while I was in Florida visiting Mom. Each day I'd  flood with sadness, annoyance, admiration; Mom clings to life with a combative, melancholy will. When she napped, I dipped into the books, pondering her message to "love what is", turn around my judgments, own my projections. A spiritual oxygen bar, a quick hit of peace.

As a treat, I prepare a snack- Mom loves nachos- with a glass of white wine, instead of the home's bland fare.  She's supposed to be careful, but her ancient hand pushes her empty glass at me: "Can't fly on one wing." I reach for a nacho, it's a long time till the dinner we'll enjoy when she retires.  She swats my hand away, "You're not exactly thin."

Her MD says, "It's the mean ones that live the longest." Katies' counsel helped me laugh at her remark- and still enjoy the nacho- so thank you, Monika!

Mom was taken to the hospital, again, by EMTs after the "home" called 911 becasue she was shaking. No treatment, hours spent uncomfortable and irritated in the ER. When she saw the Dr. at the "home" the next day, she said "Your heart and lungs are giving out, that's all- nothing to be done." The threat of litigation is the EMT's prime consideration.

I asked her gently, "Could it be your suffering alarms the staff, they are hoping someone can help you through it better than they can?" She spits back, "That's what I'm paying them for." Emerg MD's use the acronmym GOMER (Get Out of My ER) for people like Mom; looks like there's also GOMALF (Get Out of My Assisted Living Facility).

Not actively dying, but in failing health, the frail elderly, longing only for a peaceful last harbor, have boarded a Ship of Fools.

The current generation of frail elderly is prone to medical neglect.  To combat their tendancy toward self-reliance  (and their denial of impending mortality), Canadian MD Mark Nowashinsky makes house calls. Yesterday's CBC "Sunday" program showed  his visit to a 90 year old diabetic who had not seen a dr. in over 30 years.

"Without care, he would only have lasted a few more months", Mark said, "And the sad thing is, the cause of death would have been listed as 'natural causes'."

The population aged 55-70 will double in the next decade, and we will be desperate to find caregivers. How about an educational "ladder", with credit for prior learning, so an ambulance attendant could, for instance, become an RN or MD over time?

“Last year, AARP surveyed Americans over 50 and found that 89% wanted to stay in their current home as long as possible. Americans are going to age in place.”(NYT Magazine, “Key” section, Sept. 9) The conclusion alarmed me: “… up until age 75 or so, older residents tend to be strong economic contributors to communities, spending on entertainment, restaurants, housing and health and medical services and often continuing to work or volunteer.

I suggest a visit to a local hamman to a friend; we'll take the waters, relax, drink tea. The option is "swimsuit or birthday suit" and, oh, lovers of Esalen's baths, is there really a choice? She is interested, but says she's uneasy: "I have body image issues". This, from one of the loveliest beings on the planet.

A woman in her 80's recently said, "At the health club, I've joined an aquatics class with other senior women. There we were in the locker room, getting of our suits, all these old, wrinkled, soft, lovely bodies. A young girl walked by, and we pretended not to look but we all did. And we said, oh, to have a body like that again!"

Hope I will walk around the bath naked without too much grief about what's where. Some wistfulness, perhaps, but just going anyway.

Will we let our bodies be or will we pursue surgery, chemicals, fake youth?

"...Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion." - William Shakespeare

Do retirement 'homes' infantalize residents?

Mom receives plush teddy bears, flower arrangements in toys, kiddie Easter baskets and other signifiers of early childhood from the staff. They decorate the elevators with relentlessly cute seasonal items; turkeys hug, pink and yellow bunnies gambol. Place looks like a frickin' daycare.

Alcohol forbidden in the dining room; longing for glass of wine with dinner. But some days there is Happy Hour in the games room. Residents bring their bottles hidden beneath knit covers with animal heads. I accept Wava's offer of a drink, wondering what's beneath the zebra. She pours me three fingers of Jack;  on an empty stomach, I'm wrecked.