A roomful of the aged, white hair, men, women, wheelchairs, nurses, canes, and a clear scent of sanitation supplies as well as urine. For many, this is called growing old.
For starters, the people who work with older seniors, especially ones who just have small amounts of time left—kudos. It's inspiring. It's good work. But, can you imagine the difficulty? Every. Single. Day. ?
Renee, a woman I met the other day, takes care of Grandma. She told me about Grandma Jenny, "she's my girl."
I said, "thanks." How could I ever say enough? She's nursing my dying grandmother.
I'm 22. Should I really be thinking about the pains (and the good parts too) of growing old?
But as I drove away from the Cherry Creek Nursing Facility, I wondered about such things. Not solely about me—but anybody.
For people who can afford nursing assistance and those who cannot.
For Americans but also for people around the world.
Maybe how we see getting old, getting sick and how we respond says more about us than we would like. But maybe not.
Who wants it to be like this?
Who wants to think about the vibrant person they love to be confined to a bed—unmoving, unable to talk. How alone she must feel.
I know the staff there does what they can. I admire but also deeply appreciate that.
So when I see her, I do the best I can too, knowing it isn't long now. Goodbyes are deeply difficult and this will be even more so.
But slowly, a greater peace is making way in my heart.
I pray it's finding Grandma Jenny's heart too.
