As I hurried home from the grocery store in the rainy wet this afternoon, an elderly man crossed the street opposite me, pushing his own wheelchair and stumbling on the frost heaves. I've spent enough time working with the elderly to know that such a man, bent over his own wheelchair as he was, should not be out on his own.
Approaching the man to ask where he was headed, he veered to the right to get away from me. As he did so, he fell into a puddle and could not get up on his own. As I helped him up into his chair, I assured him I was a priest and would help him get home. This seemed to bring him a little comfort, but home was obviously not where he wanted go this rainy afternoon.
Judging from his medical bracelet, I assumed the man was from the nearby hospital. To my surprise,
however, he told me that he lived at the personal care home around the corner. Judging from his apparent confusion and slurred speech, I had assumed he had dementia and was lost. As we walked together through the leaves, I soon realized that he did not have dementia at all, but was simply hoping to buy some shaving cream. His entire family is in England, so there is no one here to walk the two blocks to the grocery store to buy it for him.
It was difficult to make out all my new friend's words, but in those two blocks I learned that he had come over from England in the sixties and studied political science at the University of Minnesota. He went on to teach at St. Paul's College, a place I frequent in my work as chaplain. In the ensuing several minutes, we spoke of international politics, the upcoming mayoral election, and life in England after the war. I felt a little ashamed that I had assumed the man was lost; I was clearly in the presence of a very intelligent man with a fine memory. He spoke of the women in the care home, their average ages, and life at St. Paul's. A former Anglican, he converted to Roman Catholicism because "it was more clearly defined."
The nurse who called me later confirmed my suspicions: the man is an independent academic who almost never receives visitors. His illness has left his body disabled but his mind fully sharp and functioning. He can no longer get out to mass or to university events. He sits alone day after day, hoping he can just make it to the grocery store to buy some shaving cream. In a sense, I dashed that hope for him.
My visit this afternoon highlights something our communities don't often talk about. With all the questions about the future of the Church- debating about euthanasia and same-sex blessings and women in ministry- what is happening to our elders? Is it a symptom of our Church as well as our culture that once a person is no longer physically useful they are cast aside and forgotten, left to die in an institution created for just such people?
To be fair, the Church is often the last to visit forgotten shut-ins. Anglicans and others are particularly good at visiting elderly parishioners and doing monthly services at personal care homes. But it just isn't enough. We must develop a robust theology of aging.
The year before my grandfather died in a personal care home surrounded by friends and family, his dementia had become quite advanced. He looked at my mom when she dropped him off one day and said, "One day they'll put you in a place like this. And I'll be up there laughing (he pointed upward)."
It is true that elder care has come a long way in recent decades. The homes I visited in Colombia were appalling in comparison to our clean and orderly Canadian homes. But still, it is not enough. Prolonged lifespans and new ways of organizing our lives (including childlessness and longer work hours) mean that more and more of our elders are left alone to age and die. This is, without a doubt, a grievance to the Divine who cares for them so deeply. It is a grievance for our culture, which cannot learn from elders shut away in locked facilities and never visited.
Perhaps we send people away, in part at least, because we fear age. We fear the inevitability of growing old and dying. But I would contend that age is as beautiful and vital a part of our life together as youth is. When age is cast aside, our communities become imbalanced, weak. Our indigenous elders teach us that the "winter" season of life is part of the wheel which provides balance in our communities.
If we are to reintegrate the elderly into our communities, two things will be required: that we grapple with our busyness and that we grapple with our own deaths. I can't remember the last time I heard a sermon on either of these. I can't recall when they were last brought up in conversation with a sense of challenge. I've heard it said that we love to be busy to avoid the truth that we are going to die. This is not the freedom we proclaim in Christ. Perhaps it is time to become better acquainted with our own busyness and our own death.
In the meantime- visit an elder :)
Approaching the man to ask where he was headed, he veered to the right to get away from me. As he did so, he fell into a puddle and could not get up on his own. As I helped him up into his chair, I assured him I was a priest and would help him get home. This seemed to bring him a little comfort, but home was obviously not where he wanted go this rainy afternoon.
Judging from his medical bracelet, I assumed the man was from the nearby hospital. To my surprise,
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| Singing hymns with my grandfather the week before he died |
It was difficult to make out all my new friend's words, but in those two blocks I learned that he had come over from England in the sixties and studied political science at the University of Minnesota. He went on to teach at St. Paul's College, a place I frequent in my work as chaplain. In the ensuing several minutes, we spoke of international politics, the upcoming mayoral election, and life in England after the war. I felt a little ashamed that I had assumed the man was lost; I was clearly in the presence of a very intelligent man with a fine memory. He spoke of the women in the care home, their average ages, and life at St. Paul's. A former Anglican, he converted to Roman Catholicism because "it was more clearly defined."
The nurse who called me later confirmed my suspicions: the man is an independent academic who almost never receives visitors. His illness has left his body disabled but his mind fully sharp and functioning. He can no longer get out to mass or to university events. He sits alone day after day, hoping he can just make it to the grocery store to buy some shaving cream. In a sense, I dashed that hope for him.
My visit this afternoon highlights something our communities don't often talk about. With all the questions about the future of the Church- debating about euthanasia and same-sex blessings and women in ministry- what is happening to our elders? Is it a symptom of our Church as well as our culture that once a person is no longer physically useful they are cast aside and forgotten, left to die in an institution created for just such people?
To be fair, the Church is often the last to visit forgotten shut-ins. Anglicans and others are particularly good at visiting elderly parishioners and doing monthly services at personal care homes. But it just isn't enough. We must develop a robust theology of aging.
The year before my grandfather died in a personal care home surrounded by friends and family, his dementia had become quite advanced. He looked at my mom when she dropped him off one day and said, "One day they'll put you in a place like this. And I'll be up there laughing (he pointed upward)."
It is true that elder care has come a long way in recent decades. The homes I visited in Colombia were appalling in comparison to our clean and orderly Canadian homes. But still, it is not enough. Prolonged lifespans and new ways of organizing our lives (including childlessness and longer work hours) mean that more and more of our elders are left alone to age and die. This is, without a doubt, a grievance to the Divine who cares for them so deeply. It is a grievance for our culture, which cannot learn from elders shut away in locked facilities and never visited.
Perhaps we send people away, in part at least, because we fear age. We fear the inevitability of growing old and dying. But I would contend that age is as beautiful and vital a part of our life together as youth is. When age is cast aside, our communities become imbalanced, weak. Our indigenous elders teach us that the "winter" season of life is part of the wheel which provides balance in our communities.
If we are to reintegrate the elderly into our communities, two things will be required: that we grapple with our busyness and that we grapple with our own deaths. I can't remember the last time I heard a sermon on either of these. I can't recall when they were last brought up in conversation with a sense of challenge. I've heard it said that we love to be busy to avoid the truth that we are going to die. This is not the freedom we proclaim in Christ. Perhaps it is time to become better acquainted with our own busyness and our own death.
In the meantime- visit an elder :)
