At Least They're Committed

Sitting here listening to Ms. Charlotte yell “Hello!!! Hello!!! Hello!!! Mom, MOM I know you’re there!!!!” into the phone. Poor Charlotte. She’s five offices down from me and there’s never any question when she’s trying to deal with her parents.

I’m quite lucky. My parents have taken good care of themselves and are in excellent physical condition. At nearly 70, they’re showing no signs of slowing. My dad was at the archery range when I called him for Father’s Day. He couldn’t talk too long because “the guys” were leaving him behind.

How important is it to have friends? Well, let’s just say that my folks are as sharp and sassy as I’ve ever known them and I attribute it to continued social interaction with and without each other. Although my mom is  more content to stay at home than Dad is, the friends she has and that they share keep her sharp and challenged.

My brother and his partner, Carol, and my sister and her husband live close to my folks. I’m four hours away. Were my parents to only interact with each other on a daily basis they’d rely more and more on my siblings as their “outside” interaction and they’d begin to slip. Seen it happen too many times before. Kind of like when I was writing obits in my earlier life. When the old lady would die first the old man was quick to follow. When the old man died first, the old lady went on a cruise with friends. When a younger wife died, the husband would jump right back into marriage usually with dire consequences; when the younger husband died the wife went on a cruise with friends.

Good for you Dad and Mom! I’m sure proud of you!

Plus, um, well, thank you. I mean, I’m not really good with old people: the drool, the diapers, the smell, the comments they feel they’re entitled to make just because their bodies (not minds or souls, mind you) have been around longer than you. The purple toenails laced with yellow and green fungus, the bad breath, the vacant eyes. The criticism toward our parenting skills, the cynicism toward youth, the unwillingness to jot down their stories so their children’s children’s children can get a glimpse into their family history. Bring on Dr. Kevorkian! (What every happened to him anyway?)

I’m probably doing one of those self-fulfilling prophecy things, aren’t I? Another 40 years from now I’ll smell and drool and nobody’s going to want to come see me. Oh well, maybe by then there’ll be a pill (like cyanide perhaps) to help take care of that!