Monday, December 31, 2018

Mr. D.

When we go to the nursing home to visit our friend who is convalescing from his terrible accident there, we always pass by a room when an old man sits in the dark.

My husband recognized the name right away. When he graduated from highschool 43 years ago, he began his machinist career at a small shop. An elderly man was retiring from there. It was the old man in the room.

So we stopped in, and the man remembered Tim right away. His mind is still sharp and active. He is surrounded by the birthday balloons he got for his 100th birthday.

He's a lonely soul. His wife just died in the bed next to him. "I don't know how you get over something like that," he said to us. I answered that when someone has been such a big part of your life for such a very long time, it leaves a big hole in your life when they are gone. He nodded in agreement.

He tells us that he has lost two of his sons. One died in a fiery truck crash years ago. Another died in his sleep a couple years back. He didn't see his 100th birthday as anything to celebrate, really.

We visited a bit, and when we left, he said, "Come back anytime. It gets lonely here."

I think we will.

4 comments:

Kelly said...

The women in my extended family seem to have the gene for longevity (well, with the exception of my mother and my sister, and I think those were both flukes... or maybe due to the odd, but not-so-odd reasons my doctor brother postulates) and I'm not so sure it's such a good thing. Unlike your new friend, at least two of them had their minds start slipping in the latter years and they were quite aware of it. Which is worse... getting old and keeping your mind while losing your body or losing your mind while staying healthy? I can honestly say at this point in life, the idea of another 30-40 years doesn't sound all that appealing.

But... I'm trusting in those Kingdom Purposes. God has a plan.

Debby said...

You know Kelly, I agree wholeheartedly. My biggest fear was that my body would out live my mind. Then I met a woman in a coma who had some amount of awareness, and it made me feel physically sick to take care of her. What if I was hurting her? She could not tell me. It reminded me of an old book, "Johnny Got His Gun". I decided it would be equally as awful to have my brain outlive my body. If I can choose, I choose to go all at once.

Bob said...

My dad, at 83, closed his eyes one night and never opened them again. He had raked his yard that day after playing nine holes of golf. That evening he built a fire in his fireplace and sat by it with a friend who had dropped by. The friend looked at him mid sentence and noticed his closed eyes. His very full life was over just like that and I think it was a splendid way for him to go.

Debby said...

Yes. If we all had a chance to choose, I think that would be the way to leave.