When There Is Any Question About the "Purpose" of the Elderly

My neighbor, Miriam, is dying.  I have lived next door to her for 25 years.  She is 97 and now spends most of her time in bed.  There is some kind of abdominal tumor, but with a history of congestive heart failure and her age, no extreme measures are indicated.

            Hospice care started last week, but Miriam’s devoted daughter continues to come over several times a day, and she or her son spend each night.  Miriam is well cared for.  

Miriam reminds me of my mother, who died last year at the age of 90.  They are of the “can’t complain” generation.  They grew up in a time when life’s trials seemed to strengthen people and made them appreciate the basics more.   And they grew up in a time when their own amusement did not seem the focal point of their lives.

Miriam has always been a lovable, good-humored woman, appreciative of the little favors one does for an older neighbor and clever in her commentary.  During the year I wrote my dissertation I sought refuge in pruning during my breaks. She must have noticed, because one day as I walked into the yard, pruning shears in hand, she shouted from her porch, “Look out fuchsias, here she comes again!”

But now she is often confused.  She says she feels like her brain is evaporating and sometimes says she wishes she could die.  I know my mother felt that way near the end of her life.  She was never self pitying or maudlin in these declaration, nor is Miriam. 

They were both great readers until eyesight failed and then each found other sources of pleasure and purpose, until even those had faded.

When my mother needed more care in the last year of her life, she lived in the Good Samaritan Center. The staff was attentive and respectful and I will always be grateful to them.  My mother had spent her life as a nurse.  She was renowned for her goodness and at the center some of that was returned to her.

Like Miriam, my mother wondered, “What’s my purpose now? I’m ready to go.” I never wanted my mother to endure any pain, but as long as she was comfortable I wanted her to stay.  At times I knew that was selfish, but only those who’ve been in this situation, understand the comfort in making someone you love more comfortable.  Part of her purpose was to give me the opportunity to feel that I could still give to her.

One day I visited during bath time and the young aid asked if I wanted to come in.    By then my mom was just a fragile little creature. Her bones showed through her translucent skin.  The young woman was starting nurses training in the fall, and she was so tender and gentle as she bathed my mother that I felt like I was observing a sacrament. 

            I left that day even more convinced of my mother’s purpose at this time in her life.  What she was giving was the opportunity for others to express love and care.   To this day I am comforted by that memory and by memories of brushing her hair, putting lotion on her hands and telling her stories of her life that she could barely follow and had long ago forgotten.

We are such a fast –paced, product oriented society that we have a skewed concept of purpose. Miriam can no longer shout clever things from her porch, or tell me stories of her travels to Sumatra.  Even her basic pleasures are fading with the loss of eyesight and appetite, but I hope at some level she can appreciate that she does have an important purpose. She is here for us now in a different way.  Not to dofor us, but to allow us the time and opportunity to express our love.  Someday when she is no longer here, I will be grateful that the purpose of her last months was fulfilled.