Will you still love me, when I’m 96?

 

Will you still love me, when I’m 96?

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Michelle’s mother, and our friend, fell and broke her other hip. Jane is 96 years old.

It was only three or four years ago that Jane fell and broke a hip. Wasn’t easy but she recovered. Surgery is extremely high risk for this woman. It was risky then and is even more so now. Jane has been in the hospital several days, waiting while certain medicines leach out of her body.

Surgery is not our only worry. Our small hospital, which we are fortunate to have, is staffed by excellent doctors some resident, some on call from Guadalajara. Like many other places, nurses are in short supply. Presently, there has been only one nurse on night duty and all the beds are filled.

Family shuffles hours around the clock to be on night duty in Jane’s room, to help with nursing chores but also for language interpretation.

Rock and hard place comes to mind. What is the alternative? Is there an alternative? Jane understands the danger, as does her family, and all have agreed to the surgery.

I’m selfish. I don’t want to be 96. But, we don’t know, do we? Some of us friends, out here on the periphery, we think about and talk about the “what ifs”. We know we have today but tomorrow hides in the Great Unknown.

Recently (and frequently) I update my will and wishes. I don’t have much so that chore is relatively simple. I’ve purchased and paid for my entire death plan, all laid out in plain Spanish, on paper with a Funeral place in town.

Yet, I’ve hobbled around the block more than one wrap. I’ve seen what can happen. I’ve absolutely nothing of any monetary value, by choice. I have a list of designated recipients of this and that, should said recipients care.

As carefully thought out and as detailed as my plans are, I know that when I depart this earthly plane, my wishes will be thwarted.

It will go something like this.

“Mom said I can have this little blue plastic pencil sharpener.”

“You can’t take that. I gave that little blue plastic pencil sharpener to Mom for her birthday when I was nine. It is mine.”

“You did not, did not, you dumbhead. You always try to claim everything.”

“Did too. I paid ten cents. I bought it at the little store that used to be on the corner on Front Street. Mom said it was the best gift she ever got and just exactly what she wanted. So there!”

From this little imaginary scenario, it is a very short distance from name-calling to hair-pulling, to fisticuffs, to litigation, to the feuding Hatfields and the McCoys. All over items of no value, no sentiment. I’ve watched it happen. More than once.

Think not? That kind of ugly would never happen in my loving family, you say?

As my Aunt Mary, who lived just short of 100, used to say, “It’s pretty to think that way.”

By the way, the blue plastic pencil sharpener, that I bought myself years ago, is in my top desk drawer on the left, should you need to sharpen a pencil.

Michelle just phoned with good news. Jane is out of surgery. The doctor said everything went well. Now the hard work begins. Recovery!

We are breathing giant sighs of relief. My shoulders feel lighter. We all agree, Jane is a tough old bird.

Today is a gift. Jane survived the rigors of surgery. The air is full of butterflies. Dozens of baby hummingbirds are flitting between the bottlebrush tree and the lantana bush. My first hollyhock shouted into bloom with pink flowers. The jacaranda is unfurling its purple umbrella. We have a lot to love.

Next morning update: Jane is hungry.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

End of March

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________