Since her childhood, Julie Morsch had an affection for older people and their colorful stories about the “olden days.” Their vivid memories. Their exciting experiences.
“But I never realized the pain, loneliness and sadness they were feeling,” said Morsch, a Lowell native who now lives in Hinckley, Illinois, just west of Aurora.
She began realizing this only as she got older. And, later in life, when she too would be described as “older” by younger people.
“It seemed overnight,” she said.
Her kids grew up. She became a grandmother. Out of nowhere, an invitation to join AARP arrived in the mail. Her life simply got more wrinkled.
“Still, I was able to get around on my own, pretty much did as I always had,” Morsch said.
Last summer, her perspective dramatically changed. She fell and broke her knee. Surgery was needed, followed by therapy, recovery and lots of patience with the natural healing process.
“I started hearing things like, ‘At your age, you need longer to heal, you may not be able to do this anymore,'” she said. “That hurt.”
What hurt the most was the reaction of younger people when Morsch needed use of a cane, walker and wheelchair.
“I felt I was in the way, that I was of no use,” she said.
Morsch thought to herself, “I wasn’t always like this” — the topic of my recent column on older people and the silent shame of aging in our youth-worshipping society. It’s a cultural scourge that can be found everywhere when you look for it.
I wrote, “Maybe I should have expected it in a hospital setting, where older people congregate like wheelchairs at an entrance.”
Several readers, including Morsch, resonated with this imagery.
“As you said in your beautiful article, those sad faces looking at the floor weren’t always that way,” she wrote via email. “In our busy life, we don’t always see what is going on close to us until we experience it ourselves or know someone who is.”
Morsch began noticing things she never noticed before.
“I spent so much time at doctor appointments and physical therapy, I began to notice canes, walkers, wheelchairs and all the sad, lonely faces,” she said. “Shame on me for not always seeing them.”
“These were vibrant, busy people just like everyone,” she said. “They didn’t want to end up that way, or maybe didn’t ever think they would. It’s just part of life.”
If you live long enough, it’s as inevitable as death.
“We woke up one day and asked ourselves, what happened?!” said Christine P., another reader. “They are caught in a body that won’t or can’t respond any more to their wishes.”
Becoming more “mature” has shown her both the good and bad aspects of being alone, she wrote. She finds solace and joy while working outside in her yard. She calls it her “glorious time.”
“I thank God that once again I’ve made it through a winter, and I await to work in the yard again,” she said. “There are others like me. I appreciate you bringing it to light about others that can’t or won’t take a second or two to include others in their thoughts.
Chuck Nelson, another reader, reflected on the recent experience of losing a close friend and former co-worker named Rudy. Last year, his friend’s health began slipping and his wife placed him in a nursing home for round-the-clock care.
“When I went to see Rudy, I was told to go to the visitors’ room,” Nelson, 64, wrote. “While I was waiting, I found myself sharing the room with a few other residents who were confined to their wheelchairs.”
Nelson took the initiative to say “Hello, how are you?”
Two of the residents acknowledged him. The other two stared at the wall or the floor.
“When they brought Rudy out, he was in a wheelchair,” Nelson said. “I was somewhat taken back.”
This was the first time he ever saw his friend in a wheelchair.
“He didn’t say anything about the wheelchair. I guess it was now part of him and part of his life,” Nelson said. “For some reason, I could not take my eyes off the wheelchair. I felt a little uncomfortable I guess.”
Like most of us, Nelson has visited other long-term care facilities to visit relatives and friends in wheelchairs. Those people, though, were from an older generation.
“But Rudy, heck we were buds!” Nelson wrote. “We drank beer and smoked cheap cigars together. We were invincible!”
Seeing his once-invincible friend in a wheelchair simply blew his mind.
“Funny thing, Rudy and I would listen to John Prine at work,” he said, referring to the late singer-songwriter I mentioned in my previous column.
One of their favorite songs by Prine was “Hello in There,” which I also mentioned.
“Someday I’ll go and call up Rudy, we worked together at the factory,” Prine sings. “What could I say if he asks ‘What’s new?’ Nothing, what’s with you? Nothing much to do.”
The song’s poignant lyrics now offer a new meaning for Nelson.
“For me, I’ll never have that opportunity to say someday I’ll go and call up Rudy, we worked together at the factory,” he said.
In what feels like the blink of an eye, we go from “hello in there” to goodbye forever.
