Dialogue: Look of joy on a lined old face makes it all bearable

By ELEANOR BLACK

The thought of getting old terrifies me. I'm scared of turning into a dimmer version of myself - someone who is slower, shorter, less energetic, someone I won't recognise in the mirror.

Most of all, I worry about what will happen if I can't look after myself and have to rely on other people to do it for me.

You're probably looking at the little picture that accompanies this column and thinking that I have many decades to go before any of this becomes an issue. But, you see, I am getting a preview as I watch my elderly father struggle with the tragedy of ageing.

And what I am seeing is terrible.

My gorgeous Dad has multi-infarct dementia, which means he is slowly losing his memory because of a series of tiny strokes.

The man who taught me to tie my shoelaces and gave me his love of reading relies on other people to dress him, take him for walks and put him to bed.

He left home on Christmas Eve 1999, aged 79, and now lives in his second rest-home. My mother visits him every day and has basically let go of any life outside of caring for my father.

She does this willingly because she worries about what would happen to him if she weren't around. Most likely my father, who used to be a surgeon and is accustomed to people bending to his will, would stage a series of "emergencies" if he didn't see her twice a day, once before lunch and again before dinner.

The people who look after Dad are wonderful. They are kind, they can laugh about a job which must be heartbreaking and although they are busy, they always seem to have a hug in reserve for the resident who needs it.

Unfortunately, the same wasn't true of the first home to which we entrusted my father's care. He was left to his own devices and, given that he is quite childlike in his behaviour, that meant he got into blazing arguments with other muddled residents, and ran away.

Now he is in a secure facility, which means he hasn't yet figured a way out. Although many facets of his personality are blunted, my Dad retains a wonderful sense of humour and every now and then he looks around at the functional furniture, the plastic flowers and the other confused folk with whom he lives and he says, "This is a tacky motel."

There are people who live with my Dad who don't get visitors every day, every week or even every month. They are the ones for whom I feel the deepest sadness. Their relatives turn up at Christmas and birthdays. The rest of the year they trail behind other family groups, hoping to be included.

My mother, the most frequent visitor of all, has her own fan club. She gets mistaken for someone's beloved daughter, an old girlfriend, a former work colleague. Sometimes my Dad gets jealous and has to remind everyone who she has come to visit.

I can understand why families have a hard time summoning the courage to see their aged relatives. Going to a rest-home is extremely sad. No one who lives there really wants to be there. Punching in the security code and walking through the door is like walking into your worst nightmare of what the future may hold.

Brittle little people with crooked backs and weak limbs walk in the garden restlessly, looking for someone who isn't there. Or, worse, they sit in the lounge watching cartoons on television, not understanding what they are seeing.

They may not recognise the people who walk up to them with hopeful smiles. Daughters and sons with lumps in their throats may be taken for kind strangers who happen to have brought ginger slices and new socks.

But it gets easier with each visit as you become accustomed to the environment and come to terms with the awful reality that brings you there. Seeing the look of joy on the face of the person who sits by the door waiting for you to arrive is more than worth it.

I can only hope that when I am an old, bowed woman with grey hair and cloudy eyes, I will be able to afford decent care and have a family to visit me every day.