The Contentment of Extreme Old Age
Mar. 20th, 2019 07:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elfsI had the pleasure the other day of talking to a 91 year old woman about her immanent death.
Omaha and I have season tickets to the Pacific Northwest Ballet, and last Saturday we went to the "Director's Choice" performance. Because they're season tickets we always have the same seats, and this time as I sat down the olderly woman to my left said, "Oh! You made it on time this time!"
It was a rightful twitting, as last time Omaha and I were an hour late to the more classical The Sleeping Beauty, and missed Act I entirely. Act I was so precisely an hour long that we walked in and took our seats, the only thing seemingly amiss being that nobody asked for our tickets, so it wasn't until intermission that we figured out we'd missed the Introduction and The Prophecy parts of the performance.
"That's fair," I said. "Good to see you again."
"It is!" she agreed. "I don't know how many more season of this I'll be attending."
"I'm sure it'll be plenty."
"I'm not so sure," she said. "I'm 91. My ma died at 93. She had a lunch, they lay down and that was it."
"Well, at least it sounds like it was peaceful."
"It was! I hope I go like that. I'm just glad that I didn't get dementia. So many people do, you know."
I shuddered. "I know. That's a terrifying thought."
At that point the performance started. But she was remarkably sanguine about the whole thing. Sharp as a tack, the only thing slowing her down was her cell phone. "Why can't they make it obvious? ABC. My phone is always AB then X then Z then C." Other than that, life seemed to be treating her well. Her "kid" ("I shouldn't call him that, he's 52!"— my age) drives her to the ballet from her home in South King County.
I can only hope I'm that content, and sanguine, about my impending demise, and I can only hope that it comes 40 years from here and now.
Omaha and I have season tickets to the Pacific Northwest Ballet, and last Saturday we went to the "Director's Choice" performance. Because they're season tickets we always have the same seats, and this time as I sat down the olderly woman to my left said, "Oh! You made it on time this time!"
It was a rightful twitting, as last time Omaha and I were an hour late to the more classical The Sleeping Beauty, and missed Act I entirely. Act I was so precisely an hour long that we walked in and took our seats, the only thing seemingly amiss being that nobody asked for our tickets, so it wasn't until intermission that we figured out we'd missed the Introduction and The Prophecy parts of the performance.
"That's fair," I said. "Good to see you again."
"It is!" she agreed. "I don't know how many more season of this I'll be attending."
"I'm sure it'll be plenty."
"I'm not so sure," she said. "I'm 91. My ma died at 93. She had a lunch, they lay down and that was it."
"Well, at least it sounds like it was peaceful."
"It was! I hope I go like that. I'm just glad that I didn't get dementia. So many people do, you know."
I shuddered. "I know. That's a terrifying thought."
At that point the performance started. But she was remarkably sanguine about the whole thing. Sharp as a tack, the only thing slowing her down was her cell phone. "Why can't they make it obvious? ABC. My phone is always AB then X then Z then C." Other than that, life seemed to be treating her well. Her "kid" ("I shouldn't call him that, he's 52!"— my age) drives her to the ballet from her home in South King County.
I can only hope I'm that content, and sanguine, about my impending demise, and I can only hope that it comes 40 years from here and now.
