Assisted Living

Assisted Living?

I am not too much of a couch potato, but I am leaning more that way every day.  I caught myself repeating a simple mantra of three Rs this week - a mantra that reorders the universe into a harmonically converged cosmos of meaning: Recliner, Remote and Rolaids. Now I'm not the guy in  underwear with a beer and a six pack, reeling under the influence of testosterone that just sits in the recliner, hogs the remote and eats Rolaids like candy.  And I'm not into games either - not a Monopoly man who thinks life is just a game in which you go around the board every day, pass go at midnight and collect another 24 hours. 


That's no doubt a bit harsh. But there are people who can't get out of their La-Z-Boys although they'd like to. They're people who've lived strong, active lives, but who now need to move - on the advice of children and friends - to a place where they can get assistance. Not a nursing home. Not an old folks home, not the poor house, but an complex of cozy apartments staffed by nurses, cooks and recreation directors.  I had to put my parents in one this past week.  

This geriatric condo I found are for people like one elderly woman who ate with us in the community dining hall the first evening there. Mildred once held her family together like matriarchal glue. She orchestrated the holiday dinners, the house renovations and the family vacations. She taught her daughters how to play the piano and sew a hemstitch. She navigated her family through two wars, one house fire and the slow death of her husband. She baked biscuits that probably melted in your mouth. She wore pastel suits with matching handbags to church every Sunday. She juggled membership in two bridge clubs, a church prayer circle, her college alumnae association, and the hospital "pink lady" auxiliary.  But one day she slipped in the kitchen and broke her hip. From then on, her life was a straight decrescendo from allegretto to adagio.

For a while her daughters covered the grocery shopping and doctor appointments. But they had their own lives to juggle, too: husbands with high blood pressure, children with marriage problems, grandchildren too spoiled, their own bills to pay, their own homes to maintain, their own health problems to nurse. 
So now Mildred's at "Morningside," or "Spring House," or "Courtyard Manor," or "Cascade Village," or "Marble Towers," or something.  A cheery place where there's still a lot of living to do and you can reward yourself after 80-plus years of workaday by letting others wait on you hand and foot. Aging happens. We're gonna need help, perhaps sooner than later.

What I sometimes forget, however, is that none of us goes through life unassisted.  Our culture glorifies rugged independence and individualism, and every once-in-a-while I need to be reminded that none of us goes it alone. I have been assisted from the cradle and will to my grave. Countless people - my parents, teachers, friends, pastors, neighbors, employers - have helped me along the way. So, that I might need some special assistance late in life, is no embarrassment. People have been helping me all along.

Life on earth is "assisted living" whether I know it or not. To think otherwise is to be guilty of weapons-grade stupidity. Assisted living is the only way I can get through life. There is no such thing as independent living. It's a myth. Yet, as true as this is, I find it hard to ask for help.

But I have to face it. I've tried independent living and found it to be dangerous if not deadly. 

That's why folks from other states are warned not to travel on the backroad of Mississippi. Ever heard of disappearing without a trace and winding up on a work farm? (FYI - I'm from Mississippi - just giving you a little "assistance" for your next tour through this beautiful state.)


A few others?

That's why women are encouraged to be careful when traveling or walking alone in the city.
That's why children are given a buddy when taking field trips to the zoo.
That's why God gave Adam and Eve to each other, because God knew it was not good for us to be alone.
That's why mentoring is so cool.
That's why mountain climbers never climb alone.
That's why lifeguards are posted around swimming areas.
That's why police officers patrol our neighborhoods.

Why even pretend to live "independently?"

I wish the administrators of assisted living facilities to be as faithful to those who depend upon them as God is faithful to us.  God lives up to his promises. When I need spiritual assistance it is readily available. When I need strength, it is mine for the asking. When I need wisdom, I'm invited to ask in faith without doubting (James 1:6). When I need forgiveness...well you get the idea.  

 
The place where my folks now reside actually has a Church Service like most.  I am going to call it "The Church of Assisted Living."  Just hope my folks will head to the church as fast as they moved their walkers this week to visit the foot doctor who stopped by to clip toenails and chisel bunions.