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Bi-Polar - The Thin Edge of Dignity

Senior man sitting on a wheelchair with caregiver
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I’m one of 40 or so elders – I could say seniors – equally nice sounding, but without the gravitas -  or mature– nah, that’s for movie ratings – or, more scornfully, geezers,  or wickedly demeaning  – old farts.  I guess you could say all-of-the-above. After decades of achievements and societal contributions, and professional accomplishments (and being a bit of a pompous ass ) with  a smidgen of pride,  I prefer the politically correct, solemn, and dignified first word choice -  who reside in an Assisted Living Facility (ALF.).

We are nonagenarians, octogenarians, septuagenarians, a few not yet on Medicare, and one centenarian +.

However, when I look around our hallowed halls - and dining room – I see smooth-textured faces, absent of shriveled wrinkles, upper arms without shaking pouches where biceps and triceps should be, necks that don’t resemble wiggling rooster wattles – in short young people.

We “…arians” are assisted through our ADLs (Activities of Daily Living) by those young enough to be our grand or great grandchildren.

Isn’t that how it should be?

Shouldn’t we be part of the “village” that it takes to assist us in our senescence (similar to the “village” that it takes to raise a child?)  Shouldn’t we have one in our lineage hold our hand along the path to oblivion? As the diapers of an infant applied by a parent metamorphose into the Depends of an elder, shouldn’t they be applied by the child who is now the parent of a child who is the grandchild of the elder who needs succor?

As I said above, that’s how it should be.

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