Being a Bridge for our Elderly Parents

I have been reading a good deal of what people have said about ageing and two quotes resonate particularly strongly with me and I find myself come back to them over and over. Here they are:

Those who love deeply never grow old; they may die of old age, but they die young.

( Sir Arthur Wing Pinero)

In spite of illness, in spite even of the arch enemy, sorrow, one can remain alive long past the usual  date of disintegration if one is unafraid of change, insatiable in intellectual curiosity, interested in big things, and happy in small ways.

(Edith Wharton)

I suspect many of us know of elderly couples who have lived long and and fulfilling lives together ~ maybe 50 or 60 years ~ and then one dies, leaving the survivor with immense sadness and grief.  The wonder often is how the surviving spouse holds on to life and doesn’t slip away from the shock and sheer upset of losing the person who has been so fundamental to his/her life.

This is a context in which I feel that grown-up children can have a major role to play. They are, by definition, a major link between their parents and while nobody will ever fill the place of the partner who has died, the grown-up child  can be a person who helps to keep memories alive, can empathize with the sense of loss because they too are grieving for the loss of the parent. This is a time of heightened emotion for both the surviving parent and the grown-up child and is one in when many layers of life may be peeled back ~ with a sharing of tears, memories of happy times, and exchanges about times spent with the partner/parent who has passed.

The vacuum left by the passing of one elderly parent can be immense but it seems important never to underestimate human resilience, even in the face of illness and what Edith Wharton describes as the arch enemy, sorrow. 

I see grown-up children as being crucial bridges in helping elderly parents, and especially those who have lost their lifelong partner, to adapt to change, retain  intellectual curiosity, be interested in big things and  be happy in small ways.  This is a time for grown-up children to use their imaginations and navigational skills and find the necessary bridges to ensure that their parents can mazimize the quality of  relating to what really inspires them.  This is a time to think of all the senses ~ taste, touch, hearing, seeing, smelling.

The possibilities are endless and ‘quality of life’ is about loving, being loved and knowing that there is always hope of  happiness and the sharing of  precious moments.

Thank You!

Bridge to the World from Tramore, Co,Waterford

Today is the day that that my blog passed the 22,000 hit mark. I really want to thank everyone who has visited my Social Bridge for taking that time out of their precious lives. And to those who have commented, I want you to know how much I appreciate every single word you write.

There is a huge global spread among the visitors to Social Bridge and that pleases me greatly. My hope is that you find what you are looking for here and I would greatly appreciate any suggestions on topics  to which you would like me to direct attention or more attention.

Heart of Gold ~ Everlasting Presence

January 5th, 1981 was a major turning point as it was the day on which the love of my young life was swept away by cancer.  He was in his thirties and, as  many would say, too young to die.

Looking back on that experience, which was my first real encounter with death, I feel that I was very, very fortunate to have had the honour of knowing this man as he was one of those remarkable people who are defined by having what I would call ‘a heart of gold.’  He knew the true meaning of kindness and generosity. A few short months before he was diagnosed with cancer, we were due to meet in Trinity College and I saw him from a distance carrying a bunch of colourful flowers. By the time he reached me, the flowers had disappeared. I asked him if I had been suffering from delusions:

‘No, I had got them for you but I gave them to a girl who was sobbing at Front Gate. She had just heard that her father was dying.’

I have often wondered if the girl remembers getting the flowers from a blonde stranger on that day of angst in her life. I somehow feel that she probably does as such a gesture is rather unusual. But then, he was unusual. He recognised sadness and did something about it in a quiet and gentle way. He was totally in touch with nature and put ‘love’ at the top of his agenda. He loved life and lived it to the full. He knew that a handmade daisy chain could mean far more than diamonds.  He felt he owed life far more than it owed him. He faced death with uncomplaining bravery and on that frosty morning of January 5, 1981, there was a warmth in the sun at dawn, that shone down on me like never before as I wrote my goodbyes in the sand.

Today I dedicate these lines from Brendan Kennelly to a man whose presence still shines down so generously on me in the winter sun:

The good are difficult to see

Though open, rare, destructible;

Always, they retain a kind of youth,

The vulnerable grace

Of a bird in flight,

Content to be itself.

Accomplished master and potential victim,

Accepting what the earth or sky intends.

I think I know one or two

Among my friends.

(from The Good by Brendan Kennelly)

 

Tramore’s Post Office ~ Gatherings from Ireland # 8

The Post Office, Tramore, Co. Waterford

The local Post Office is a real social hub in Ireland. Here in Tramore, the post office is located right in the heart of the town. It is always buzzing and there is a great air of friendliness and camaraderie.  I’m always delighted when there’s a bit of a queue because this is a place where people chat and the banter can be brilliant, especially when a few of the town’s  ’characters’  arrive in at the same time.  Sean, the Postmaster,  is a helpful as they come and has a word for everyone ~ local or visitor.

It is quite amazing to think of all the letters and parcels that arrive and depart from what is such a small physical space. When you think about it, Tramore’s Post Office, like those all over the country, brings all parts of the world together.  There’s something really special about the Post Office at Christmas time. People bearing parcels, lovingly wrapped, and there’s plenty of evidence that ‘real’ Christmas Cards are alive and well.

The Boyne Viaduct ~ Gatherings from Ireland # 6

There are few bridges that evoke more memories for me than the Boyne Viaduct in Drogheda, Co. Louth. Just the other day,  I came across this photograph of it which was taken by my father in the 1970s when we lived in Drogheda.  The Viaduct was designed by Irish civil engineer, Sir John MacNeill, and was constructed in the 1850s. It was the seventh bridge of its kind in the world when built and considered one of the wonders of the age.

The Boyne Viaduct, Drogheda, Co. Louth

What makes the Viaduct so special for me is that it was a key part of my journey to school for five years in Drogheda. I had a grand view of this majestic bridge each day, as I cycled to and from school  ~ morning, lunchtime and evening! It was a continuing source of wonder to me all those years.

A friend of mine, Lorna, lived right beside the Viaduct and that was the meeting point for a gang of us in our grey flannel uniforms and wine cardigans as we journeyed together on our bicycles.

A Picture’s Worth a Thousand Words

There is a long story behind this photograph but what I see now is the importance of  truly appreciating people with hearts of gold whose lives touch mine.  What do you see?

I Love being Me!

Tramore Beach, Co. Waterford

The weather here in Tramore wasn’t the greatest this morning but I just had to go for my daily swim in the sea.  The sea had a grey look about it and a cold wind was swirling round the Ladies’ Slip but I had my usual mad urge to race into the waves.

Just as I was about to whip off my clothes two women came walking up the slip. They looked like a mother and daughter. They were linking arms and the younger woman stopped and said: ‘ I’d love to be you.’  She turned to her ‘mother’ and said: ‘This lady is going for a swim.’  The older woman nodded approvingly and every single  instinct told me that this pair had shared many years swimming in the sea in or around Tramore.

We didn’t dally and I ran into the welcoming waves with such a sense of happiness. Yes, it was cold but the waves were all playful and didn’t give me a minute to feel anything but exuberance.

When I got back to  the car, all glowing and invigorated, the two women beamed at me from theirs  which was parked with a perfect view of the Bay.

They knew exactly how I was feeling and I think it’s called ‘Freedom.’  Remember the Fortunes and Freedom Come Freedom Go?

Retail Therapy ~ The Art of Selling.IE

The other day I raced into PC World in Waterford just before closing to buy an ink cartridge for my moody printer which had packed in despite my pleas to battle on for just four more pages.

Even though ink cartridges all look the same to me, I didn’t expect a woman who was stacking shelves to spot how addled I was before I’d even put my glasses on to start into my search for the Code Number I never seem to be able to find in my bag when I get to the shop.

‘Do you want a hand . ie?’  came her smiling voice.

She rounded the shelf and I handed her the crumpled piece of paper with the scribble I was trying to decipher.

‘Ah, you’d be google-eyed.com looking for these things,’ she said, handing me the familiar box.

I thanked her.com and went to the checkout with a big smile on my face.

Now, what a difference she made to my evening and that of everyone who had anything to do with me!

Níl aon tinteán mar do thinteán féin

In the last few days I’ve been thinking more and more about what it means to be Irish. In other words, I’ve been thinking about this more or less all the time, especially in the context of lively discussions about The Gathering 2013.  The Gathering - The Gathering Ireland 2013

Well,  call me nostalgic or whatever you like, but a while ago I was down on my hands and knees lighting the fire and I could see the old  Irish saying: Níl aon tinteán mar do thinteán féin  (Translated:  There’s no fireside like your own fireside) dancing in the flames as they blazed up the chimney.

The fire was a fundamental gathering point  in Irish homes up until recent decades when central heating, on a timer, tended to take over in many houses and apartments.  The fire came to be seen by many as hard work and mess.

I just can’t see the fire in that light. For me, it’s all about a ritual with which I grew up. Last person going to bed had the job of raking the ashes to make them less likely to be still alight in the morning.  The old pile of newspapers in the corner served very useful purposes; open up a paper and scoop the ashes from the grate into it. Make a dash outside with this parcel and douse it in water if there were any signs of singeing from a rogue spark still full of life.

Setting the fire was an art taught to me by my late father. Tightly crumpled newspaper at the base, a tower of kindling woven to let the air get through and then carefully placed broken-up peat briquettes as the top layer to get the fire going.

How many times did I hear the words, You might think that holding a sheet of paper against the fireplace is the answer to everything if the fire isn’t taking off, but you’ll know all about it when the paper catches fire so watch it, my dear girl!

And how about the time we entered a Bord na Mona  Bord na Móna slogan competition about Peat Briquettes when I was about eight! Rhymes were Mother’s forte and we spent about a week playing around with all sorts of possibilities. ‘ You’ll have no regrets with Peat Briquettes….’  and we didn’t!  We won a wooden rocking chair, with brown tweed cushions, that lived by the fire for years and then spent twenty years with me in various flats in Dublin before it finally stopped rockin’.

But, in spite of all the changes, the fire is still part of my life. It is a gathering point in more senses than one!

Reach for the Sky ~ The Significance of Reading in Childhood

It is amazing how one photograph can act as a memory bridge, sparking off a flood of thoughts and connections.  I was out in the woods early  this morning and just loved the November view through the trees. Back home,  the caption that immediately came to me when looking at the image was ‘Reach for the Sky.’

This had a familiar ring to it and out of the depths of my memory, Douglas Bader’s biography Reach for the Sky  by Douglas Birkhill came back to me. Douglas Bader was an RAF pilot who lost both his legs in a flying accident in the 1930s in England.  He went on to become a leading figure in advocating for  people with disabilities.

I read his Douglas Bader’s  biography many, many  times as a child and was always extremely moved by his  spirit and  work in highlighting the needs of people with disabilities.

I find it hard to believe that a PhD later on the ‘Social Experiences of People with Physical Disabilities in Ireland,’ and years and years of research in the field of disability, that I could possibly have forgotten Douglas Bader in the years between childhood and  today.

Douglas Bader

Reflecting on it all now, I have no doubt that reading about Douglas Bader as a child was  a significant factor in steering my career.  Few other books had such a profound effect on me. I know The Diary of Anne Frank was another that I read over and over as well!

I wonder now how many other people’s career choices or approaches to life  have been influenced, either consciously or subconsciously, by books that had a major impact on them in their formative years?