Elizabeth Berg - Ill Be Seeing You: A Memoir

I am seventy years old. I am astonished to be writing this, as doubtful of the truth of it as if I had just written, I am a peacock. I remind myself of the two old ladies (as I thought of them then) I saw in the grocery store one day, their carts angled companionably next to each other. They were enjoying a nice chat, and as I passed them, I heard one say to the other, I still feel like a girl inside.

As do I. I still feel like a girl inside, someone with grass stains on her knees and a roller-skate key around her neck. Someone who catches minnows in a jar and practices kissing on a pillow and finds joy in the smallest of things: the weight of a parakeet sitting on my finger; the smell of sun on grass; donning new shoes for the first day of school.

The outside me is another story. I have gotten to the most-days-are-good-some-days-are-bad portion of my own show. I am used to having various aches and pains. I am used to not having flexibility or good balance. I am used to losing a word or a name, then eventually finding itor not. Losing objects, then finding them. Or not. I am not at the point where I find my hairbrush in the refrigerator, but I suppose its possible that that, too, is coming.

Its been gradual, these changes Ive experienced, and so it has been merciful. I have adjusted to them pretty well, I think, and in fact oftentimes I find symptoms of aging less painful than funny. Just last night, a friend told me about an eighty-something friend of hers saying he was great except he couldnt get up off the toilet seat. We found that hysterical. He did, too.

Mostly, I feel grateful to be the age that I am now. You lose some things, growing older, but you gain other, more important things: tolerance, gratitude, perspective, the unexpected pleasure in doing things more slowly. Its not a bad trade, except that you are increasingly aware that your number will be up sooner rather than later. I know that its probably time for me to see a lawyer, to have The Talk with my daughters about how I want my worldly goods divided, how I want a pod burial in which my ashes will nourish a tree. Im putting that talk off, though. I still feel like a girl inside.

I think as long as a parent is alive, its easier to feel young. Its easy to feel that in some respects you are still being taken care of, even when it becomes more you who takes care of them. But parents dont stay alive forever, and the period before they die can be uniquely difficult. What helped me most in dealing with my own parents fading was to hear what others were going through. And so:

This book is a diary of my parents decline. When I experienced them losing power and independence, as well as the home they were loath to leave (to the extent that I did; since I was the faraway daughter, my sister did nearly all the heavy lifting), I learned a lot about them, and just as much about myself.

I learned that the frustration and anger that come up in these situations go both ways: youre frustrated and/or angry with your parents and theyre frustrated and/or angry with you. I saw how deep the despair can be in realizing that you can no longer properly care for yourself, but I also saw how accepting the love and help that are offered can foster a whole new level of appreciation and understanding between parents and children. I learned that in the middle of what can feel like a gigantic, painful mess, there can suddenly be the saving grace of humor or the salve of a certain kind of insight.

I also learned that I am at the in-between place, having cared for my parents and now soon to need help from my own children, no doubt. Im not yet old, but Im certainly getting there, and I am more aware every day of what can befall me, my partner, and my friends, all of whom, I think, still feel inside like the girls or boys they used to be. So when I consider the story of my parents failing, I am picking up stones on the path to put into my pocket. I hope what I learned from them will help me and my children.

But I have to say that the biggest thing I learned in caring for my parents is that their life together, despite its hardships and frustrations, was a love storydeeply, wholly, and completely. It was the kind of love story you hardly ever see or hear about anymore. I was privileged to bear witness to it. I am bearing witness to it still.