WHERE TO DIE

Ever read The Random Friday Question in The Washington Post (it’s actually under the title of Raw Fisher by Marc Fisher). Sometimes he has the most thought provoking ideas.

Today, for instance, his question was Where to Die. Well, I’ve given it a lot of thought, only because I’m a firm believer in families. The entire concept of putting a family member, who is elderly, mentally ill, disabled or terminally ill, in a nursing home facility really goes against my core belief of taking care of one’s own family.

In the Old Country, they did not have that luxury. When the generations before ours came to America, they must have been appalled at the thought of growing old, witnessing what Americans do to their beloved parents and grandparents when they become incontinent, or when they cannot speak in complete sentences, or when they shuffle when they walk, and have tremors as they lift the fork to their toothless mouths. How terrified it must have been for them, our grandparents, and our parents, wondering what would become of them, when they could no longer do for themselves?

My grandmother lived in a little village outside of Milan, Italy, until she came here to America as a teenager, alone. She made her way by cleaning and cooking. She spoke only Italian, Classical Northern Italian. She was very cultured, very intelligent. She knew all of the operas because she used to sneak into La Scala opera house and listen to the opera singers. She knew so much about politics, what was happening all over Europe politically, and she knew about ancient history, art, and great literature. She taught herself to read and write and speak English. After my grandfather died at a young age, my grandmother lived alone in New Hampshire, enduring the bitter harsh winters, and led an isolated and independent life. She lived alone for twenty-three years.

The day came when, after a serious fall, she could no longer live independently. My parents brought her to Massachusetts, to a nursing home within walking distance of their house. I don’t understand why. My mother and father were only in their late fifties, and they had an extra bedroom. They lived on this beautiful pond. My grandmother would have loved spending the rest of her life with them.

My mother is widowed, and is ninety-three. I’ve been taking care of her for the past five years. I have assistance from my son and a nurse. We really love living here on the beautiful pond. My son and I came here so that she will be able to live- and die- here, with her family, in her own home.