My friend’s dad is 94. He is spry and alert and loves to eat. But they won’t let him. Everyone else is cutting out pieces of his life to prolong it by making him miss it. The dimensions of what is allowed gets smaller by the day.
He tells me how tough it is to keep dad away from cold cuts and cokes and cheese. All the wrong things.
I am wide-eyed at the arrogance of youth (he is 65). I say, he’s 94, let him do what he wants, what is wrong with you, this is misplaced love, he has earned the right to have cheese in his chicken mortadella, where do you fit into it.
Easy for you to judge it, he says, but then then he feels ill because he overdoes it and he gets indigestion and then we have to run around.
And I wonder sometimes, after a certain age what percentage is there in whittling away the quality of life.
Others telling you what is good for you. Organising the life you are missing, stopping you from the things you want to do when there only grains of sand left in the hourglass.
Sure, keep an eye on the overdoing but let go of the reins. Let him enjoy what he likes, most of us won’t even get there. You are not making life any better by taking the fun out of it.
That’s why sometimes the ‘hospice’ concept makes sense. They let you do what you enjoy, even smoke. Go on, knock yourself out, have a double cheeseburger, slurp a coke, enjoy yourselves before the night comes riding in.