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Somewhere towards the end

July 11, 2024   ·   0 Comments

By Anthony Carnovale

There’s a sign outside of the Lord Dufferin Centre Retirement Residence that’s a little ominous, macabre (maybe, even a little humorous). It reads: Short Term Stays Available. I imagine every senior in Orangeville seeing that sign and shrinking. The residence, ironically enough, is connected to the daycare my children used to attend. I’ve always been fascinated by the juxtaposition: a place where we send our children to be looked after and cared for, sharing space with a place where we send our elders to be looked after until they die.

My grandfather spent the last few years of his life in a retirement residence.

He was a strong, proud man when he was strong and proud. So, it wasn’t easy seeing him in that place. I hated walking through the hallways and seeing bodies, barely alive, crumpled into chairs, forgotten, like tossed sheets of paper that missed the bin.

I’ve never forgotten the face of one of the residents. His eyes were the size of golf balls, and he cried when my father played the accordion for the residents. He couldn’t speak, and looked as if he wanted to say something, maybe sing, maybe plead for just a little more life.

During one visit, I watched my father feed his father. When my father left the room to get paper towels to clean his father’s face, I took my father’s place, fed my grandfather, and realized that one day I’d be doing the same for my father as my son might have to do for me.

My grandfather was 87 years old when he passed. The last 10 years of his life were not easy.

Watching Joe Biden these past few weeks hasn’t been easy. His performance at the debate was a reminder that the only things that age well are wines and cheese. What’s even more difficult to watch is Biden pretending to not be 81 years old — it looks like it hurts, like he’s desperate to reach the end of his thoughts before they go pop, like a bubble.

A Professor of Neurology, in a recent interview with The Free Press, stated that Biden exhibits symptoms of Parkinsonism: “…a masked face, reduced blinking, a stiff and slow gait, difficulty turning.” In a recent radio interview, Biden said that he was proud to have been “the first Black woman to serve with a Black president.” Yup, he said that.

And then there is 76-year-old Donald Trump. He likes to pretend that the age difference between him and Biden is the same difference between most of the women he has dated, or assaulted, in his lifetime.

We are living in some trying times, man. I mean, what happens if one of these guys mistakes the ‘CLEAR’ button for the ‘NUCLEAR’ one?

Too many of us just can’t accept where all of this ends. I mean, think of how hard we fight to hold onto the past. It’s there in every picture we take, every image we look at, every video we watch. Moments that have already happened, moments that we pickle, preserve and archive. Moments that we can’t turn away from. The internet didn’t bring us into the future — it mummified us, instead. How many photos do you have saved to your phone? I dare you to delete them.

My grandfather was old before he stepped foot into that retirement residence. He was a quiet man who said less and less. Our walks took longer. At times, he’d stop, look behind him, and just look. I always imagined he was looking at ghosts.

I watched my grandmother grow old. Her old eyes looked as if she could see right through me (I wouldn’t have put it past her). 

I’m watching my father and mother grow old.

My daughter lost three baby teeth, last week.

My son has started to wear cologne.

When I look into the mirror, I don’t look the way I feel. Some days, there’s hair sprouting from my ears.

(For the record, my wife hasn’t aged a minute since the day we met).

Imagine what the world could look like if we weren’t so afraid of being vulnerable. Imagine if Biden stood up (or was held up) in front of cameras and admitted that he was tired, that he couldn’t give the country what it needed. Imagine if we all simply accepted the finite amount of time and health that we have and used that time and health to make our lives richer, more profound, more meaningful. Imagine if we all stopped pretending that we’re in control.  

In her poem “Blackwater Woods” Mary Oliver writes: “To live in this word, you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go.”

Let it go, Joe. Let it go.


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