If I needed an object lesson in why seniors, long-term care providers and actually, all humans, seem to have such difficulty facing the inevitability of change, I got it recently — in the men’s wear section at my local dying department store.
The situation was desperate, as I’d been asked to attend a fancy party, which almost never happens. So being woefully unprepared, a wardrobe upgrade was essential.
I needed a new pair of dress slacks and a shirt, and gave the dapper young sales professional what I believed were my honest sizes. But the store’s fitting room and its not-so-flattering mirror revealed an entirely different reality.
Sure, I could have accepted the truth and meekly asked for larger options, but instead I embraced the path of denial. Zipping up the pants required one of those devices used to tighten barbed wire fences, and buttoning the shirt and tying a tie caused several chins to burst free like a poorly packed sausage. But I still bought these items and wore them the whole night, even though they felt like Medieval instruments of torture.
Looking back, it was a teaching moment. If I’m filled with this much anguish and denial when I just have to jump up a few unwelcome clothing sizes, how will I accept the adaptations that aging requires? That is to say, what will I do when I can no longer be who I was or do the things I love? Evidence suggests I’ll be embarrassed and noncompliant as I rage against reality.
With a little less pride and a lot more acceptance, I could have actually enjoyed that fancy party, instead of being slowly dimidiated by my pants and strangled by my collar. If pride also keeps me from using a walker, cane, wheelchair or any of the many other accessories of aging that can make life more comfortable, my twilight years could be unpleasant for all concerned.
In other words, if you’re unfortunate enough to have me admitted to your facility, you’ll want to put me in a private room, with a lock on the outside.
