In September and November 2010 I lost two old friends. One was in his nineties and died unexpectedly after a stomach operation. (Or at least, as unexpectedly as possible after ninety.) The other was, like me, in her eighties. A very dear friend for many years, she fell and hit her head one day and died just a few days afterwards.
When people die suddenly, even if they're old, it's a shock. In my experience though, people start looking for ways to feel better about the loss. "He'd had a good life" they say. Or "at least she didn't get ill and suffer for years." And there's certainly something to be said for that outlook.
I have another old and dear friend who has recently been diagnosed with Alzheimers. She's a year older than me and started losing her faculties about two years ago. At first she would simply repeat an anecdote. The moment she recounted it, she'd say it again. It was clear she had no idea she'd just told me the same story. It was a shock when it started. What on earth was happening to her? She'd always been so bright. After that she began to lose her memory for lots of things and muddle dates and times up. If I invited her round for a drink or to dinner, she might turn up on the wrong day, or call to ask me to remind her when she should be coming round.
Then she began to talk about her mother and father, long dead, as if they were still alive. She started to mislay and lose things and she'd say: "Oh that's my mother -she's taken my make-up again." I'd gently explain that her mother had been dead for a long time and she'd seem a bit shocked but then carry on with what she was doing.
Alzheimer's is obviously a progressive disease and though I didn't know much about it before, I saw it changing her behaviour and getting worse. She had always taken great care of her appearance but started to neglect it without seeming to realise that she hadn't washed her hair or hadn't put her lipstick on. She got progressively confused, frustrated and tearful about everyday things and sometimes I'd call round and find her crying. Once, she invited me to tea and put a plate of bread and paté on the table - but it wasn't paté, it was cat food. Now, although that may sound funny it wasn't because she was unaware of what she'd done and couldn't understand what the problem was when I explained it to her.
I also worried a bit about her beloved cat as I wasn't sure she was remembering to feed it regularly.
Eventually she had 'carers' who came in twice a day. There are all sorts of common sense things, apparently, that English carers can't do these days. They told me they couldn't wash her hair or do her make-up or change her sheets. For over five months - I think they said six months in total - they didn't change her sheets. I think that's scandalous. They were paid a fortune but the excuse was that they didn't have "the right" to go into her bedroom and change the sheets unless she asked them to. Something like that anyway. Common sense should tell the authorities that if you have a woman in her 80s with Alzheimers people sent to help, and paid to help, should take charge, take responsibility, and change the bedclothes.
She began to look progressively dishevelled and no wonder. I used to drive her down to the hairdresser before I had to give up driving, so at least her hair was washed and cut.
Eventually she had a few episodes where she was found wandering in Stoke Park or in Guildford and she had a few falls and after spending time in hospital she was put in a home in Wimbledon. In her lucid moments she told me, often, that she didn't want to leave her home and go into a 'care' home. But in the end she had no choice.
For many people my age I think that's the sort of thing we least want to experience. Toppling over and dying or having a heart attack and dying, are not pleasant thoughts but most of the people I know, of my age, tend to agree the worst thing would be going into a home and declining slowly as you get towards ninety. We enjoy living independently and we don't want to give that up. We may not talk about it very often, especially not to younger people, but we do fear needing someone to spoon food into our mouths, help us to the bathroom or wash us.
Personally I do think a bit about dying - I talked to my younger daughter about this the other week - but there's no use worrying about it. At 81, I may have another 10 years for all I know. For me, the most important thing would not be the number of years I have left but the quality of them. It's not so much the end of life that would worry me, more the thought of indignities I might face as I get nearer 90.
Still, I've had a pretty good old age so far and I was watching David Attenborough the other day in his new TV series on the origins of life on earth. He was born in 1926 and is three years older than me. He was jumping around filming in Australia, Canada and Switzerland. He didn't seem to have any problems scaling rocks or clambering about pointing out fossils on the seashore. That's what I call a good and healthy old age and as he's older than me, it makes me think I've got more active years to come.
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