Losing perspective for the elderly

Never what you expect...

Slightly belated but I thought I should write a 'Father's Day' post. As a father myself I thought it would have been rather self-congratulatory... and that would be so out of my basic character (but again, maybe not).

I received this poem over electronic mail from my dad this morning that reminded me that while I am a father, I will always be a son too. And while I get lost in the day-to-day activities of fatherhood and acting the grown up in the family (a desperately up-hill battle for me), I admit I forget to give my father credit for all the work he has done.

While fatherhood is a thankless job... it is one that leaves you with moments of immense pride that is often times difficult to contain. Thanks enough, I think.

But when we age (and we all do), there are many things that we dream that never get done owing to pressures to always be mature and level-headed; even when it is out of character for aspirational young men with visions of conquering so much.

The bitter pill made even more so, when the very people around you fail to give you credit that you too once had dreams. Old people were once young, they too had dreams of falling in love, of romance. Moments of rebellion. They too had grade problems and worries of discipline's harsh hand; fears that they might not be good enough.

Then, by the time they conquer their dreams and overcome their hurdles they probably find that they have become too weary and spent... and old(er).

The poem that my dad sent me was penned by a man who had died in a geriatric ward of a home in Nebraska. The nurses discovered it among his meagre possessions. Copies were made and distributed. The poem became a powerpoint presentation and even appeared in a Christmas edition of a medical new journal. Eventually the poem has been making its way through the internet.

The tile speaks of his pain... the poem talks about his life and his dreams.

*

Crabby Old Man

What do you see nurses?... What do you see?

What are you thinking... When you're looking at me?

A crabby old man... Not very wise,

Uncertain of habit... With faraway eyes?

Who dribbles his food... And makes no reply

When you say in a loud voice... 'I do wish you'd try!'

Who seems not to notice... The things that you do.

And forever is losing... A sock or shoe?

Who, resisting or not... Lets you do as you will,

With bathing and feeding... The long day to fill?

Is that what you're thinking?... Is that what you see?

Then open your eyes, nurse... You're not looking at me.

I'll tell you who I am... As I sit here so still,

As I do at your bidding... As I eat at your will

I'm a small child of Ten... With a father and mother,

Brothers and sisters... Who love one another

A young boy of Sixteen... With wings on his feet

Dreaming that soon now... A lover he'll meet.

A groom soon at Twenty... My heart gives a leap.

Remembering the vows... That I promised to keep.

At Twenty-Five, now... I have young of my own.

Who need me to guide... And a secure happy home.

A man of Thirty... My young now grown fast,

Bound to each other... With ties that should last.

At Forty, my young sons... Have grown and are gone,

But my woman's beside me... To see I don't mourn.

At Fifty, once more... Babies play 'round my knee,

Again, we know children... My loved one and me ..

Dark days are upon me... My wife is now dead.

I look at the future... I shudder with dread.

For my young are all rearing... Young of their own.

And I think of the years... And the love that I've known.

I'm now an old man... And nature is cruel.

Tis jest to make old age... Look like a fool.

The body, it crumbles... Grace and vigor depart.

There is now a stone... Where I once had a heart.

But inside this old carcass... A young guy still dwells,

And now and again... My battered heart swells

I remember the joys... I remember the pain.

And I'm loving and living... Life over again.

I think of the years . All too few... Gone too fast.

And accept the stark fact... That nothing can last.

So open your eyes, people... Open and see...

Not a crabby old man Look closer... See... ME!!

*

This brings me to a Talatism truth I had coined about the people around me: We are not always what we think we are; we are not always what others think we are; but we sometimes become what we think others think we are.

My dad is not a crabby old man, he just thinks we think he is because he thinks we think he is. We don't think it. Isn't it time maybe you told your dad too? I think that would really be a “Father's Day.”