First Things

A remembrance of Fanny, at the request of her family.

"Teach us to count up the days that are ours and we shall come to the heart of wisdom." (Psalm 90:12)

“Wisdom is no automatic perogative of old age. It is a gift of God, which older people must accept and set as their goal . . . The essence of this wisdom is the discovery of the profound meaning of human life and of the transcendent destiny of the person in God”
(The Dignity of Older People, Etc., Pontif. Counc. Laity, 1998)

Elderly people present America’s newest challenge of respecting life. It is no longer infants alone. In fact, one of the reasons for longevity in this country is improved infant healthcare.

We love babies. They are familiar; they are in pictures everywhere; put wings on them and they are cherubs. We know what to do with babies and with children: we hold them, we protect them, they play across our laps, they laugh, and when they are children they tell us what they did at school that day.

We love our elderly, but they are not familiar. They are not always in pictures everywhere; put wings on them and they do not look like cherubs; when age and disease processes prevent the full measure of thought and speech, they do not always tell us in ways they used to about their life that day, or even at that moment. The world does not always know the how of being with our elderly. Fanny was my first teacher.

When I knew her, Fanny was old--86 years. She was in a wheelchair in a long-term care facility where I had just come to be the chaplain. I was told that part of my responsibility was to dine in each area of the facility in order to get to know the residents and to discuss with them whatever parts of their lives were important to them. The first space available at a table in the Nursing Center, which is where residents need the most physical care, was with two ladies near a large floor-to-ceiling window in the corner of the dining room. I asked them if I could join them for lunch. One of them said “Hi” with a big toothy smile; the other, with one arm under a bib, opened her mouth a tiny bit. With a sparkle in her eye she smiled a very small smile, a smile that seemed to want to be bigger but couldn’t, owing to some physical debility, and in an almost whisper said “Yes” as well. This latter was Fanny.

For someone used to very articulate patients in a hospital or parish church, I knew that this was going to be a stretch. Nervous, I decided to get some hot tea. I asked the ladies if they would like some. The big smily woman looked confused and said “No”, and enthusiastically asked me if I liked carrots. Fanny took a few minutes, but in a half whisper said “Yes . . . I would love some”.

Through what came to be a weekly ritual, I learned that both Fanny and, I’ll call her "Ella", had dementia. I learned as well that 51% of persons in this country over the age of 85 had some form of dementia, and I asked myself “Who are they?”--not just “Who are they?”, but “WHO are they?”.

I learned that who Fanny was, was someone with a wry wit--if I waited long enough for the words to come out in an almost whisper, and listened hard enough. I learned that just because someone is old and frail, or has dementia doesn’t mean that they can’t make a joke. In fact, one of the enjoyable things about Fanny was that she always had a commentary. Once, after Ella’s weekly question to me if I liked carrots, Fanny smiled, sparkle in her eye and upturned lips said “I wonder how she stands on broccoli?”.

I learned that just because one has dementia, it doesn’t mean that one doesn't’ still love, have feelings, and a sense of the normalcy of the attachment and loss in life. Once, while sitting in Fanny’s room, she cried. She missed her family in Colorado. I sat with her in her room awhile, held her hand, and said “I’m sorry”. She said, again in this whisper-voice that one had to wait for and listen hard for: “That’s all right . . . that’s life”.

In a body immobilized by gravity, time, and increasingly declining health processes, Fanny communicated with her face. Her cheeks moved up and down with the effort of opening her mouth to whisper clever observations; her eyes sparkled and glinted to the side, whether with a “Thank you”, or an ever-frequent wry smile. “Ella”, her table-mate, had her own manner and gifts for me.

I did not know Fanny as the spouse, mother, and sibling that she is remembered for today. I know Fanny as the face of a teacher; her lesson: that there is an indomitable spirit that resides in this flesh of ours. I know through her that humor, and love, and determination, and will and all the bits and pieces of what make us human apart from these bodies are able to perdure despite the most bitter odds of brain and body. We have so much to learn from Fanny.

No one will know exactly what went on in Fanny’s mind these last few years. What is certain, is that far from giving up on life, in response to it, like the tea, she seems to have said: “Yes . . . I would love some”.