We’ll hopefully have the whole voluntary euthanasia thing sorted. Or, failing that, legalise the efficient despatch of sleeping OAPs with pillows, providing your reasons are entirely selfless. Like your mum’s lost her marbles, say. She’s just a drooling vegetable taking up a hospital bed that’s so desperately needed to give the obese toddlers of the not-so-distant-future a gastric bypass. Or she’s announced she’s blowing your inheritance on a cruise. Any court of law can see that a 70-year-old woman swanning off on a cruise when you’re struggling with a family, a mortgage and repayments on that hover-board you’ve been wanting ever since you first saw Back to the Future II is madness. And, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, therefore legally justifiable grounds to get all Harold Shipman on her incontinent ass. I rest my case.
Because – let’s face it, folks – getting old sucks. And I mean proper old. I’m totally at peace with spending a second year at 29. I’m talking 89. That’s old. And, as a case in point, my dear granny happens to be both 89 and, thus, officially old. I went to see her this weekend. It’s been a while since my last trip and I guess she’s at that stage where, well... There’s this great Lily Tomlin line – “Things are going to get a lot worse before they get worse”. That pretty much sums it up.
She’s always had her ailments and complaints – in fact, she’s quite the drama queen and even seemed to revel in the gloom and doom of her latest diagnosis or hospital stay. This is a woman who once cried “stroke!” when we rebelled against early arrival on a Sunday as instructed (why is it the older people get, the earlier and earlier they get up?!) and we had to dial 999 for a hissy fit. Death’s probably not a-knocking at your door when you’ve got the audacity to complain to paramedics that the siren is too loud and the ride too bumpy. “I definitely did feel a stroke coming on”, she insisted. Hmm... Perhaps those five hours spent trying to explain/yell her ‘symptoms’ to that brown doctor with the terrible English acted as some kind of miracle cure..?
But there’s a marked change in her. In her heyday, she was the life and soul of the party and, as such, her dogged refusal to accept her limitations in later life has been a recipe for disaster. Have you ever tried getting a heavy suitcase across central London? Train it, tube it, taxi it – whatever, it’s a nightmare. Now try getting a fairly hefty old lady in a wheelchair across town – and then up Tower Bridge, the world’s most inconvenient wedding venue. Via a really small lift that she’s trying to jam you into as well because she’s developed a sudden and super-dramatic fear of enclosed spaces. And then do it all again in reverse order. They should make it an Olympic sport, it’s such bloody hard work. But did that stop her nagging the world and his wife to – p-l-e-a-s-e! – take her on holiday to Portugal or Spain, or somewhere? Even Devon or Cornwall would do..? Or maybe the moon..?
Did it heck! Until now...
She turned down a funeral the other day, which says it all – she flippin’ loves a funeral! She’s lost interest in all forms of entertainment aside from snooker, which is another worrying sign... And her speedometer’s dropped to tortoise. After it’s been picked up and turned in the opposite direction by its annoying child owner for the umpteenth time and really can’t be arsed anymore. Even food – one of her life’s great pleasures (like grandmother, like granddaughter) – is a challenge too far. I treated her to lunch at a posh pub this weekend... But eating out isn’t quite as much fun when you’re making your menu choices according to what’s mushiest. There’s, um, stew...
And – argh! – soup! Book me on the next flight to Switzerland! Now!
She went for moules mariniere and I tried not to watch. Or laugh at an old lady’s befuddlement upon being served dessert in a jam jar on a piece of slate. Because I’m sure I’ll be just the same when my crème brulee arrives in a rusted tuna tin on an old piece of crazy-paving 60 years from now.
Conclusion – sadly, even a lunchtime jaunt is coming too much for her. Never in all my drinking career has the short walk from pavement to pub seemed so epic. It’s her legs, you see – I’ll spare you the details... But given my generous thighs and fat knees have caused me nothing but grief so far, I’m now convinced they’ll be the death of me too.
And, thing is, my granny is one of the lucky ones. She had my granddad to grow old and grey with until relatively recently. God knows she’d rather he were rubbing lotion into her creaking, weeping nooks and crannies than my reluctant nurse of a mother. So all this has got me wondering – who’s going to need me and, more importantly, feed me when I’m 64? Never mind the fairytale marriage, the growing family and mortgage, or even starting to see the merits of a life insurance policy sold by Parky and appeal of a cruise. I need to think long-term. Because, ladies, we’re in this for the long-haul, thanks to our longer life expectancy.
I need to find someone to grow old and grey with.
In short, I need to work on my stew.
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