Old Man Talk

Don’t Let the Old Man In

                          Toby Keith

My parents used to say, “It’s hell to get old.”

We have one of those decorative pieces of wood with a funny saying on it in our home. Ours says,

“We will be friends until we are old and senile, then we will be new friends.”

One evening, my old friend Nick and I were standing in front of a restaurant waiting for our wives.

“Since we’re here alone,” Nick started, “can I ask you about that time after your prostate surgery when your PSA went up?” And so it went. For a few minutes, we were able to talk man to man, old friend to old friend, about our shared prostate cancer experiences. We were alone, no wives, no sons or daughters, no one else but the two of us. We focused on those unexpected, private things which happened later-on, post-op. 

Don’t let the old man in, I wanna leave this alone
Can’t leave it up to him, he’s knocking on my door

As we stood there outside the restaurant, the conversation brought to mind a recent phone call I’d gotten. It’d had come from an unfamiliar number within a familiar area code. Toronto. My brother, John, lived in Toronto, but this was not his number. I answered my phone.

“Hey, Mike,” the old man’s voice said. It had been John, calling, so I was glad that I had answered the unfamiliar number.  He sounded down, sad. He spoke haltingly.

“Can you tell Mother that I won’t be able to get home this weekend?” he asked.

“Sure, I can do that.”

“Just tell her that things came up, and that I won’t be able to drive down.”

“No problem,” I reassured him. “What’s up?”

“Oh nothing. I’m just kinda tired and busy.  Thanks.”

We said good bye. That was basically all the conversation there was for that call.  

My brother and I talked regularly. The conversations were sometimes difficult, but that call had been different. My brother, who was quite a bit older than I, suffered from dementia and lived in a wonderful assisted living facility. He had called me.  As he no longer had a cell phone, and the phone in his room was part of his residential system, he did not generally call out. But that day, somehow, he did. He wanted our mother to be sure to know that he would not be getting home over the weekend.

In my head, during our brief conversation, I had been screaming, “She’s dead, John! And you can’t drive! And none of us live at home anymore!” But I didn’t say any of that; I played along. I had experienced similar conversations in the past and had learned it was best to stay calm. Play along. Say a prayer. Reassure. That was good.

Later, I recalled a similar conversation John and I had had when Laulani and I were visiting the long-term care residence where he was living. At that time, just he and I were in his room. “Mike,” he asked hesitantly, “is Dad dead? I never seem to hear from him.”

Since he had posed the question, I said simply, “Yes.” And added, “He died many, many years ago.”

“That’s what I thought.” That was all. Conversation over.

Conversations with elders can, indeed, be hard. Laulani called her mother. It was her mom’s birthday, and I heard her say, “Mom, Happy birthday!” Her mother was turning 90 years old.  At the time, she was living with Laulani’s sister in California. For several reasons, Laulani and her mom hadn’t talked on the phone as much as used to, or as much as they’d have liked.

I heard her ask, “Do you know which birthday this is?”  Apparently, Mom didn’t. “It’s your 90^th! That’s big, Mom. Happy birthday!”

I then heard her ask, “Do you know what today’s date is?” She didn’t. “Do you know what day of the week this is?” She didn’t. “What are you going to do to celebrate?” The answer was a combination of “I don’t know” and “Nothing.”

It was a sadly frustrating conversation.

Ask yourself how old would you be
If you didn’t know the day you were born

It brought back memories of other difficult conversations – different times, memories of my youth. Old Uncle Tony used to come to our door early nearly every evening. He only lived a few houses away; we could see his house from our front door. He came by to watch TV with someone other than his unpleasant old wife. She would get frustrated with Tone, and she wasn’t very nice about it. Old Tone liked to watch TV – the news, sports, sit coms. But he also liked to talk to the people on the TV. It was his only human interaction, his only conversation on any given day.

As the news was presented, he’d ask questions, make comments or sometimes just swear at what he was hearing. He’d add his own dialog to the sit coms, not always following the story line, not always using language that most people would be comfortable with. He’d get a bit feisty when the newscasters or actors didn’t respond to what he’d said; it all made perfect sense to him. His impatient wife wanted nothing to do with these conversations. After a few shows or news segments, Uncle Tony would slowly get up, and we’d watch him as he slowly walked back home.

I thought of a beautiful older couple we used to see in church every Sunday. They were long ago retired, their children grown. The husband always looked dapper in his sport jacket and tie. The wife was always very nicely dressed, hair brushed, and well made up. They sat in the same pew every week; we all expected to see them. Friends surrounded them. They smiled, greeted people, sang along with the choir. For people who were not paying close attention, they looked like a happy, loving old husband and wife team. For those of us who know them, though, we saw that the husband was the only one who actually spoke to their friends. The wife smiled, waved across the aisle, and shook hands or hugged at the kiss of peace. She sang the hymns she has known for years. But she did not speak. For those of us who knew them, we also knew that her husband had lovingly dressed her and done her hair and make- up every week for a long time now. They were a beautiful old couple, but only one of them was there.

Try to love on your wife
And stay close to your friends
Toast each sundown with wine
Don’t let the old man in

I received another call from my brother, John.

“Hey, Mike,” he started. “I don’t have any toothpaste and I really need to brush my teeth. Can you stop and pick some up for me?”

“I’ll make sure you have it!” I reassured him. I knew that my brother had plenty of toothpaste, and that if he were running low, Denis, his wonderful caretaker would also be sure to get more. I had learned from these random calls, though, that it was best and least stressful if there were no challenges to the situation, no push back.

I thought about another old family friend. Always the involved and fun-loving grandfather, he had lately become noticeably quiet at family get-togethers. Whereas he had once been the loveable jokester to his children and grandchildren, the lead cheerleader for all their successes, now he sat quietly by, only occasionally joining in conversations.  Laulani and I spent an afternoon with him and his wife. It’d been a wonderful day, catching up, learning family secrets, and planning parties down the road. During the hours we spent together, the old guy smiled, and nodded, but, save for rare injects into stories from many years past, said very little. There was an empty middle distance to his expression, so unlike his ready smile and quick wit.

Laulani got another call. It was her brother, again, this time asking her if she had heard that their mother was in rehab. She wanted to scream “What the hell are you talking about?” Or “Your damn question answers itself!”

But instead, she calmly said, “No. What’s going on?”

Her brother explained something about a stroke, something about Mom being in the hospital, and now, something about being in rehab. This was not the first time. Apparently, this had been going on for a while, but nobody had bothered to tell us. Mom been at the rehab facility for a couple weeks when he’d called.

This was serious. Laulani and I traveled to the Bay Area where her mother had been living with her daughter.  We went to the rehab center. It brought back memories of visiting with my brother, John. Although now, not a new experience, it was still eye-opening.

Entrance doors are guarded or locked, making ‘escape’ difficult. Alarms sound frequently – especially in the evening hours. (Don’t let the old man out.) Staff was very nice and helpful. Food was good, but not what I’d call appetizing. Artwork lines the walls; the same artwork, it seemed, was in every venue where old folks live. Residents lie in beds, sit in wheelchairs, sometimes meander the halls.

One of the patients, an old man at Mom’s residence, made our visit especially fun as he rode his wheelchair up and down all of the halls of the center each evening, screaming obscenities and curses as loud as he could. More than once, he directed his diatribe at us.

Sundowning. That’s what it’s called. Alzheimer’s and dementia-related, late afternoon and evenings sometimes bring on challenging changes in demeaner and behavior. Thus the name. The damned old man gets pissed when he can’t come in for the night.

My phone rang. Toronto, again. This call was, “Hey, I can’t find my car keys. Thought I left them in my pocket, but they aren’t in there. I wanted to go out and run a couple errands, but I’m afraid I can’t – and my car might be gone.”

“Don’t worry, Bud,” I reassured him. “I’m sure they’re around. I bet Denis knows all about it. Just wait til he gets there.”

“Oh, right. OK. Thanks.”

Although John and I talked frequently, we often repeated the same conversation several times within a single call. I also came to understand that, for as many times as he visited our home in Washington over the years, he had no idea where we lived. I became somewhat concerned with the number of calls I had received in a fairly short time. In checking with his support system, as I suspected, he was fine. However, he was a bit anxious for some reason.

It was not long afterwards that my phone rang again. Another call from Toronto. This time, though, I knew who was calling. It was John’s good friend, Dermot. He didn’t call very often but we did talk fairly regularly.

After a few pleasantries, Dermot, in perfect Canadian, asked, “Mike, are you familiar with sundowning?” And so the conversation continued. “They’ll have to move John into a more secure area…..”

Nick and I waited outside the restaurant for our wives. The conversation shifted to hearing loss, to hemorrhoids, and other shared experiences that come with age. “Damn!” I said, “We sound like a couple of old men on our last legs.”

Shortly, our wives arrived. We all went into the restaurant for dinner. I don’t remember what we ate, but it was good.

Right now, I am feeling old. Somebody’s knocking at the door. That damned old man is relentless. It is hell to get old.

And lest I forget, let’s be sure to be friends until we are old and senile, then, with any luck, we can become new friends.

And I knew all of my life, that someday it would end
Get up and go outside, don’t let the old man in….