I didn't start out hating old people--if anything, I idolized them...
From the beginning, older people were central to my life. The trusted, loving grandfather, the freethinking great-aunt and even the mythic figure of my great-grandmother, who, although she died before I was born, attained legendary status in our family for her strong character and practicality. She was the woman who never learned how to read or write, who spoke almost no English--but who had the ambition and foresight to work hard, save money and bring the whole family to the US from Russia shortly before the 1917 revolution.
Having been raised by a single father who worked full-time, I often found myself in the care of these older family members who selflessly gave me their attention and love as I made my way toward adulthood. They would tell me stories from their own childhood--hiding from Cossack raiders in the basement, watching their mother sell fish in the streets of Odessa while their father alternately beat them and studied religious texts. There was something pure and fierce about my attachment to them, and I felt it was mutual. As the first "real American" of the family, was I the representation of their hopes and dreams for a brighter future? No matter, my fascination and love for old people was established and continued to grow over the years.
Either by chance or by choice, my first jobs after moving to the San Francisco Bay Area were working for two different Alzheimer's day care programs. Spending time with a range of old people from many parts of the world, hearing the stories of their childhood (which they remembered more clearly than what they'd just eaten for lunch) brought me back to that familiar place of listening to the "old stories" and imagining what life must have been like.
So again, all this is to say that I never resented old people--never found them strange or boring--and always enjoyed the time I spent with them. At least, until now--as I find myself being relied on more and more heavily as a care provider for my father and stepmother as they proceed into what they optimistically call their "autumn years." Where does this resentment come from? Why do I balk at helping them in their pathetic attempts at remaining independent? These questions and more will be explored in future posts. Thank you for reading, and feel free to comment.
