A bit more death
By M on Wednesday 15 November 2006, 01:40 - Journal - Permalink
There was a documentary entitled 'Death' on TV last night.
I don't know which puzzles me more: the number of TV documentaries about death, dying, and terminal disease, or my propensity to watch them. You would think that with continual news reports about fatalities in Iraq, Afghanistan, Palestine and Darfur (oh, and Congo, Lebanon, Burma, etc) that the TV companies might lighten the mood occasionally with more nice stories about fox cubs tumbling around in the woods and computer graphics-enhanced explanations of the water cycle. You would also think that when I stop worrying, dutifully, about global warming, terrorism, obesity, world population and the new clamour for a renaissance of nuclear power - and forget about my parents' eating and cleaning habits - I'd be ready to reread 'Wind in the Willows' or reorganise my beer label collection. But that's not the way it is, apparently. It seems like we've all developed a taste for the morbid these days.
It could be that the aging baby boom is finally beginning to acknowledge its mortality. This is a dreary thought. It means that for the next twenty or so years we are going to be deluged with morosity and hypochondria.
On the other hand, it could be entirely subjective. Perhaps it is all just me viewing the world through black-rimmed spectacles.
The interesting thing is how absolutely free of morbid thoughts are mum and dad. Well, mum seems pretty thought-free all the time, so it is hardly surprising that I can cite something she doesn't think about. And dad has had a peculiar attitude all his life. He was positive - he never let himself get too bothered about bad things - but not particularly ambitious. He would often express exasperation at the doings of the world. Watching a news report about a serial killer, for example, he would say 'I can't understand these blokes' - but he never seemed to see the world as something that he could improve. Thinking about it now I realise that he was not motivated by the need to transform things. While he wanted to do good deeds, he was fatalistic deep down - so there was simultaneously little effort to right the big wrongs and little ambition to climb high. He has consequently little fear of death - it is simply one of those untransformable things, an immutable fate. I must remember to ask him about it next time I am there. Mum too, for that matter.
The one benefit that lies hidden beneath the costs of Alzheimer's is that its victims are often unaware of their problem. The agnosia is commensurate with the decline: the worse they get the less they know about it. So, given that both mum and dad can get up in the morning and walk, fiddle around in the kitchen until something edible presents itself, and live in a climate that is (for now) stupendously benign all adds up to a picture that death barely figures in. Simple - the basics for survival are all still there. There really is no need for them to think about anything other than their daily preoccupations (running out of cash in dad's case, and how to get rid of the bearded intruder in mum's).
So, yes, it seems maybe it is just me, and come to think of it, this weekend I did see a documentary that featured fox cubs.
I don't know which puzzles me more: the number of TV documentaries about death, dying, and terminal disease, or my propensity to watch them. You would think that with continual news reports about fatalities in Iraq, Afghanistan, Palestine and Darfur (oh, and Congo, Lebanon, Burma, etc) that the TV companies might lighten the mood occasionally with more nice stories about fox cubs tumbling around in the woods and computer graphics-enhanced explanations of the water cycle. You would also think that when I stop worrying, dutifully, about global warming, terrorism, obesity, world population and the new clamour for a renaissance of nuclear power - and forget about my parents' eating and cleaning habits - I'd be ready to reread 'Wind in the Willows' or reorganise my beer label collection. But that's not the way it is, apparently. It seems like we've all developed a taste for the morbid these days.
It could be that the aging baby boom is finally beginning to acknowledge its mortality. This is a dreary thought. It means that for the next twenty or so years we are going to be deluged with morosity and hypochondria.
On the other hand, it could be entirely subjective. Perhaps it is all just me viewing the world through black-rimmed spectacles.
The interesting thing is how absolutely free of morbid thoughts are mum and dad. Well, mum seems pretty thought-free all the time, so it is hardly surprising that I can cite something she doesn't think about. And dad has had a peculiar attitude all his life. He was positive - he never let himself get too bothered about bad things - but not particularly ambitious. He would often express exasperation at the doings of the world. Watching a news report about a serial killer, for example, he would say 'I can't understand these blokes' - but he never seemed to see the world as something that he could improve. Thinking about it now I realise that he was not motivated by the need to transform things. While he wanted to do good deeds, he was fatalistic deep down - so there was simultaneously little effort to right the big wrongs and little ambition to climb high. He has consequently little fear of death - it is simply one of those untransformable things, an immutable fate. I must remember to ask him about it next time I am there. Mum too, for that matter.
The one benefit that lies hidden beneath the costs of Alzheimer's is that its victims are often unaware of their problem. The agnosia is commensurate with the decline: the worse they get the less they know about it. So, given that both mum and dad can get up in the morning and walk, fiddle around in the kitchen until something edible presents itself, and live in a climate that is (for now) stupendously benign all adds up to a picture that death barely figures in. Simple - the basics for survival are all still there. There really is no need for them to think about anything other than their daily preoccupations (running out of cash in dad's case, and how to get rid of the bearded intruder in mum's).
So, yes, it seems maybe it is just me, and come to think of it, this weekend I did see a documentary that featured fox cubs.
Comments
When we first started to get deeply into this dementia life, it drove me crazy that my parents just could not understand what a precarious situation they were in. There I was, seeing the reality for the first time, gallantly figuring out one massive problem after another. And all that time, they were just sitting around staring at the walls, watching TV, "reading" the paper, eating, sleeping, or whatever. They have no sense of urgency or danger about it, which also means that they have no appreciation for all my heroic efforts in the face of impending doom.
Now, six months in, I have of course figured out that this oblivion is a blessing for them and for me. It means they only worry about little things that can be fixed or camouflaged, not about the huge reality that will never get better than it is right now. It does make me lonely, since they have no empathy whatever for ME (their only child and caretaker). But it makes my life so much easier and makes theirs, I think, more than tolerable.
And as for worrying about death, that is a thing of the past for them. Strange, that. For them, death is OVER, even though for me their death it is still in the future. As you say: “the worse they get the less they know about it.” And the closer they get to death, the less reality it has for them.
I keep thinking there is some extremely useful key in all of this. Something I should be seeing about death, fear and time. Of course there is the obvious: that if we forget about death, it has no threat for us. But what’s the rest of it? Why do we not think of this dementia/oblivion as a state devoutly to be wished?
Pastoral post. Struck me deeply, for some reason.
I tend to take after my mother regarding mortality...why bother being aware of it; we're going to die, anyway, may as well act like we're not. I suppose you're right about the world being poised for a tsunami of morbidity, courtesy of the baby boomers, but, you know, screw 'em if they (baby boomers) can't take a joke. We have, unfortunately, been a primarily humorless, overwrought generation.
I'm impressed with the discussion of your dad. I've never gotten a very clear picture of him, as I have your mom. Now, he's coming into focus. Thank you for this.
Also, I, personally, would be very interested to hear what your parents have to say, when you, "remember to ask him about it next time I am there. Mum too, for that matter."
Mike--How true about death and time. My mother has only spoken aloud about death in order to wonder what age everyone will be once they get to heaven and how will she recognize people she knew on earth. If I'm feeling particularly perverse I ask her what would happen if her parents were to be younger than she is "up there." But I'm glad she doesn't seem to be preoccupied by much beyond the present--she seems to have that sturdy Irish Catholic religion, where you take whatever is dished out to you and then thank God for it, moreover. I agree with Redcedar about death--sometimes I think that death isn't a momentary event but a slow gradation of life that my mother may already have begun. She sees what's on the horizon and is making her own peace with it as she passes more fully into the next realm. I guess that presupposes an afterlife--well, we've got to have something to look forward to!