Today I spent the afternoon with my childhood friend, Baby. We were classmates in elementary, graduated high school together, fell in love at the same period, got married, had children, left our husbands at the same time, and now, we are old together. The only difference is that she went back to her husband after being separated for ten years, and I married another one.
Baby’s mother was with her when I visited. “Mommy”, as I fondly called her all these years, has Alzheimers, and only recognized those she was in constant contact with. “Mommy” had recently had a peg inserted, since she didn’t have the normal routine of meals and sleep any longer. She liked ice cream, though.
My parents were very close to Baby’s parents. My father visited Baby’s father every day, on pretext that he was checking up on his health. I suspect it was the nice merienda that always awaited him during these visits, that made him want to visit daily. The merienda was usually refrigerator cake, which was a layer of lady fingers (not okra!) cream and chocolate.I haven’t found anyone who made lady fingers better than it was made in their house.
Baby and I had the same thoughts as we had lunch. Lunch, by the way, was the same in our houses. We called it “healthy” lunch, made of bean sprouts and other vegetables, red rice and the protein of the day, either fish, or white chicken meat. Sometimes, it is tofu with vegetables. Fortunately, “healthy meals” don’t have to be boring anymore. The soy sauce gives it a smooth flavor. Sometimes,I spice it up with some hot sauce to make it exciting. But eating “healthy” meals is one of the things friends who get old together, do together.
“Well,” Baby said, “We were together from the time we were young. Now, we will die together.”
I had the same thoughts. Now that we have lived a full life, it appeared that there was nothing else to look forward to but death.
In our house, I converted a part of the living room that was closer to the kitchen, for the old people to stay in, until their death. My GTrandmother stayed there for a decade. She was 100 years old when she moved in with my Aunt, her youngest daughter. They had been together from the time the youngest daughter was born. When my Aunt wanted to get married, my Grandmother put her foot down. Well, even in death they exited together. My Aunt died of a brain tumor a few months after my Grandmother died.
My Father resisted moving to the “Death Room” as I called it. But my Mother had broken her hip bone, and I quickly renovated the “Death Room” before she left the hospital. She called him up from the downstairs phone,
“Where are you?” he asked.
“I am here downstairs, just below where you are. Please come and join me.” she pleaded softly, and he gladly moved in with her. They each stayed in their own hospital bed, attended by their own Special Nurses.
One day, my Father asked me, “Is this how I will spend the rest of my days? Watching TV?” I had taken over the management of their business, and had become too busy to spend time with them during the day. After dinner, I would go to their room to exchange stories, but they were usually sleepy to have a good time with me..
So, here we are, getting old together.
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