CELIA McBRIDE

Dearest Readers,

This was a talk I did for the YMCA in Cobourg, Ontario for a dinner for Seniors sponsored by the Retired Teachers of Ontario about aging as a healing process:

“Full disclosure. I’m only 52, okay, so I know that most of you seniors have a lot more to offer on the topic of aging than I do.

People tell me I don’t look my age but I don’t know, I work in LTC and some of the residents are 100 years old so they’re not really the best judges.

They look and me and think I’m about 20. Some of them have even asked me what University I just graduated from. Which feels great! I’m not gonna lie. But then I tell them I’m 52 they just about fall out of bed.

But even though I look 20, okay 25, trust me, I am aging. I finally figured out the other day where the hair on men’s heads goes when they lose it. Women’s chins!

Yeah, nobody ever told us that when we were little girls growing up. “You will grow a beard one day, dear.”

So a lot of my experience comes from my practice as a spiritual director and providing spiritual care to seniors in long-term care.

And from this experience, I’ve come to see the potential for aging to be a healing process.

Because the later years are a time to take stock of our lives, to finally accept who we are and where we’re going, and to let go of that which no longer serves us.

I like to ask questions. That’s how I learn. When I was living in a religious community discerning whether to become a nun (I wrote a book about it, if you’d like to know more), one of the Sisters told me I asked too many questions.

She was probably right but older people have experience and wisdom that I believe we need. So I want to know, “What’s your secret to growing older gracefully? Or if it’s not so graceful, how do you cope? What have you learned that you can share with us?”

One of my older friends, an absolute dynamo who is now over 100, told me that going for a walk every day was the secret to happiness and longevity. “Not a long walk,” she told me. But every single day, for her entire life, she’s gone out for a walk, even if it was just around the block. I haven’t seen her for a while but as far as I know, she’s still doing it.

I once asked another older fella, a neighbour, how he kept such a positive attitude into his 90s and he said, “Youth is a state of mind.”

He said it like that, too (Irish accent), “Youth is a state of mind.” It was of the utmost importance to him to keep his mind, his outlook on life and his attitude young, and lemme tell ya he was as spry as a teenager.

My own grandfather, my Dad’s dad, who died twenty years ago would say, “Boy, life just keeps getting better. You reach your fifties and you think, ‘Life can’t get any better than this,’ and then you hit your sixties and you think, ‘Boy, now this is great, life surely can’t get any better now,’ but then you hit your seventies and you think, ‘This is terrific, how could life get any better than this?’ And then you hit your eighties and WOW! Isn’t life fantastic?”

Now that’s what I call a positive outlook.

But I also don’t want to sugarcoat the aging process. Because one of the most common refrains I hear from seniors is, “Old age is not for sissies.”

I understand that aging can be very hard. And I think most of us would agree that we live in an anti-aging society. It’s starting to turn around in some areas but for the most part, aging is seen as a disease to be cured rather than a natural and inevitable part of the human journey.

And I think this has a lot to do with the D word.

No, I’m not talking about the Vitamin. I’m not talking about the Dentist. And I’m not talking about your Diet.

I’m talking about the other D word and I’m going to say it … Death!

I’m talking about death!

I see that humans are actually quite superstitious. We seem to have this very strange belief that if we talk about death, it’s going to happen to us.

Well, I’m sorry to be the one to break the news but death is going to happen to us anyway. Whether we mention it or not! As the saying goes: no one gets out of here alive.

Talking about death can be very healing and maybe by not talking about it we’re missing an opportunity to heal by sharing our hearts with another person, or allowing ourselves to feel heard.

By avoiding the topic of death we also miss out on the opportunity to release some of our fears and doubts about death.

In my vocation, I accompany a lot of people on their journey toward death and I watch a lot of people die.

I can tell you that being that close to death, to have such an intimate relationship with death is a privilege. Because death becomes not the unmentionable, unthinkable thing. It ceases to be the bogeyman. Death has become a gift. And I don’t really fear it.

I recently had an encounter in the home with a man named Ken who was calling out repeatedly, yelling in terror for someone to come to him.

The PSWs had done all they could to comfort him and it’s not really their job to sit with residents 1:1, unfortunately, though many of them try to do that.

I’d met Ken only once before and it had been a brief exchange but when I heard him shouting it was an opportunity to connect with him again. As I was about to enter his room, one of the PSWs told me she thought he was shouting because he was afraid to die and didn’t want to be alone.

So I reintroduced myself to Ken and asked him if he wanted company.

He was delighted and we had an amazing visit. It was like night and day. He was jolly and sweet and funny. You’d never have known he was the one crying out in such emotional pain only moments before.

Remembering what the PSW had told me, and seeing that he was having a lot of trouble breathing, I asked Ken if I could ask him a personal question. When he said yes, I said, “How do you feel about dying?”

He looked surprised. “I try not to think about it,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“You try not to think about it,” I repeated, trying not to show my surprise.

“And I’m hoping it’s not something I have to worry about just yet.”

Ken was actively dying. But he was completely disconnected from his own dying process. I didn’t push the topic. That’s not my job. It was clear he didn’t want to go there and I respected that. Within a week of our conversation, Ken died.

So, two things here. One, avoiding the topic did not stop the event.

Two, would Ken have benefitted from delving into the topic? Even though he was afraid to “think about it”. Would he have benefitted from the healing gift that comes when we can speak to someone about our fear? To have our fears heard and held and validated. This is invaluable to the human soul.

Aging provides us all with an opportunity to share how we feel about death and dying. It’s an opportunity to come to terms with the unmentionable D word, to wrestle out our beliefs, to give voice to our regrets, to celebrate ourselves and the lives we’ve been given that are all too short.

Because I’m a spiritual care provider, I see how much spiritual care is needed for aging people. Well, all people, really.

But the changes that aging brings practically demand that older people be given the opportunity to be seen and heard. If you have someone who will see you and hear you at the deepest level, you are one of the privileged. If you don’t, you’re not alone. Because so many don’t.

What I’m talking about is called deep listening, which is practiced by just allowing the other person to talk without interruption and without judgment. Or, if they’re unable to talk, allowing them just to be and simply witness them as they are. Both are done with no agenda.

No agenda to change them, convince them of anything, bend their ideas, no agenda.

This is the healing and transformative gift of offering someone our presence. To simply be there with them as their life is unfolding.

It’s harder for friends and family members to do this because we have attachments. As an impartial witness, I recognize I’m in a better position to do this than most.

I watched this practice of deep listening transform a man named Fred. Fred was the grumpiest man in the world. The Grinch had nothing on Fred. Fred would wheel himself around the home with a scowl on his face, grunt at you if you spoke to him, make fun of you if you said something nice, and insult people behind their backs.

I fell in love with him. I did. Not in a romantic way but in the way of true friendship. I got to know Fred intimately and I got to see the man behind the grump.

And Fred was a gentleman. He would do things for people, little courtesies. One of his table mates liked jam so Fred would put the packages on her placemat for her every morning.

Fred was like the Hooded Fang in Mordecai Richler’s “Jacob Two-Two” book, he’d give you candy when you weren’t looking and deny the credit for having done it.

When I first went to visit Fred, he reluctantly let me into his room. But the more I showed up, the more he welcomed me.

Fred complained about everything. Nothing was good enough and everybody was an idiot. But I didn’t try to convince him things were better, I didn’t deny his negativity and try to get him to look at the bright side or like people. I listened and nodded. Sometimes I laughed. I allowed him to be himself. Fully himself, without trying to change him.

And guess what? Fred started to smile. He started to tell jokes. I found out that he actually had a great sense of humour. Okay, often it was at other people’s expense but he could really tell a joke.

So you know by now I like to bring up the D word and one day I asked Fred if he was afraid to die.

“Die?” he said, “Why would anyone be afraid to die? It only takes a minute. Just like getting your tooth pulled. Open up and say ‘ah’.”

My friendship with Fred taught me that when we accept someone for who they are and give them the space to be themselves and feel heard, they will begin to trust that it’s okay to be themselves. Fred softened his hard shell, shed some of his armour, and allowed his true self to be seen.

I call this the miracle of unconditional love. And when we can offer someone that gift in their later years and when they can receive it, it can heal their soul.

I’ve come to understand just how much older people value this kind of soul friendship.

For folks in their 90s, everyone else is likely to be gone and friendship of any kind can be hard to come by.

One of my friends is 92 and he talks to me about how prevalent aloneness and loneliness are in his life. He recognizes how important it is for the younger people in his senior’s residence, those in their 70s, to make connections with other seniors. He sees the vitality this brings them when they gather together in the hallway alcoves to socialize and touch base with each other.

Another friend of mine, she’s 95, tells me one of her secrets is having younger friends! She says talking and listening to someone 40 years younger than she is keeps her vital. I try to call her often.

Soul friendships, and connections with people the same age (or older or younger), seem like obvious ways to experience healing as we age. However, it’s not easy to make new friends when you’re older. You seniors have told me that. But you’ve also told me how important it is to try and maintain relationships and stay out of isolation.

How do help seniors feel less alone? It’s a big job. Sometimes I just have to give it over to the Creator of this mystery we call life because I can’t do it all.

Okay, I’m going to talk about death some more. And I’m going to talk about MAiD.

I’ve had the privilege, and it is a privilege, to accompany 3 different people on their journeys toward MAiD and deeply listen to many more who are contemplating the idea.

A woman I was very close to, I’ll call her Connie, made the decision to die by medical assistance when her pain had become too great to bear. My only job was to support her. If she changed her mind, I would support her, if she decided to go through with it, I would support her.

Some of her family members were very much against it. Her family doctor, too, wouldn’t sign her papers. Some of the staff were unhappy with her decision. I just kept telling her, I’m here, whatever you decide to do, I support you.

As the date drew near, she only grew more determined. She was so ready to go. I got a shock one day when her former pastor came into the home and accused me of promoting death rather than supporting life.

And I had to think about that. I had to wrestle with this complex question that MAiD brings up: is it okay to take our own death into our own hands?

Regardless of my personal answer to that question, I was bound by my vocation to support Connie and to allow her the dignity of choice. She made a decision for herself and my job was to accompany her spiritually, period.

Well, whatever reservations or doubts I may have had were removed when I watched her die. It was one of the most beautiful deaths imaginable. And I’ve seen a lot of difficult deaths. Whatever you believe, God was in that room with us. Peace was in that room with us. The sun streamed onto her bed, her favourite song was playing, and her PSWs, her closest family members and I blessed her journey as she closed her eyes and went to sleep for the last time.

The reason I keep talking about death is because when you’re not afraid of it, it becomes a friend to gab about rather than a foe to ignore. I just can’t understand why our culture insists on avoiding this subject!

We all get to do this mysterious, powerful thing! And we all have this in common!

I think it must be the part of me that has faith in the power of the Spirit, because I think death just might be the greatest spiritual adventure of our lives! What if we could be excited about it? What if we didn’t have to be afraid of it at all? How would that change our world?

I posted an excerpt of this talk in my latest newsletter and a friend wrote me back to agree with me. She said, “As far as the ‘D’ word, I find myself looking forward to the adventure. I am imagining the most exciting trip ever with no packing, no passport, no visas, just me. I have served my 3 score and ten years……may I be excused now????”

Whether you believe in heaven, reincarnation, or that we just turn back into the energy that brought us here, or we return to love or become angels or worm food or if you believe nothing happens at all, the act of embracing this inevitable part of our human journey can free us while we are still alive.

But I do understand the reluctance. Death means the potential for great suffering. And that scares the heck out of us. For good reason.

Death means loss. And loss means grief. And grief hurts. This is what really scares us, I think. Suffering. Hurting so bad. What we have to lose, what we have to say goodbye to, what we have to let go of.

And yet the capacity to feel these experiences, face them, overcome them is built into our DNA.

One of the most powerful examples of how to let go was shown to me by Mary. Mary was 98, and four of her five children had died before her. “You have to go on,” she’d say when I would ask how she coped with that level of grief, that enormous amount of heartbreak and emotional suffering. “You have to go on.”

Mary loved to tell stories. She would reminisce about her childhood and tell the funniest parts of what she remembered. She had faith in a God, despite her tragedies, and she lived and loved life to the fullest, despite its hardships. And above all else, she kept a sense of humour.

“How do you do it, Mary?” I would ask. “I just roll with the punches,” she’d say.

So when life throws me a punch I remember Mary and I try to roll with it.

And when grief strikes, threatens to knock me down and not let me back up, I remember Mary and her words: we have to go on.

If I had to say what the biggest gifts were that I’ve received from older people, I’d say keeping a sense of humour and looking on the bright side.

From the time you’re born
Til you ride the hearse
Things are bad
But they could be worse.

That’s from Danny. Pretty near every time I go and see him I remind him of this little verse that he taught me. Because he forgets. And it never fails. He roars with laughter every time.

“Count your blessings, not your sorrows,” another senior friend told me when I asked how he got by. Focus on what you have rather than what you don’t. Accept who you are rather than lament who you’re not.

These things can be hard to do when getting older brings on a feeling of uselessness. You’ve all told me that this is one of the hardest parts of aging: losing a sense of purpose.

Most people want to be useful and want to stay active. As the body breaks down and activity of any kind becomes increasingly difficult and you can’t do the things you used to do, it can be challenging to re-establish a sense of purpose.

It’s especially hard in our society because we often measure self-worth by how productive one is. We haven’t been taught to feel like we’re enough just as we are.

But by being a witness to people at the end of their lives, I’ve learned that there’s nothing we have to do to be enough. Our lives just as they are, are enough. Just by the very fact that we have a life, that we’ve been given this body to live out this life-adventure, makes us enough.

Our enoughness doesn’t depend on our output. What kind of a job we had, how successful we were in relationships, or as parents, how many credentials we have or don’t have.

We are enough just because we have been given a life, each of us, in equal measure, one life. Ours to do with what we will. Failures, mistakes, regrets, all part of the deal. Love, loss, pain, heartbreak, grief, suffering. All part of the deal.

Love includes pain. Life includes death.

I asked a woman who was married for over 70 years how she did it. “Swallow hard,” she said.

I laughed, surprised by her candour, and then asked her to explain. She told me, “You want to say things and you don’t. You want to change things and you can’t. You compromise, and you let go.”

There’s that letting go thing again. It’s a theme with aging. Can’t be helped. There are so many losses. And we do need to grieve them, if we can. We need to cry it out, if we are able to summon the tears. And we also need to be brave and swallow hard and go on.

I don’t have to tell you that one of the biggest losses to contend with is memory loss. I am dealing with my own cognitive impairment from a viral illness and it’s scary not to be able to remember.

Accompanying so many people with dementia enables me to understand what it’s like to lose memories at every stage of the game.

I’ll tell you a funny story about dementia though. One of the residents, in his 80s, was a minister and a therapist and though he was in the later stages of Alzheimer’s and his short-term memory was completely gone, he could still carry on a supremely intellectual conversation.

I’d spend hours with him talking about God and psychology and the meaning of life. But I’d leave his room, go visit another resident, pass him 20 minutes later in the hallway and he’d say hello to me as if we’d never met.

One time, after one of our long conversations, during which time his therapist-mind had been active to the point where he was under the impression that I was a client, he said to me, “Perhaps next time we’ll talk about payment for my services.”

Most of the time he thought we were in his office but that was the first time he hinted that I should pay him! But he was a very good therapist. I definitely got my money’s worth out of him.

Isn’t it ironic how our culture reveres being in the moment and the power of now, but maligns dementia and memory loss?

People with dementia are living in the moment. For some of them, there’s nothing else. We feel terribly sorry for them but they are alive and aware and sensing and feeling this moment-to-moment experience of aliveness without the burden of the past or worry about the future.

But again, it’s the losses we mourn, not only what they’ve lost, but the version of them that we once knew.

I’m in the unique position of meeting people as they are now. Not knowing the previous version of the person means it’s not sad for me to be with them. If your loved one has dementia and you can do this hard thing of meeting them as they are now, over and over and over again, you will get to have a new relationship with them. Every minute of every day.

I learn so much from being with people with dementia. Every single moment is new. Talk about letting go.

May we all feel empowered and purposeful as we age and march toward death.

Aging becomes a healing process when we can face it with all our fears and all our doubts and all our losses. We can only let go when we first embrace the reality of what is. And it all belongs.

You’ve taught me that. Thank you.”