As a group, we meet for lunch once a week.
Conversation often drifts to the small aches and pains of Aging, and which
medications help, or don’t. One of the men who joins us lives with vascular
dementia. Each week he tells the same stories, and each week we listen. He
works hard to slow the progression of his symptoms and, by any measure that
matters to him, he has done a remarkable job.
We also understand the limits of medicine. His
medications will not stop the disease, and we know there will come a time when
his Family must make the difficult judgment to move him into care. Until then,
he lives fully. He joins us on outings, at golf games, and at football games. He
delights in striking up conversations with strangers, asking them to share
stories from their lives. Most people respond warmly, and he thrives on that
human connection.
Our role is both joyful and heavy. When we are
out together, we watch him closely. He has become lost before, causing real
Stress for his caregivers, who trust us to bring him home safely. We feel a
deep obligation to honour that trust while also protecting his dignity and
independence.
He knows his condition is worsening. Some days
he speaks about it plainly; other days the subject feels too close, and we let
it rest. Over time, we have learned that listening matters more than fixing,
and presence more than progress.
Medicine tells part of the story, but not the
whole of it. What the scans cannot measure is the value of a shared meal, a
familiar laugh, or the simple dignity of being included. Somewhere between
clinical outcomes and lived experience lies a quieter Wisdom, one that asks us
not just how long a life can be extended, but how gently and meaningfully it
can be lived.
Originally Published on https://boomersnotsenior.blogspot.com/
