“…the idea had barely taken hold in the old man’s head before he opened the window of his room on the ground floor of the Old Folks’ Home…and stepped out…this was less than an hour to go before his birthday party would begin in the lounge of the Old Folks’ Home. The mayor would be there. And the local paper. And all the other old people…It was only the Birthday Boy himself who didn’t intend to turn up.”
– from The 100-year-old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared by Jonas Jonasson
Two Things:
- Thing One: I am engrossed in The 100-year-old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared. I can’t really recommend it yet because I’ve only just started and we all know that some books can start off with a bang and then dither about until they dwindle and die a slow and painful death. I am hopeful that this isn’t one of them.
- Thing Two: I have just come back from visiting my 87-year-old Father Who Is In the Menno Intermediate Care Home and Doesn’t Open His Window at All.
I think I am loving the book because I am secretly (and now, not so secretly) substituting my father for the 100-year-old man in the book. I want it to be my dad busting out of the Menno Home in Abbotsford. I want him to be the one who steps out into the flower bed beneath his window and gets on the first train out of that soul-sucking beige world of care (a quick disclaimer: the care and attention Dad receives at the home is stellar. They are kind and concerned people. That’s not the point).
The point is, well, the point is, that Dad sits in a recliner…while Allan Karlsson, the 100-year-old protagonist is shuffling off into a series of madcap adventures.
In case anyone’s thinking I have lost all grip on reality, I know that the book is fiction.
But a girl can hope.
Do they still make those children’s books with alternative endings? That’s what I want. I wish my dad could have a different ending. It is hard to watch a man who lived such a large life dwindle into a world that encompasses a chair, a hall and a tiny room with a bed.
His macular degeneration means that a man who was a voracious reader, reads no more. The hearing loss that cannot seem to be remedied by any means, removes him from the sports and the news of the world that he loves. A series of strokes have taken various bits of memory and created glitches in behaviours. The once uber-optimist is now filled with dread.
I know it could be worse. I think of those old Indian men I saw dying on the streets of Varanasi enveloped in a haze of dust and chaos. At least Dad has a warm bed, caring aides and medical attention. At least there’s that.
But a girl can hope.
A girl can imagine her big strong daddy striding off into the woods like Paul Bunyan with a chainsaw. She can imagine him once again teaching her how to swing a hammer and build a tree fort. She can see him telling a joke, tipping his head back and roaring with laughter.
She can remember.
And then she can imagine him climbing out the window and never looking back.
Beautiful post, Colleen. Attaining advanced age is a bittersweet achievement. True bitterness, though, would be reaching it alone.
Thanks Lesley. I love your insight. You’re right, at least it is a somewhat shared experience.
Colleen, I’ve often thought of taking my exit (if I have any say in the matter i.e., the bus I don’t see…) by going for a late afternoon walk up into the mountains in winter assuming I can still walk!). Alternatively, of going for a sail out Juan de Fuca Strait and heading south in November…..
My mother is 96, suffers from severe dementia, and in an intensive care home. The place scares
the bejezus out of me. Gets me thinking the ‘healthy living for a long life’ may not be the best lifestyle choice after all. Just sayin’.
Claude, I was thinking that it might be time to take another look at the movie Harold & Maude. Remember that one? Maude decides that on her 80th birthday, while she’s still healthy and lovin’ life, to take the big exit. So, maybe that’s an argument for staying healthy right up until the end. I think my biggest problem in the future, will be the same as it is now, which is that even on the worst days, I’m still curious as to what’s going to happen next. I hate the thought of missing any of it. I suppose it’s one more lesson to show us that things aren’t really up to us.
I understand exactly what you mean, Colleen. I feel this way about my mom sometimes, and she’s still relatively healthy and active at 69. She even has a new boyfriend! I’d just like her to be less fearful, to embrace life fully and take chances. I want her to be more like me, but I have to remember that she’s come a long, long way from where her mother was. I almost fear what my daughter will be like.
I get it Sharry. Your mother is doing her best with what she was told by her family and society was acceptable for a woman. And you were ‘allowed’ to go further still…
So, like you said, I guess the good news out of it all is that if your daughter embraces how you are in the world (which is all those things you wish for your mother 🙂 and then expands that notion just a little bit more…well, look out world! She’s going to be crazy-amazing.