[NOTE: I thought you might enjoy a reprise of this old post.]
By the time my mother reached her high 90s, she seemed to care less about everything. Part of this, I’m almost sure, is that she was experiencing a marked although mercifully slow cognitive decline. There were a few pluses, though, in addition to the negatives: she had always been a relatively anxious person, and now her general anxiety seemed almost gone.
I wondered about this, and I decided that in order to be anxious it probably helps to have a keen appreciation of time, because part of anxiety is anticipating the future. And my mother seemed to be less aware of time and the future.
She also had had so many losses of friends – after all, she had outlived nearly every single one of her contemporaries – that she became more and more philosophical or perhaps stoic on hearing of the death of some of the last ones. It’s not that it didn’t bother her, but seemingly not too much or for too long.
My mother had a thing about my hair, which is curly. She always thought it too messy, and for years and years and years every time I visited her she’d frown a little bit and ask if I could brush it and smooth it out. “No,” I’d say. “This is the way my hair is. If I brushed it more it would just get bushier.” It got to be our little dance, and as she got older and older and older it bothered me less. In the last few years it made me smile because it meant she still cared about stuff like that, which I considered a good sign.
I had often joked that I’d know things had really gotten bad if she stopped saying it. Well, a couple months before she died—during her last, more precipitous, decline—she stopped saying it. I knew what that meant, and it made me sad. What had become amusing to me was no joke at all any more.
As I’ve gotten older myself I’ve noticed that long before the stage my mother reached there is often a diminution of the intensity of the feelings of youth. Some people are happy about it because no longer are they storm-tossed by every disappointment and fear they experience. For others it can segue into too much of a flatness and even a depression. Others don’t experience it at all.
I’m not sure where I stand on this. I know I used to be more shy in social situations than I am now. But I know I can still get pretty intense about a lot of things, and even more intense about some—for example, politics.
Ah, politics! You knew that would rear its ugly head, didn’t you?
Which brings us to the first sentence of this comment by “Tonawanda” earlier today [March of 2015]:
Fast approaching the undiscovered country (age-wise) it is for me less urgent what folks like BO do, however despicable.
“BO” is, of course, Barack Obama. “The undiscovered country (age-wise)” is a reference to Hamlet’s soliloquy “To be or not to be,” in which he refers to death as “The undiscover’d country from whose bourn/No traveller returns…” (“bourn” has an archaic meaning of destination, domain, or boundary).
I’ve seen and heard a lot of comments to that effect over the years in political discussions: “I’m old, so I hardly care anymore.” People sometimes say a variant of it, which is that their children can worry about it but they don’t all that much.
I understand the sentiment and I’m not condemning it, but I find that not only do I not share it, but that I seem to care more than ever. There’s something about what Obama is doing [today you could just say “what the Democrats are doing”] to trash the rule of law and the separation of powers, as well as specific actions of his such as the pact with Iran that is likely to give them permission to have nuclear arms, or his advocacy of terrible policies such as this one, that bother me intensely. There’s something about the idea of the possible death of the American republic that fills me with a personal, bitter, and sharp despair, whether I’d be around to see the event or not.
How about you?
