(Not My Wisdom, I hasten to assure you — The Elder I will quote you was much older than I, and much wiser.)
As soon as I finish writing and uploading this post, the fellow above is going to have a tail knit — Meanwhile, I thought that Rocky Raccoon might, in this sedentary position, work to illustrate the quotation I’m offering you as we wander into the weekend.
It’s a quotation taken from the introduction to Diana Athill’s Alive, Alive Oh!, published in 2015 when the writer was 98 years old. I’ve been rereading Athill’s work from her octogenarian and nonogenarian years this week after our conversation about fears we might have around ageing — and what we might do about those. And this introduction offers this reassurance to possible fears of ending up in a retirement home:
‘Sometimes I sits and thinks and sometimes I just sits’: I have forgotten who it is who is supposed to have said that, but it is a good description of a state quite often observed in a retirement home, and considered pitiable. Disconcertingly, I recently realized that I myself (not often, just now and then) might say those very words if someone asked me what I was doing. It is not a welcome thought, but less dreadful than it might be because I now know from experience that the state is not necessarily pitiable at all. It is even rather pleasant — or it can be. That probably depends on the nature of the person sitting. To me it has been, because the thinking turns out to be about events in the past which were enjoyable, and when my mind relaxes itself it is those same events which float in and out of it.
Until about two months ago, those events included people, usually men. I talked about it the other day with someone who is also in her nineties, though not so far into them as I am, and she said, ‘Yes, of course, men. What I do when I’m waiting to fall asleep is run through all the men I ever went to bed with,’ whereupon we both laughed in a ribald way, because that is exactly what I did too. It cheered me up to learn that I had not been alone in indulging in this foolishness.
But then something odd happened. The things floating out of the past did often still include events which involved men, but just as often, and just as pleasurably, they were images of places and objects: all the most beautiful places and things that I once experienced.
Alive, Alive Oh! Diana Athill. London: Granta P, 2015.
Here is a video of 90-something Diana Athill speaking about Writing (in 2010)
A Guardian interview by Tim Adams in which Athill laments that she’s had to cancel her appearance at the Toronto International Writers Festival at which she was very much looking forward to interviewing Alice Munro — she had a serious sinus infection (and I’ve learned through another article that her dog added another complication when it ate her hearing aid!).
But between that interview and this (five-minute excerpt) video, Athill had managed to find and accept enough help (swallowing her own reluctance to surrender independence) to be on that Toronto stage with Alice Munro in 2009. (I’m frustrated at not being able to find a newspaper article I once read — while having tea and scones in London’s National Portrait Gallery — in which Athill writes about that reluctance to surrender independence. She realizes that hanging on to it was, at this stage of her life, costing her an opportunity she didn’t want to miss out on. It’s a compromise that many of us will perhaps consider, eventually.)
Here’s a rich interview with her by Erica Wagner in a 2016 issue of The Gentle Woman; Athill was 98 when this interview took place.
I wrote about Diana Athill’s Somewhere Towards the End here (and have written briefly about this and other of her memoirs in various posts — for more, enter “Diana Athill” into the blog’s search feature — that magnifying-glass icon top right, above the header).
And while you’re waiting for your library copy of her book(s) to arrive, here are two columns she wrote for The Guardian: one titled, “Why I Moved into an Old People’s Home“; the other “It’s Silly to Be Frightened of Being Dead.“
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go knit a tail for a slightly impatient raccoon . . . I hope you’ll enjoy some of this reading and viewing material over the weekend. If you find time, please start or add to the conversation in the Comments Section below — and we can chat more soon. . .
Happy Weekend,
xo,
f
I read the Guardian articles and I found them relevant to my situation with my mother. At almost 93, she is lonely, unable to eat almost anything and unable to leave her apartment by herself. She refuses to deal with her possessions and to move into a ‘care home’. Ironically, she has 3 Coastal Health visitors a day. Monsieur and I had to go in the middle of the night when she fell. The decision to accept and to embrace ageing and imminent death is a brave one but I am sure the once that decision is made, there is a sense of relief among the Elder, friends and family.
Author
You and your mother have my sympathy, Joanne. My mother was also adamantly opposed to (afraid of) moving to a care home. If only there were more positive examples of seniors living contentedly in them (my mother-in-law adjusted very happily to hers, and I try to imagine that adjustment for me, eventually.)
Hi, Mater.
I recall reading “Why I moved into an old people’s home’ and loving it more than a dozen years ago. I’d forgotten about it until your mention and I’m so glad you did. I can see myself moving to an old people’s home too, not yet, but if I live so long, in another 10 years. In a way I find that statement unlike me but on the other, no, not any longer. I’m an octogenarian now and if nothing else, clear-eyed (and hopefully clear minded when the time comes).
I also enjoyed your tale of a tail on Instagram where I follow you among all the flower and garden porn.
Author
I’m like you — I would have said that was unlike my vision of my last years, but I begin to see that it might be a necessary eventuality, and as such, I should think of ways that it might be positive.
So pleased you enjoyed my “tale of a tail” 😉
I am reminded of a time many years ago when we spent a few days visiting a friend whose elderly mother-in-law was living with them at the time. As an early middle aged woman at the time, I found the fact that the MIL spent many hours just sitting quietly on the couch doing absolutely nothing very sad. As I’ve aged, I’ve often remembered that and thought that I never wanted to be like her. I always wanted to be busy doing something purposeful even if it was only reading a good book and sipping a cup of tea or a glass of wine. Age and the quotation from Athill are causing me to rethink that. Perhaps it’s okay to simply sit and ponder or reminisce sometimes. Maybe not all the time, but definitely sometimes.
Author
I’m beginning to rethink as well, Elaine. Your example reminds me of watching my grandmother at family gatherings, when she was in her 80s — she would often just sit and watch, a small smile playing on her lips, a seeming pretence at listening to conversations about her, a slightly detached yet content enough air. . . I remember feeling sorry for her, but now I see that simply being there, with loved ones around, might be enough, that she might have been pursuing memories, connections, thoughts of her own without needing to chew up her social energy in chatting. Interesting, isn’t it, this change in our perceptions as we get closer to that age. . .
I’ve been a fan of Diane Athill for many years & I remember mentioning her on Sue B’s blog one time , when you came along to say you were a fan too . A piece of her advice I’ve always remembered was to think of death everyday but only for a few minutes then put it aside & get on with life . Don’t try & avoid it , accept it but don’t let it take over . She wasn’t in denial, she took the right steps when they became necessary but lived life on a daily basis . Such a wise woman . So I am going to really enjoy reading all these links & I might dig out my DA books .
That raccoon is my new favourite of your masterpieces .
I remember that post, Wendy. It was my dream tea party where you could bring your dream guest, and both you and Frances wanted to bring Athill. Great minds and all that. 🙂 Having been mulling over this subject matter ever since my mum died, I think I’ll give myself a shake and go read some Diana Athill.
Author
I’m confident you’ll find something of hers to enjoy, Sue! (that tea party was fun! I remember!)
Author
Exactly! She wasn’t at all in denial, but prepared as much as she could and then just got on with her day/life.
The raccoon is my favourite as well, and I’m a bit sad he’s bespoke — but he will be a much-loved pal, so it’s “all good”!
I enjoyed reading those pieces over my breakfast on a grey, misty and cold morning, one where I read the paper to discover that Iris Apfel had died at 102. There is a great deal to be said for living your life on your own terms, especially when you reach a very old age indeed. I expect that is what most of us would like though I suspect it takes some planning and preparation, rather than leaving it to chance and the goodwill of others.
Author
Exactly! “living life on our own terms . . . is what most of us would like though I suspect it takes some planning and preparation.” Neither Apfel nor Athill seem to have left their old age to “chance and the goodwill of others” and I’m thinking it won’t behoove me to do that either.
Margaret Athill was very lucky to have such a London-esque, Highgate-esque residential home. Her positive view of moving into a home is obviously coloured by that niche setting. However, it’s not like that across the country. My father clung on to the end at home, determined not to be institutionalised, and as important for him, fiercely determined not to route the money he wanted me to inherit towards care home fees instead. Free personal care for the elderly in Scotland means that you can have up to 4 care visits at home per day, throughout the year including Christmas Day. Help with getting up, dressing, going to the toilet, making food, going to bed. For residential care, if you have over £32,750 in funds, you pay for the whole of your care, currently between £670 and £840 per week depending on whether it’s residential or nursing home care. If you have below £20, 250 in capital, you get state help with the weekly payments. Athill had no children, so that emotional decision was spared her (tho I get the pain at having to decide about her books). Perhaps it’s easier for women to face residential and communal care – and most residential homes are much more enforcedly communal than Athill’s. My father would have been utterly distraught. What am I saying with this ramble? That Athill had a very superior, very refined experience of residential care and that it doesn’t remove any of my own prickles of fear about that eventuality for me, because I know what my local situation is. But if the alternative at home is physical misery?
More positively, I am learning to knit – or rather overcoming the trauma of school knitting classes before I happily abandoned “domestic science” for the welcoming embrace of Latin. I’ve been seized by a desire to knit socks, which I know are probably the most difficult thing to do. Currently learning how to increase and decrease on a test square, tho my mind does wander and I end up with some wonky shapes!
I was about to post exactly this when I saw what you’d written. I know what it was like for my elderly relatives from working class backgrounds and with no house to sell to provide funds for a nicer care home. Their experience of care homes in England was definitely not the same as Diana Athill!
Author
I absolutely agree — far too many seniors live in precarious conditions in most of the world — and, appallingly, in countries that should be able to do much better.
Neither Athill nor I are saying that hers is a solution accessible to, or desirable for, all.
For such solutions, I hope we all make the best possible choices in the voting booth and perhaps work in other ways for social justice and elder care to the end of life.
But meanwhile, I think that there are useful insights Athill offers of her experience in the kind of institutional life she had assumed she wouldn’t want for herself.
Author
Ha! Interesting that Margaret and Diana have similar surnames Atwood and Athill — easy to transpose.
And yes, it’s clear that she moved into that home because it was such a great setting — she writes about the serendipity of visiting a friend there a year or so before it was clear she should make a similar move.
Many points worth unpacking in your comment, if only I could take more time. This notion of caring for elderly parents so that they can maintain their independence . . . and then the idea of an inheritance for the kids. . .
I feel uncomfortable, to be honest, making assumptions about the emotional decisions made by women who have no children. She had beloved nephews and nieces as well as a plethora of causes she supported. Her feelings about spending her inheritance might have been more complex than imagined.
If you read more of her writing, you will see that she worked hard for relatively modest earnings for most of her life — right into her 90s — and it’s my impression that good planning and careful budgeting played as much a part in her “very refined experience” as did privilege. Perhaps I’m simply being too optimistic (I’m not often accused of that 😉 but I find her example encouraging.
As for the socks! Wow! I’m so impressed that you’ve got over the “trauma of school knitting” — I remember you writing about this before, the scarring! ;-). Socks aren’t the most difficult thing to knit, imho, but I put off making any (out of that same apprehension) for my first 20 or 30 years of knitting. The first time you “turn a heel” on a pair, though, you will marvel at the ingenuity, the precise engineering that they represent, and wonder about the first designers of such fitted footwear. Let me know when that happens! (there are so many great youtube videos available now, and so many different ways to knit socks — I’m a traditionalist, knitting mine from the cuff down, generally on 4 double-point needles)
Oops, I got my “writers whose names begin with At” mixed up! I confess that I haven’t read any of her work, but on checking my local library I see that they have quite a few of her books, so will dip in there.
Although I had heard of Athill I confess I am not familiar with her works. I am going through the interviews you posted and and am struck by her honesty and by the fact that she was so productive and creative well into her 80’s. I will check out her writings.
Author
Yes, she’s SO honest — her memoirs are all well worth the time.
After reading your post, I sat down and read Somewhere Towards the End by Diana Athill in one sitting. I shall be reading more of her writings. I just turned eighty and am surprised to find that although I am extremely busy and living a good life, suddenly I am aware of time passing. It is a pleasure to read somone who was my age or older and shared many of my same thoughts. Thank you for the recommentation.
Author
Oh, I’m so glad you enjoyed that book as much as I have, Sarah!
I’m not that age, yet, but I so appreciate reading someone who was, and who wrote about being “somewhere towards the end” with such insight, wit, and honesty.
You’re very welcome!
Frances,your collection of “little friends” is awesome,how much love,inspiration and skill are knitted there!
Wonderful post and I’ve enjoyed every single comment and find it very useful as well. We are very far from four visits a day or assisted living facilities,only nursing homes,but there will be some projects,soon,I hope
I have to read Diane Athill
Dottoressa
Author
I’m not sure how many visits we have a day, right now, but the support is fairly good here, although often (if the elderly person is lucky) supplemented by family or friends. I think that the effect of the pandemic on assisted living, care homes, etc. has been rather chilling, though — and with the coming Silver Tsunami, as it’s been called here, at least, we have good reason to be thinking ahead and planning, even as we do our best to “live in the Now.”
I’m quite sure you’ll appreciate reading Athill. (I went through an Athill kick about a decade ago– she’s so sharp)
Whilst it’s important to take hope from any positive stories about aging I think we should be very cautious when it comes to Diana Athill’s experience. Her ‘care home’ was exceptional and in no way within the grasp of most of us. However even for that privileged and lucky few things came to a horrible end, after her death, when it was bought by a new company and they all had to find new accommodation.
My experiences of looking after my own elderly relatives who had no house to sell to pay for enhanced care and could only have basic care was awful. When their dementia became to advanced we could no long cope with their care at home. Without my constant vigilance at their care homes I dread to think how neglected they would have been.
However I have another aunt living with us who at 94 is still a practicing artist and has a rich social life. I had another friend who remained politically active up to the age of 97 and maintained a very active social circle of much younger people.
So what am I saying here. It’s not all doom and gloom but like so many other aspects of our lives social class and education really impact in old age. We can do things to help ourselves at my age (65), staying physically active is the big one along with staying socially active. However I think we have to accept it’s a bit of a lottery and I so I try to value every day of good health and getting to do what I love.
My husband and I have experienced both sides of the retirement living scenario. After trying to take care of my mother at home, my father moved my mother into an assisted living facility when she was in her early 80’s, her physical health was not good. Within a year she had moved into a nursing home. My father moved into a nearby retirement center so he could visit daily till her death. Neither had considered that this would be where their later years were spent. Life was not easy for my mother, but my father had a good social life at the retirement center and remained there until he died at 93.
John’s mother, however, has long-term healthcare and has remained at home, even when she had the opportunity to move into a retirement center near friends. Now, at 93, she is mostly confined to home and is incredibly lonely. Her caretakers are not substitutes for personal friendships.
John and I plan to move into a retirement center at some point, though hopefully not for many years. We work hard to take care of our health to stay at home as long as possible. As Maureen C. said, “it’s a bit of a lottery.”