The Seven Ages of Grandma
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages.
Jaques, Act 2 Scene 7 of Shakespeare’s As You Like It
Eldercare, like infant care, is ubiquitous.
As anyone who has had a child, or worked on the editorial-end of a parenting magazine knows: the A-to-Z of infant care will always be needed, because at any given time someone is trying to get pregnant, is newly pregnant, or is learning to care for a newborn-to-toddler.
While there doesn’t seem to be the same niche popularity for eldercare intel (see: lackluster design that smacks of meager marketing, brand, and design budgets), the need is ALSO omnipresent, and growing. A quarter of the American population is aged 45-64, so the time is now for someone to Get-Rich-Quick! serving the informational needs of the old, the affirm, and their adult caregivers.
For all these reasons, the cadence of my content will recycle every year, returning to the Start of Sh*t in January to handhold those new to the eldercare moment — call it their maggot on the ceiling moments — and then carrying through Middle-to-End of Sh*t episodes by December.
Of course, the elders themselves, like Grandma, are increasingly unable to partake of this amateur expertise.
I recently deduced that my mom’s passion for filling her waking time with the Hallmark Channel, Masterpiece Theatre, and four hours of evening news is not because of a penchant for romance and reality. It’s because her eyesight is too poor for reading (books or music), and her ears, without the hearing aids she refuses to use, require the ability to turn up a volume.
Her taste is probably the next to go (no Covid joke intended) since, when I realized Grandma hadn’t been to the dentist in two years, she sighed in annoyance for fear of an imminent appointment. Her limitless patience is newly finite too, and she’s faltering when playing the piano “for lack of good lighting.” Her shank has shrunk 7 inches, and she wheezes when she breathes from severe emphysema.
After a recent FaceTime my son observed emphatically, “She’s just falling apart! Whelp, maybe Grandma’s days are finally coming to an end.” Later that week he announced dispassionately to his young piano teacher, who asked about our holiday break, “Grandma didn’t die yet!” “Asher, what’s WRONG with you …??” the teacher asked, taken aback. “He’s my kid,” I observed, meaning: my son has learned that old age is synonymous with a finite life. And these are the “lucky” ones. People who lived long enough to wonder whether they still want to be around.
A recent ER episode snapped me (momentarily) out of my own cynicism about living “too long.” Suddenly, wasting away into my late eighties seemed preferable to abandoning my almost 11-year-old on the literal eve of his birthday, and turning a middle-aged man into a widower. But soon thereafter a sleepless night from sciatica pain reminded me of the cons of aging ungracefully.
Perhaps, in the end, we should return to those parenting magazines to advise us about Shakespeare’s ages.
Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.