Getting Old is No Fun
“It’s not fun to be old,” Herr Schmidt told me that one day in June when I visited Walter in the hospital where he and Walter shared the same room. Walter for his high blood sugar level; Herr Schmidt, for a heart issue. He was 91 years old and fastened in a wheelchair because he could not walk. His legs–red and shiny–were swollen like a giant sausage on a hot grill that could burst anytime when poked with a fork. He had a robust physical frame, though. He had been in the hospital since April that year.
When Walter and I returned from his nicotine break in the hospital’s courtyard, we found Herr Schmidt in the visitor’s lounge. He told us the nurses asked him to stay there until he could return to his bed. “Yes, I’d been told the same,” Walter said.
There seemed to be so much going on in their room. All the nurses in the ward were running here and there. Walter and Herr Schmidt had another roommate who must have been in his 90s, too. I heard one of the nurses saying he died.
I gasped. That could not be! When I arrived at the hospital that day, the man was sitting in bed with his legs stretched out. A tray of slightly touched food was in his lap, and his eyes closed. He must have dozed off while eating. Walter asked me to remove the food tray from the man because it had been sitting in his lap since lunch was served at 12 noon. It was now a quarter past 2 in the afternoon, and no one bothered to see if the poor guy was done eating. I was about to take the tray away from him when I noticed his hands resting on it. I didn’t want to touch his pale, bony hands, so I tried to remove the tray slowly, careful not to wake him up. He opened his eyes a bit when he felt a movement. He lifted his feeble hand and nodded as if telling me it was all right. He was a tall man with broad shoulders. He must have been an eye-catcher when he was young. Now, he was so emaciated, his cheeks sunken. I felt so sad, knowing his time might come any time soon. I did not think it would be that so soon.
He was still breathing when Walter and I left the room to go to the hospital courtyard for a cigarette break. Walter insisted that I brought him a pack of his all-time poison—his cigarettes to which I said smoking can cause joint pain or, worse, could make his insulin treatment ineffective. His blood sugar level was at 750, and some that day when the ambulance delivered him to the hospital. He had not had a puff for five days, so why start again?
“That was idiotic to think that smoking could affect my insulin treatment,” Walter reacted. It was like telling me I was an idiot. Smoke yourself to death, I wanted to say.
Walter had to smoke–the only vice he had and would not give up. Nothing, and no one could persuade him to stop smoking. Not even our family doctor in the Philippines. I remember that time we were vacationing back home when our doctor came to visit us and told Walter to stop smoking.
“Walter, we want to see you live longer.”
“Me, too,” Walter replied. “I want to live longer so I can smoke more!” His jaw dropped, our doctor. And I never touched the issue again until that time in the courtyard.
“You could not walk in the first place, so you could not go anywhere else to smoke,” I reminded him that day in the courtyard. He just waved his hand to let me know I was talking nonsense. “Look, I am in the courtyard!”
At least he didn’t seem to have joint pain walking. He walked faster and smoked two cigs in succession, and then it was time to return to his room. It took a while to journey back. He walked slower and made two stops as if he had joint pain again. I watched him as he walked. It was only this time that I noticed Walter had grown much older than his age. He looked weak and tired. I squinted my eyes to suppress a tear. Indeed, getting old is sad.
“Yes, he died,” Herr Schmidt said, almost in a whisper, his voice in hushed quiet tone, “but no one was telling us. It could only be why they are not letting us return to our room yet.” He was pensive, and no one dared say a word. I said a little prayer for the guy who had just joined his Creator. At that very moment, I realized I had done a small act of kindness that day to a helpless person—releasing the burden of that food tray in his lap. I am sure it made him comfortable, however short that comfort had been. He passed alone, and that made me doubly sad. May his soul rest in eternal peace.
It was not long before Walter and Herr Schmidt were joined by another patient, who I presumed was deaf because the nurses and his doctor would talk to him loudly. The patient, in his 80s, I guessed, would not react; he would only glare at them. The next time I came to visit, that patient was gone. Now you see them, now you don’t. I said to myself. They come and go that fast. Then came another roommate, a middle-aged man–Mr. Havel
Mr. Havel was sleeping or pretending to sleep every time I visited Walter. He would not open his eyes when the nurses called his name. He had swollen legs, like those of the nonagenarian in his wheelchair. Heart issue, I could tell. Walter has diabetes but was placed in the heart station for lack of a bed that day in the diabetic section.
Mr. Havel did not stay long, to Walter’s delight, which I could understand. When Mr. Havel’s relatives would visit, it was agony for Walter. Everyone would talk loudly simultaneously in a language Walter recognized as Slav. The noise they made was unbearable. I imagined Walter getting Filipino visitors gathered around his bed—joking, talking, and laughing while eating rice, pork adobo, KFC chicken drumsticks, and the ube cake they brought for Walter but ate themselves. It was Picnic time, you know.
About Herr Schmidt, he loved to talk. I could not understand much of what he was saying most of the time, but I gave him the impression that I did. He had two lower teeth left; thus, his words were slurred. I had to listen carefully to what he was saying. He also spoke in a dialect that Walter could hardly understand either. He laughed a lot, and his laughter was infectious. I was astonished that Herr Schmidt could hear and understand every word spoken to him at his advanced age of 91, even if said in a whisper. His voice faltered as he talked about his wife, who died on the 10th of June that year. It was sad that he could not attend her funeral. Tragic. Her picture was on display on top of his hospital side drawer. He would show a print of her funeral card–to a nurse, a doctor, a cleaning staff, or anyone coming to his bedside for the first time.
Because no one among his children could look after him, the hospital sent him to a home for the elderly when he was discharged. This reminded me of another elderly patient I shared a room with last year when I had my defibrillator implant. Oh, how he would be awake the whole evening, crying and screaming all the time! He could barely move and could not get off his bed without assistance. Finally, when he asked a nurse when he could go home, she said rather bluntly, “Soon but not to your home–to a home care!” He was silent for a while, then he cried again.
Herr Schmidt was not looking forward to living in a home, but he said he had no choice. Fate is cruel, he said. His voice trailed off.
“But I hope to find you here when I come again this coming Sunday,” I told the man when I bid him and Walter goodbye that afternoon. “Oh, you know what I mean,” I winked at him.
“You bet! I’ll be around, and you’ll find me here!” He said with a big laugh.
My friend Walter in his hospital gown. I persuaded him to wear my hat for this photo shoot. Looking good, Walter!
Mr. Havel did not stay long, to Walter’s delight which I could understand. When Mr. Havel’s relatives would visit, it was agony for Walter. Everyone would talk loudly simultaneously in a language Walter recognized as Slav. It was terrible, the noise they made. I imagined Walter getting Filipino visitors gathered around his bed–joking, talking, and laughing while eating rice, pork adobo, KFC chicken drumsticks, and ube cake they brought for Walter but ate them themselves. It was Picnic time.
About Herr Schmidt, he loved to talk. I could not understand much of what he was saying most of the time, but I gave him the impression that I did. He had two lower teeth left; thus, his words were slurred. I had to listen carefully to what he was saying. He also spoke in a dialect that Walter could hardly understand either. He laughed a lot, and his laughter was infectious. I was astonished that he could hear and understand every word spoken to him at his advanced age of 91, even if said in a whisper. His voice faltered as he talked about his wife, who died 10th of June that year. It was sad that he could not attend her funeral. Tragic. Her picture was on display on top of his hospital side drawer. He would show a print of her funeral card–to a nurse, a doctor, a cleaning staff, or to anyone coming to his bedside for the first time.
Because no one among his children could look after him, the hospital decided to send him to a home for the elderlies when he gets discharged. This reminded me of another elderly patient I shared a room with last year when I had my defibrillator implant. Oh, how he would be awake the whole evening, crying and screaming all the time? He could barely move and could not get off his bed without assistance. Finally, when he asked a nurse when he could go home, she said rather bluntly, “Soon but not to your home–to a home care facílity!” He was silent for a while, then he cried again.
Herr Schmidt was not looking forward to living in a home, but he said he had no choice. Fate is cruel, he said. His voice trailed off.
“But I hope to find you here when I come again this coming Sunday,” I told the man when I bid him and Walter goodbye that afternoon. “Oh, you know what I mean,” I winked at him.
“You bet! I’ll be around, and you’ll find me here!” he said and howled with laughter.
Unfortunately, as we grow older, it can often feel like time goes by faster and faster. It’s like a roll of toilet paper, the closer you get to the end, the faster it rolls 😊
What an analogy! And funny you would say that! A few minutes ago, my roll of toilet paper rolled down so fast it would not stop until it hit the floor! :)
Indeed getting old is no fun. We learn of so many friends and acquaintances who have “passed the bridge” that we cannot help but think of our own mortality. We Filipinos should be thankful that a home for the elderly is non-existent in our mindset. It must be most heartbreaking to breathe your last alone.
I could not forget that moment. I must have been the last person that man might have seen before he breathed his last.
Read this just now, Dik. It is a very sad story for the elderlies who spend their last days without their family members. This reminds me of my mother who died just a couple of weeks ago. I was with her when she breathed her last. As Filipinos, we take care of our elderly until the end. Nanay was with me for 6 years when she became bed ridden. We took turns in taking care of her. I hope the elderlies are given comfort and care by their loved ones in their last days. It is difficult for us family members, but they deserve love and care. Or even if they stay in a home-care facility, at least they should be visited often.
I wrote this essay when Walter was admitted to the hospital two years ago. I made some changes, like giving the other characters names for easy reading and adding some relevant facts I failed to mention the first time I wrote it.