Old Age Steals Your Dignity One Piece at a Time

Reflecting on one of my dad’s falls.

Illustration of a gray-haired man in a wheelchair with a cat on his lap.Photo byImage made by author with Canva AI

My parents and I shared a duplex. They lived upstairs, and I lived down. It was the perfect setup to take care of them without us being constantly in each other’s way.

It was also better that I’m downstairs, because I could usually hear everything that was going on above me.

One night, well after dinner, I heard an unmistakable thud: the sound of a body hitting the floor. I’ve heard it before, and once you hear it, the soundbite burns into your brain.

I jumped up from the recliner where I was binge watching Babylon 5 and ran up the stairs into their house.

One of my worst fears came true. My dad had fallen while getting out of their shower, ironically put in only a few days before so that he wouldn’t fall in the bathroom.

Naked, wet, and cold, he faced a new foe for the first time: he couldn’t get up by himself.

The worst part was my dad was an extremely modest man. Growing up, the only times I ever saw him with his shirt off were at the swimming pool. I don’t remember ever seeing him in shorts until he was in his 60s. He didn't want either of us to see him naked on the floor.

After a few minutes, he finally let my mom enter the bathroom, but there was only so much she could do. He was 85, and she was 79, so neither of them were pillars of physical strength.

I waited as long as I could, but what I could hear through the door told me they were making no progress.

“I’m going to put on my shoes, and then I’m coming in,” I told them, giving them a five-minute warning.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you need to be sure-footed when helping someone else up. Shoes with a good tread are always the right choice.

With a little tricky maneuvering and the help of a wheelchair, we got my dad up off the floor, dressed, and in bed.

He didn’t even want to talk to me. He rolled over on his side with his face away from me and told me he needed to go to sleep. Old age had stolen another piece of his dignity.

It breaks my heart to see little pieces torn away every day. The process started with tasks that were easy to let go. When he could no longer help me mow the lawn or trim trees, I saw the pain in his eyes, but he took it in stride. Giving up hard labor hurt, but most of his pride stayed intact.

Then we had to deal with the basic parts of self-care. He struggled to shave himself, carry his plate from the table to the sink, or pour juice from the container without dumping it all over the counter.

I saw the loss on his face every time he needed help. My heart ached with the defeat that gnawed at him inside.

Through humor and positive conversation, I tried to keep his spirits up, but every day, more pieces slipped away. Every task he had to give up was one that was never coming back. With each goodbye, a piece of his pride went with it.

“Forty is the old age of youth; fifty the youth of old age.”—Victor Hugo

It’s heartbreaking to be a full-time caregiver. Most of the time, you feel like you’re not doing enough, and what you are doing, you’re not sure you’re doing it right.

Day by day, you watch helplessly as someone you love loses more and more of themselves. This is the reality of old age.

I'm in my 50s now. While for millennials that may seem old, it comes a lot faster than you expect.

How did I get here already? Wasn’t I just 30 yesterday? I can’t fathom it.

Yet, even now, I’m finding there are already activities that I’m having to let go. I have a chronic condition called Familial Mediterranean Fever, and one of its worst symptoms is a constant spinning sensation. It feels like I’ve just stepped off a merry-go-round and the world is just a little off balance and out of focus.

My doctor ordered me to give up anything to do with ladders. I don’t change light bulbs if they’re higher than one step up, and asking friends for help kills me. I can’t imagine how hard it will be as more options disappear from my life.

So, I try to focus on what I can do. I can still work, care for my mom, and produce online content. Those things give me joy and make the losses easier to handle.

Even in their 80s, my parents could still do a lot, too. They were both fountains of knowledge and encouraged their friends to reflect on the good things in life. They held tight to their faith and set an example of christian living.

Sure, they spent a lot more time sitting than in their younger years, but the value of their wisdom increased with their gray hair.

If you’re an older person, or taking care of someone who is, try to stay positive. Remind yourself of all the things you can still do, and try not to focus on the things you can’t.

Yes, there may be a lot more restrictions than there were last year—maybe even last week—but there are still things you can do. And as long as you can do anything, you have value.

Until next time, keep fighting.