Life is always worth living: Part 2.
It’s so important to me to remind people that life at any age is worth living, which you've probably realized because that's what my last blog was about as well. Marriage, kids moving out, retirement…it’s not the end; it’s a new beginning. It might be easy to read that and think, ‘Well it’s easy for her to say; she’s in her mid-twenties and doesn’t understand.’ While I’ll admit that even turning 30 is difficult for me to imagine, I see people on a daily basis at my work who are 70, 80, even 90 years old, and still making their days count.
I want to introduce Urban to you in order to help prove my point. I am using his real name because he has been featured in the newspaper multiple times and keeping his privacy isn’t a concern. Urban was a little tough to get to know, but that’s only because he was always a quiet man who kept to himself. He’s one of the lucky folks who made it to his senior years with his wits completely about him.
I first got to know him about a year ago when he had an extended stay at a rehab facility to recover from a fall. He was annoyed because he had been walking from a car towards the entrance of our building when a big gust of wind came up and blew him over, and he thought that was the silliest reason to need to go to the hospital and then to rehab. I think he was pretty bored lying in bed there, and he spent an hour telling me about his time in WWII, how he met his wife, and all their travels. For the first time I was able to paint a picture of Urban with broader brush strokes, and I loved what I was seeing.
This past April, Urban turned 98 years old. Unbeknownst to us at his Assisted Living Facility (ALF), the husband of the woman who had been cutting his hair for years is a cop in the area, and he decided to make Urban’s birthday one to remember. He called a few friends, and suddenly our entire parking lot was full of police cars, motorcycles, and fire trucks. Everyone sang Urban happy birthday, and then came by one-by-one to shake his hand and thank him for his service. It was incredibly moving, and Urban was floored by the number of people who wanted to meet him and help him celebrate his birthday.
Not to be outdone, a friend from his poker group threw him a surprise birthday party the next day at the local senior center, and Urban’s family and friends were all there. My ALF Administrator and I also attended, and had a great time celebrating Urban and learning more about him.
Recently, Urban returned to the rehab facility after a brief hospital stay, and after a stint with pneumonia, started to decline. I dropped by to see him last week, and his face lit up when I walked into the room which melted my heart. He had a hard time getting words out, but I squatted by his bed and held his hand and looked into his eyes for a minute. He squeezed my hand, and I was caught off guard by how strong his grip still was. I chatted with his daughter and grandson for a while, and she told me how he was pulling pranks on the staff there. I guess they sent a newer staff member to check on him, and he literally played dead and surprised her by waiting until she got up close to sit up and say, ‘Boo!’ ‘Same old Urban,’ his daughter chuckled to me.
She also told me how about a year ago when he wasn’t doing well he told her that he thought he was ready to die and have his time on earth be over. They had reminisced the day before I visited him over his past year – his birthday celebrations, the people he’d met, seeing his two great-granddaughters for the first time, and so much more. Urban ultimately decided he was grateful that God hadn’t listened to his wish to pass on because of all he’d experienced in that short amount of time.
This past Friday I was in the car with friends when I received a text from my boss briefly stating that Urban had passed that afternoon. While I am affected each time a resident of mine passes away, it doesn’t always make me emotional. I know that sounds heartless, but you have to remember the environment I’m in, and the fact that death is a common part of that. When I received the text about Urban, I immediately called her to hear the details. When our conversation was over, I let a tear fall as I looked at the precious pictures of Urban that I had on my phone. Where normal adults have pictures of their kids or their dogs on their phone, I have pictures of my residents.
I will never forget Urban. He made his whole life count – as a young man in WWII, as a husband, as a father, and as a resident. He took advantage of every opportunity in front of him, whether he was facing it as a mid-twenties person like me, or as a 98-year old resident at an ALF. I don’t care who you are, where you live, or how old you are – your life is worth living.
