Hang Out With An Old Person

I watched Mr Holmes recently. I can recommend it as a film if only because I adore Ian McKellan and the exploration of a man who was once so able experiencing the slow slide into losing his mental faculties.

As I was watching it I was struck by this one image. I am left to describe it rather than show it since apparently no other bloggers felt as impacted by that moment as I was.

You are following Mr. Holmes and the son of his housekeeper as they walk back from the beach. Holmes' sweater is a deep red, comfortably large and plush. Not plush by design but from what is likely years of sitting in chairs poring over leather bound volumes of books with a pipe tucked in his mouth long after the tobacco is gone. He walks with that distinctive stoop of the shoulders, not overmuch into frailty but with the marked weight of many years pressing him just a bit closer into the earth.

Beside him is the boy. Jaunty, excited, laden with whatever accessories he's brought with him and chattering on next to Holmes.

I suppose the reason it stayed with me is the sweater. I had the immediate urge to find my Grandfather's old sweater and wrap myself in it. It has been washed many times in the nearly 5 years since he passed and it no longer carries any traces of his scent but I still sometimes hold it to my face and breathe deeply. As though the fibers were just waiting to relinquish some carefully held memory.

And it was the sweetest sort of melancholy. The boy is arguing with Holmes about whether or not he will die. Because certainly, in the boy's mind, he will not. And Holmes with an all knowing smile and a sad shake of his head gently allows the conversation to shift. Not forcing the boy to look too closely but so clearly knowing the reality of death.

Sometimes I am still struck by grief so sharp and cutting that I find it difficult to breathe. I remember the first time it happened that I was irritated with myself.

I was hanging washing on a clothes line. Tedious work that allows the mind to wander. As I drifted over events I forgot some detail and try as I might I could not remember. And the instant thought that came without any fetters was, "I should call Grandpa and ask." But he had been gone a year by then. And though his number is still in my phone now it will not be his voice mail that I hear on the other end.

When my Grandfather died I lost a friend. A man who I spent hours with throughout my life but especially at the end of his. After college I moved back to New Orleans and discovered that Grandpa had cancer. And he became my first priority. Jobs were chosen based on flexibility. Wednesdays were chemo days.

We would sit for hours reading, chatting with the nurses, talking with each other about obscure topics that had no real relevance but felt good to roll around. All while poison got pumped into his veins. We hoped the poison would kill the cancer before it killed him.

I spent time with him through losing his ability to drive and retraining him to drive again when he felt strong enough. I was the carrier of an ever increasing supply of pillows to make up for his dwindling natural padding. I learned when he was tired and how to give him a break while keeping the secret of his exhaustion between us. I followed grocery lists so specific that a change in a brand's label could cause frustration. And we visited so many places so often where my diabetic Grandfather insisted I must have a piece of that delicious looking cake for his sake.

And I must confess that though I despise that cancer took my Grandfather from me I must also allow myself to admit that cancer gave my Grandfather to me as well.

I will never forget the moment where we were sitting together in his car having arrived at our destination. I was in the driver's seat and he the passenger. His door was open, his hips already shifted preparing to exit when he turned to me and said, "You know Grace I thought you were one type of person and recently I have learned that you are someone completely different."

And in that way that only two friends of long acquaintance and difficult circumstances can he told me every good thing without saying a word. He thanked me from time to time with gestures both large and small. But that moment was one of the most precious moments that I have with him and the feeling is so utterly mutual.

Cancer allowed me to know my Grandfather as a man. Not just the one who brought whatever I wanted to eat when I was sick or picked me up from school or took me through the grocery store to carefully select the right pairing of cake and ice cream for my birthday. Not just the Grandfather that gleefully attended every event and make comments that were often times inappropriate but typically made everyone laugh.

I met the man. And he met the woman. No longer a high schooler but not quite a confident woman. And we got to be people together. Who talked about things as complex as why bad things happen to good people and things as simple as what our favorite colors were. He told me stories that I don't remember and he brought me refreshments as I built bookcases for him. We catalogued and arranged and hunted through microfiche and film and chased Genealogy leads that weren't our own.

We went on a road trip to repair his hearing aids (It STILL sounds like someone's talking to me out of a barrel) and he encouraged me to ignore the GPS but wouldn't silence her (he called her "that woman").

And the last time I saw him when he and I made eye contact and he gripped my hand in one of his large, square ones I don't remember him saying anything. And maybe that's because there was both nothing left to say and an endless ocean of things to share. I remember knowing how catastrophic his loss was going to be.

This man taught me how to argue. I mean really argue. A casual conversation could turn into a demand for valid sources for my stance. A quick bite at a fast food restaurant could result in a lecture, complete with drawings, about how the Egyptians might have dug out their tombs with their technology.

I heard a quote once that now, upon needing it, I cannot find and cannot be sure of the author. But it was something along the lines of: When you lose an acquaintance you can recover, over time the wound heals. But when you lose a friend it is like losing a leg. Not only are you missing the leg but also all the things that it once afforded you: long walks, tennis and the like.

And that so perfectly describes the pain of losing my grandfather. And it also freed me up to continue to miss him in waves that ebb and flow without any predictable pattern. That man was my friend and I still long to share with him the things going on in my life and to hear his perspective on them and to argue with him about things neither one of us may have any sources to back up.

So when I say "Hang out with an old person!" I really mean anyone different from you. I mean that you should find someone who is radically different in age, race, class or circumstance. They can be related to you or they can be a neighbor. No restriction but get to know them. Get to know them until they occupy space in your life and your heart. Get to know them until you are gut wrenchingly vulnerable to their loss.

And you will lose them. Young or old there is a cost to loving people. And that cost is usually associated with the temporary nature of life. But that relationship will change you if you let it. And I like to believe it will change you for the better.

So do it. Go find someone and hang out with them. Laugh with them with your head thrown back and your mouth wide open while they chuckle quietly behind a hand.

Get surprised when you're watching an old film and you discover that that little old lady is a super big fan of Clark Gable's butt. Cook in the kitchen and learn that the best way to bring out flavor is by taking time. Sit at the bedside and swing your feet like a small child, knowing that this person means the world to you but what they need is you by their side while they make their exit. .

And then keep doing it.