Tell Them: Take the Time to Listen to Extraordinary Lives

“As we age, our stories become the threads that stitch generations together — reminders that a life well-lived is never lost if it is told and heard.” 

Life isn’t fair. But no one ever said it would be. However, as I sit here in the hospital with my ailing father, surrounded by other patients around his age in varying states of decline, I am profoundly reminded of that simple fact. Life is just not fair. 

As my father has aged, I’ve noticed people talk to him differently. Not as an elder or a peer, but as more of a child.

2x heart attack survivor

 I’m sure I am guilty of doing that too, back in the day with my grandmas. 

I first noticed this change in tone with my mom, who, after an aneurysm and two brain surgeries plus cancer, slowly became “not all there.” And I understand when someone’s mental and physical state is in decline, the conversation has to be simpler. But I remember at one point looking into my mom’s eyes and I could tell she knew – she knew – how they were talking to her. And I could tell she didn't like it one bit.

wild and crazy guy

Personally, I try to use humor, which my dad has a lot of. He can’t hear worth shit, so the whole hospital floor might hear me yell, “You wanna go raise hell in the halls and flirt with the nurses?” when he’s getting antsy and needs to get up and walk. He seems to respond better to humor and sarcasm (and I am my father’s daughter.) Again, I don’t necessarily fault people who talk to him like a child – I know at times it’s necessary and it’s kind of the default when you’re talking to someone who may not quite be 100% there for whatever reason. It’s just an observation. 

I do think though, that sometimes, even often, we unintentionally forget that these humans, living in their battered and war-torn bodies – reflect a LIFETIME of experiences. Adventures. Challenges. Accomplishments. Heartbreak. They’ve seen and done things we can’t even imagine. And as they age, and struggle with technology or have trouble remembering things, we FORGET – WE forget – that THEY are the OGs. THEY are the GOATS. They drive too slowly. Welp, they lived in an age when they didn’t have cars. They have trouble using a mobile phone. Hell, they would call the operator who would patch them through to whomever then needed to talk to. They’re always reminiscing about “the good old days.” Well, now can you blame them????

My grandpa, Reo, and my dad

It's FASCINATING to sit down with someone who has seen and done things we will never see or do. Who has lived what we may call “a simple life," when in fact they have most likely worked harder and longer than we ever have. Who have stories that, when you look at someone in their later years, seem implausible and you suddenly realize that at one time, they were in fact young. That everything you have seen, they have seen tenfold. Wars. National tragedies. Hard financial times. Major historic moments. New technologies. (Hell, my kids can’t believe we didn’t have a microwave until I was 13.) 

And if you do take the time to listen, you’ll realize that the individual in front of you with this aging brain many times has the most amazing memory. 

1st Lt. USAF, 1954.

My dad still knows his service number from the Air Force back in the 50s. He can rattle it off like his address. Can he tell me his current address? Sometimes. Not often. But that seven-digit number? Ask him anytime, anywhere. 

He knows his childhood dog’s name (Brownie) and the calf they kept in the back yard (Senator.) If he notices you’re left-handed, he’ll tell you about the time his teacher repeatedly made him switch to his right hand to write (the Palmer method), and how his mom (my grandma) went to the school to tell her to knock it off, he’s left-handed. 

My dad's behind the cow. 

He loves telling the story of how the milkman got in trouble for delivering milk without the cream on top, when it was my dad who was siphoning the cream from the bottles as they sat on the porch. He talks about how his dad, Reo, struggled with his health after being gassed in WW1.

Honeymoon hunk.

I love hearing how he met my mom at a single’s dance and fell asleep on their first date. That the lullaby he sang to me when I was a baby was, in fact, a fraternity song. (I thought it was about a kitty, but it was about a Kappa Alpha Theta.) 

50+ years of marriage.

I was lamenting to a dear friend and coworker that what I hated the most about my dad being in the hospital was that no one knew who he REALLY was. Like, there’s so much more to him than they see lying in that bed or chair. SO MUCH MORE. His reply to me was, “Well, tell them.” 

So I did. 

And in sharing short tidbits about things my dad has seen and done, I feel like those who were caring for him saw him in a new light, a new respect, perhaps. And between his 94 years and their 20 or 30, they found commonalities. 

CAT exec

The nurse who used to work at Caterpillar (my dad was career CAT – 40 years) and listened to him tell stories of how CAT used to be.

Someone who had relatives Shelbyville, where he was born and raised on a farm.

Restore's unofficial electrician

A CNA who had experience with the agencies where he volunteered daily – Habitat for Humanity ReStore and Midwest Food Bank. 

I am grateful to that friend who sensed my despair and presented me with a simple solution: tell them. And I am grateful for the healthcare workers who took the time out of their incredibly busy shifts to listen, ask questions, and see him not as a sick, old man, but as an extraordinary human being whose current state of body and mind reflects 94 years of an extraordinary life. 

So, I’m telling you, as my wise friend told me, “Tell them.” It matters. We all matter, but especially those who have been here much, much longer than us. 

“To sit with an elder and listen is to honor a life well-lived and a lesson still being given.”

P.S. Dad is now home and resting comfortably. He's still funny, sarcastic and extraordinary.