Not Yet

 

 

The last visit to Hadassah Ein Kerem Hospital was supposed to be less depressing (if a visit to such a place can be called less depressing). My husband’s treatment was scheduled for the afternoon this time, so there weren’t as many patients in the department.

But we still had to wait, because there were fewer staff members, too.

Waiting is how you spend your time in a hospital.

Waiting for your turn for blood tests, for treatment, for your appointment with the doctor.

Nobody is in a hurry and most of the staff is speaking in hushed tones. At least until the woman across the room starts shouting into her phone arguing with her daughter, that she isn’t raising her own daughter properly.

You finished one appointment, only to wait for the next one, for another test, another consultation. 

In between I try to read but I always end up watching the hospital’s life unfold in front of me.

People of every age, color, religion, social status.

Illness forgives no one.

The endless trickle of people, some walking briskly through the corridors, others merely shuffling their feet, gets me thinking about old age.

Why do we have to go through it at the end of our lives? Why can’t we leave quietly while we are still young and strong?

Or better yet, why don’t we have it backwards?

Why don’t we arrive in this world as old people and then grow younger and younger with every passing day until we disappear into the clouds of Heaven or the pits of Hell?

I watch frail old bodies, barely able to walk, yet still clinging to life.

One more step.

One more day.

Why?

I look at my own hands.

Old woman’s hands.

I am getting old.

Fortunately, I wear trainers, so no one has to see my ageing toes.

Old age is such a humiliating burden.

Not yet.

Not yet, young polite nurse. I don’t need you to hold up my trousers because you took my belt on the way to the MRI machine.

Not yet, young cheerful doctor. Please don’t make silly jokes while you guide me through the corridor as I stumble along, pretending not to notice how unsteady I am.

Not yet.

I don’t need you to lift a cup of water to my lips because my hands tremble too much to hold it.

I don’t want anyone tending to my old, failing body. Not when they roll their eyes after leaving the room. Not when they laugh behind my back because I am not able to pronounce my words properly anymore because my dentures no longer fit.

We never think about this when we are young.

Why would we?

We believe we are strong and independent, with quick feet, steady hands and clear minds.

We never imagine what we might become.

A collection of trembling bones.

Weak muscles.

A mind slowly disappearing, lost in pain and memories.

I am terrified of old age.

Sometimes I think it would be better to leave while I still can walk without a walker.