The phrase, “death with dignity” has puzzled me for quite some time.  What the hell does that mean?  Just to cover my bases, I have asked my son to make sure I am wearing my suit and my teeth when I die.  I don’t know how he will manage that.  But that’s my take on “death with dignity.”

What about “life with dignity?”  Where is that idea?  Where the hell is the contract for that?

Sometimes I think Michael Vick’s dogs are better off than our old and tired and powerless parents.  I have seen so much the past ten years or so.  My mom.  The mom of a good friend.  A lot of folks my age are taking care of their moms and dads these days.

A good friend of mine wrote to me recently, “Mom and I argued and were not speaking to each other for a week before she died suddenly in her sleep.  I have never forgiven myself for this stupid argument.  She was the sweetest, kindest person ever.”  I tried to assure my friend that her mom understands and that she would not at all like being the cause of some guilt held by that daughter.  I’m guessing that nothing I can say will take away what that daughter feels about that argument.

Regrets aren’t good.  But disagreements happen.  People argue.  I don’t think my friend ever mistreated her mom.

But I do know a few things.  I know what it’s like to be young and on top of the world.  And I know just how important are the praises and the encouragement from others and the worthiness we need to feel of our own selves.  Even when we’re young and in control.  Our parents were so good with the praise and encouragement.  Mostly.  And remarkably so.  What I do not know is what it feels like to be at death’s door and in a total downward spiral of control over my own life, my own bodily functions, my needs, my wants, my own thoughts, feelings and self esteem.

Nor do I know what’s it like to be so old that I have to sit and take the humiliation of my child telling me what I can and cannot have, when I can and cannot have it, and how ridiculous I sound when I question the most basic things.

But I know what it’s like to be praised and encouraged.

I’m just a stupid middle-aged country boy from Orange County North Carolina.  But it seems to me that praise and encouragement are most important to one who is most down.  And who is more down than an old parent dreading their rapidly approaching death?  Their heyday is over.  Their memories are their future.  Their regrets are their life.  And if they are aware of anything real in the present, it is certainly the increasing burden they are placing on their children – the same ones for whom they worked so hard all their lives to eliminate burdens.

I don’t know.  I’ve only been on sort of the perimeter of total elderly parent care.  I cannot say with any certainty what all those round-the-clock caregivers go through or face and deal with on a minute-to-minute basis.  But I’m guessing these old guys they care for might rather do without a meal or two, a pill or three, even cable TV for a week or so if they could just get a hug now and then from the ones they love the most.  And a word or two of encouragement.  From the same children the old ones trust to place them on the portable toilet every day.

They put Michael Vick in jail.  All he did was beat and torture a few dogs.  We beat and torture our old parents everyday.  Figuratively.  But the pain is surely just as real to those old guys who raised us.  

And I’m guessing that Michael Vick at least smiled at his dogs every now and then.

I visited with a  dear old friend last weekend.  Read more about Connie and more on “Death With Dignity” by clicking HERE .