Life Lessons, Sunsets and Growing Old In America

Sunset At The Hospital Last Week

I am a proud Baby Boomer, born in 1956. My parents were in their mid-forties when I arrived—much older than the parents of most of the kids I grew up with. My grandparents were older too, and my sister and I were born into a family that had survived the Great Depression and World War II, a generation that watched the world change from radio to television. They had learned to count on one another when times got tough, because they often did.

My dad was a mailman. He knew everyone on his route. He was also active in local and state politics, so he seemed to know people everywhere. Within our family and his circle of friends, he was the one everyone called when someone needed help. Whether they were elderly, sick, or nearing the end of life, Dad made sure they had what they needed—groceries, medicine, a ride to the doctor, or simply someone to check in on them.

As a young boy, I often rode along with him. Those trips taught me lessons that no classroom ever could. Those lessons became values, and those values eventually became actions. Helping other people wasn't simply an obligation of faith; it was how healthy communities survived and thrived. People looked after one another. They offered helping hands along the way to make sure no one fell through the cracks.

When my dad passed away, something unexpected happened. The phone calls that had always come to him started coming to me, even though I was only 33 years old at the time. It felt like a role that required more wisdom than I possessed, yet somehow it had been quietly passed from father to son. I don't know exactly how people made that connection. Maybe they had simply seen me with Dad all those years and assumed I had learned what he knew.

As the years have passed, I've watched our culture grow a little colder and a little more distant. Perhaps computers and cell phones have too often replaced actually spending time with people. The relationships that once held families and neighborhoods together seem to be fading. I've heard it said that loneliness now claims more lives than cancer. Whether that's literally true or not, loneliness has certainly become one of the defining problems of our time.

These days, I spend a great deal of time with my mother-in-law, Alice. She's 86, and it seems her body discovers a new way to betray her almost every week. My wife, Denise, and I share the responsibility of caring for her, which means more doctor appointments and hospital visits than either of us ever imagined. Some days are hard. Occasionally I resort to sneaking some ice cream into her hospital room or taking her to a window to see a sunset. We discuss all sorts of things, some serious, some not, and a lot in between. The nurses scold me occasionally.  Guilty as charged, I guess.

Like my dad, Alice continues to teach me lessons about life—the kind you don't learn in school and certainly don't learn staring at a phone. She teaches me to slow down, to be patient, and to listen to a story I've heard more than once because, to her, it's still worth telling. She has taught me to observe carefully and understand what she's feeling, especially when she struggles to explain herself to nurses and doctors. Most of all, she's reminded me that sometimes what people need most isn't advice or medicine. Sometimes they simply need someone to listen, someone to care, someone to be there. Those are exactly the same lessons my father taught me when I was a boy.

I'm not sure modern culture truly values the wisdom and experience of its elders anymore. Many times when I'm with Alice at the hospital, I notice other patients who seem painfully alone. I can't imagine how frightening that must be—to be elderly, sick, and sitting in a hospital room, a nursing home, or even your own home with no familiar face beside you. Surely we can do better than that.

I once read about a program in Europe that paired older adults with children who had no grandparents or stable family connections. The children gained mentors and grandparents. The older people found companionship, purpose, and joy. Both groups benefited in remarkable ways. Wouldn't it be wonderful if we found more ways to do that here?

I'd genuinely like to hear your thoughts in the comments. Do you have older friends, neighbors, or relatives whom you help? If so, how has that experience affected you? Has it been a burden, a blessing, or perhaps a little of both? And someday, when you're the older person who needs a little help, what do you hope your community will look like?

Most of us will eventually need someone to slow down, listen, lend a hand, or simply sit beside us for a while. Perhaps the kind of society we become tomorrow depends on how we treat those people today.

Please share your thoughts in the comments. I hope our conversation will be thoughtful, respectful, and productive.

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Thank you for reading—and for walking this road with me.