A large turnout is expected for the funeral of Brooke Astor at
St. Thomas Church on Friday afternoon, but if everyone who
benefited from this wonderful philanthropist attended, it would
have to be held in an arena.
Those of us who grew up in dire straits in the city had every
cultural advantage at our disposal, thanks to the beneficence of
Astor and others in New York City.
When I was a child, I virtually lived in the 110th Street Aguilar
Branch of the New York Public Library after school, and my
weekends were spent exploring the Metropolitan Museum of Art;
both were Astor's pet charities. Last summer, after learning of
Astor's declining condition and alleged mistreatment by a family
member, I wrote a column describing my gratitude and respect for
her generosity.
More and more, however, I am reading essays on the horror and
indignity of growing old when one's body no longer functions at
an acceptable level. The burden of dementia and incontinence
falls to family and close friends, and the term
"euthanasia" loses any negative connotation. At what
age do we start thinking people are too old to live? When do we
pull the plug on a failing human being?
When I first saw Astor, at a City Hall event in 1999, she was
frail but of sound mind, and she showed she still had a sense of
humor when she lamented being too old to head the Astor
Foundation. She enjoyed giving money away and, at that point, was
97. She was 105 when she died, and according to her wishes, her
gravestone will carry the epitaph, "I had a wonderful
life."
Last week, the oldest person in the world, Yone Minagawa, died at
114 in Japan, which has one of the world's longest average life
spans, a fact often attributed to the healthful Japanese diet
rich in fish and rice. Maybe it also has to do with a healthy
respect for the elderly.
America Online recently aired a video that showed a caregiver
repeatedly striking a defenseless 91-year-old male patient,
unaware of the hidden camera. The caregiver rained her slaps and
blows on the poor man, who did not even have the strength to
shield himself from the attack. Unfortunately, this video is not
unique, and similar episodes of rage toward the elderly can be
viewed on the Internet.
My first summer job before entering college was as a nurse's aide
at a nursing home on West 86th Street. I was 17 and unprepared
for such an introduction to the reality of geriatric infirmity. I
was only there for two months, but I left wondering how anyone
could endure working for any length of time under such depressing
conditions. The staff members at nursing facilities are grossly
underpaid for the work they do, and it's not surprising that the
low pay attracts only the ill-qualified or the saintly.
I was reintroduced to that environment when my mother-in-law came
to live with us in 1996; she was headed into the latter stages of
Alzheimer's disease. There's no need for me to detail what a
challenge this was for my family, but I did have an epiphany
about this disease and what it means when bad things happen to
good people. When I took over caring for Mildred, my
mother-in-law, I was nearly crippled with osteoarthritis. I could
walk only short distances and at times resorted to using a walker
at home. Taking care of Mildred, although sometimes maddening,
actually strengthened my legs and muscle tone. In addition, I
rediscovered how madly I was in love with her son, who tended his
mother so gently. A silver lining is ever present when one looks
for it.
The truth about our humanity is that there is a skull beneath the
face that will emerge one day in each of us. There is no escape,
but how we meet the challenges of life while we're here may be
the secret to inner peace. Edith Wharton once wrote: "In
spite of illness, in spite of the archenemy sorrow, one can
remain alive long past the usual date of disintegration if one is
unafraid of change, insatiable in intellectual curiosity,
interested in big things, and happy in small ways."
I suspect Brooke Astor lived by this rule. May she rest in peace.