“I’m very unhappy!” She was in her 80’s. Had worked hard her whole life; independent, self-sufficient, strong-willed. And now angry. Angry that she was running out of years. Angry that she could no longer do things on her own, or have control over her own time.
The years had taken their toll. Paid help now came in daily; fixing meals, cleaning, doing laundry. Various neighbors stopped by regularly; some taking her on outings or simply spending time.
She stated “I may get to leave (the house) for a bit, but when I come back it doesn’t make a difference!” I understood what she was saying. She enjoyed her times away, but whenever she returned home, her loneliness, her frustration, her fear, were all still there, waiting.
Her losses were real and significant. Her inability to accept those losses was her greatest loss; robbing her of the ability to enjoy the love and care of those surrounding her.
My dad was an invalid for over a decade before his death.
He had been a hard working farmer; he had also worked at a public job. Although my dad had many faults, when he lost his health, he did not respond with anger. Oh, like any person, he had his moments. But overall, through those long years, he quietly accepted what he could not change.
His appreciation for his marriage became more evident. He enjoyed the visits of his children and grandchildren. (And he did not fill those visits with complaints about his own circumstances!) During the final years of his life, I heard more genuine laughter from my dad than all the thirty plus years I‘d known him. I heard the words “thank you” from his mouth more than ever before. And I heard the words he’d never spoken in my childhood, “I love you”.
He could not walk without assistance. He was legally blind and could no longer read. For more than ten years, he was almost constantly lightheaded and would get violently sick to his stomach without warning. His kidney function was only a fraction above the level requiring dialysis. He did not always have control over bodily functions. He was insulin dependent. He dealt with some minor mental confusion.
And yet for the most part, my dad was content. In his final years he accepted what he’d lost, and embraced much of what he still had.
And therein lies the battle. We all experience loss. Sometimes small. Sometimes great. But some good always remains. As Paul wrote many years ago; “I learned to be content, whatever the circumstances”, (Phil 4:11) and, “godliness with contentment is great gain.” (1 Tim 6:6)
Contentment is a choice; at times a very hard choice.
“I’m very unhappy!” she declared. I gave the gentlest response possible, “Yes, I know”.
Very well put. That was beautiful. God Bless
He was everything described by “the author”. I had the privilege of knowing this gentleman the last 4 or so years of his life. In that short time I learned many things from him that I had never experienced before. I consider it an honor to have known him.