To See Them

The older I get, the more I've come to realize...

There is always one more day to see something new, but it seems like there is always one less day to see someone old.

My parents are old. 

For some reason, Western culture, and perhaps most societies in general view that last statement in the pejorative sense, as if somehow naming someone as 'old' is offensive.  But, when exactly did advancing age become a bad thing?  Why do we cover our mouths as if we have spoken a profanity or say something inane to our children when they look at their grandparents and speak exactly what is on their hearts via their eyes - Why are you so old?  Why is being old a profane thing?

In my own heart, saying that my parents are old is like saying they have immense value because they are the keeper of the stories.  The old ones are those who retain the knowledge of the past and enlighten the younger generations about golden eras; they are the narrators of history which inform how we live life today. 

I love that my parents are old.  Let me add one proviso in saying that they are old: Randy Voorhees wrote a book called Old Age Is Always 15 Years Older Than I am ( I haven't read it and probably won't) but I think the saying is true.  When I was fifteen and they were late thirty-somethings,  - they were old.  When I was twenty-five and they were late forty something - they were old.  Now that I am almost forty-two and they are mid-sixties, well - same story, but not in the negative, age-means-they-are-worn-out sense.  With their age comes an increasing willingness and aptitude to share the stories of their youth, and even more fun for me, stories of mine.

Strangely, when I used to get together with my parents when we lived in the United States, we rarely talked about the early years of my life - usually we'd talk about football, or the weather, my daughters or whatever else was handy, but now that I live in Australia, when we actually are physically face to face, we unveil the building blocks of what made us who we are.  My old mother related the story of how she found out she was going to have triplets.

As the story goes...

Once upon a time a young man and woman had been married about eighteen months and she fell pregnant.  (I love that saying, as if somehow you tripped over something and voila, I'm pregnant!) .  Because it was the early 1970's, ultrasounds were relatively unheard of, and x-rays weren't given until late in the pregnancy, so this young woman, my mother, found herself with child and growing larger by the day.  Her Doctor, Dr. Schotzko (I'm not going to type that any more than I have to) mentioned to her in about the eighth month, that she was going to have twins!  Oh, how excited the young couple was and the little town in which they lived was thrilled.  Both my mother and father were teachers at Rake Community School, and with great anticipation, the staff would ask my father how he was doing.  How's Diane?  Is she uncomfortable? 

Of course my father probably wanted to respond - Duh, of course she's uncomfortable; she's eight months pregnant and carrying multiple bowling balls in her belly.  Gleefully, though, he expressed his thanks at their concern and went home each night to work with his wife preparing for the new arrivals.

Then, as my mother went in for weekly checkups near the end of pregnancy, the doctor predictably checked for heartbeats.  "Just two," he exclaimed and my mother was thankful for healthy heartbeats.  At the same time as she was going in for checkups, there was a story from somewhere near Chicago about quintuplets being born (this was before IVF) - a true rarity.  "What are the odds, Dr. Schotzko, that I could have more than two?"

"Not to worry," Dr. S. responded, "The odds are incredibly against it - you go home and do some nesting." 

So, my young mother went home to her young husband and they knitted their way into the cold winter nights both dreaming about what their two little angels would look like and be like. 

Then, with about a week to go in the pregnancy, my young mother visited Dr. Schotzko one more time and this time she had a question.  "Dr. S. it seems strange, but why does it feel like their are so many hiccups at the same time, or arms and legs running across my belly?  Are you sure there are only two in there."

He patted her arm.  "There, there, Mrs. Matthias, it's perfectly natural  to be a little nervous with multiples, but if it makes you feel better, we'll take an x-ray."  So, they lined up the x-ray machine on my young mother's womb and within minutes, the doctor came back ashen faced.  "I need to show you something, Mrs. Matthias."  It was then that he pointed out the spine and head of child one, spine and head of child two and spine and head of child three.

"Congratulations," he said, "Better buy another crib."

My young mother, most assuredly shocked at the recent turn of events, wanted to share the terrifying and exciting news with her parents, but needed to tell her husband first who was working busily at school teaching young minds how to be hippies.  So, she took her thirty-nine-week-pregnant body to school, wrote a letter to her young husband and then walked down to the staff lounge where she was greeted by staff members taking a cigarette break.  My father, resplendent in yellow shirt, macrame tie and light blue polyester pants welcomed her with a side hug (no front hugs for at least three months) and they sat down.

"I have a letter for you," my young mother said to my young father.

My father opened the letter with a smile and as he scanned the page to the part about being a twenty-three-year-old father of triplets, he face turned white and he began to pace the smoky staff room.  As he told his colleagues the terrifying and exciting news, a cheer broke out and after he left, they made bets to when Mrs. Matthias was going to explode.

February 24 my twenty-four-year-old mother moved from the house she shared with her husband to - Blue Earth, Minnesota where she moved in with some friends until she could deliver the bowling balls.  A rumor went around town that the deputy sheriff (with whom she was staying) had gotten this poor young woman with child and his wife was kind enough to let her stay with them. 

February 27, my mother packed her bags and walked to the hospital, by herself - nine months pregnant with triplets and delivered them naturally.

Those were the old days.

I love the way my old mother tells those stories.  Her age, and my father's age, is a recognition of the treasure that they are, and when we arrived in Minneapolis on December 4, we walked into the baggage claim area.  I knew that they would be there for us - they always are - that's what parents do no matter how old they are or how old we are.  My dad was sitting on a plastic chair in front of the baggage conveyor belt.  He was tired, I could tell.  And I pointed him out to my daughters who began running to him.  But when he saw them, his entire demeanor changed; he became a young man again, like the one I remember when I was growing up.  He hugged them hard and then I saw him and my mother and it was like there had been no space between us, no time or nine thousand miles; we simply saw each other again.

I have really cool parents, not hippie-like (I'm not sure they were every hippies) but full of imagination and fun.  Those first few days at their house as we attempted to overcome jet lag, it was incredible to watch their treasured older faces light up with the memories of different years.  It was great to see them.

We went back to the United States this time not to see new things but to see old people - old friends, old family members, old aquaintences, old teachers.  And for each of those 'olds' I could insert the word 'treasured' instead. 

That's how I see them.