When your ‘cool’ relatives head to old-age homes

Afew days ago, my favourite uncle announced he and his wife (my aunt) were contemplating moving into an old-age home. A couple of hours later, they confirmed they weren’t just contemplating; they were pretty sure it was “time” for them to check into a “senior” facility (round-the-clock medical supervision appeared to be the No1 item on their wish-list).

It felt weird when I heard that because I don’t consider my uncle and aunt “old”. I’ve grown up with them; so, in my mind, they’ve remained stuck in a time warp. They seem the same to me now when they’re 65-70, as they were when they were 30-35; they look almost the same, if you don’t factor in the 10 extra kilos my aunt has piled up, and the fact that she stopped wearing (dramatic) black liner on her eyelids the day she turned 35. Her hair remains jet black (“naturally”); my uncle colours his (using a subtle shade) so he’s not visibly “grey”. They remain as youthful and effervescent as they were in their 20s and early 30s — cracking inappropriate jokes, indulging in racy gossip, being my confidantes and eating unhealthy food even today.

In many ways, my aunt has been a guiding light in my journey of life. In my pre-teens, when all my hormonal horridness was kicking in and turning my thought processes distinctly twerp-ish, I actually used to wonder when she would “grow old”. Surely 30 would be the end of the road of youthfulness, and she’d quit going to so many parties in her chiffon saris, and get set in the doddering ways of dotage? No such luck. Her youthful streak continued, and, for her, age was just a number: she went from 30 to 40 to 50 and then 60, and never quite lost her lust for life.

Then, there is my uncle. There has been nothing avuncular about him. I remember a party we had in his apartment, when I’d just started working, back in the 1990s, and I was bursting with pride while introducing him to my new-found colleagues because he was so different from the rest of the 40-something “uncles” everyone else possessed. He blasted Chris Rea’s <Road To Hell> on his gold-plated Marantz music system that he had picked up on his travels abroad. He joked with everyone about their boyfriends and girlfriends, and, one by one, they all sidled up to me to say, “Wow, your uncle is seriously cool!” I beamed. He was my trophy family member.

And now these same people are saying they “belong” in an old-age home. Such a copout. My kneejerk reaction was I’d never forgive them for being so uncool.

“See, there’s nothing uncool about an oldage home,” my father — who’s older than my uncle and continues to stay at home, alone — offered. “It’s not going to convert them into ‘senior citizens’ overnight.” He rattled out the fun things one can do at an old-age home — the sort my uncle and aunt have identified for themselves. Community yoga, movie club memberships (regular screenings on a giantsized, flat-screen telly), book reading sessions, cooking classes, mall crawls, weekend getaways, winter picnics, swimming lessons. There’s even a community centre where one can organise parties (in case my aunt wants to get one of her fave chiffon saris and a pair of high heels out of the suitcase in the loft). All in the company of “like-minded” folks.

“Not too bad, eh?” my dad posed. “Plus, there’s the certitude of 24x7 medical intervention — you know, <just in case>.”

It doesn’t sound bad at all. In fact, after hearing them (and my father) out, I don’t think I have a problem with them moving into an old-age home; they’ll probably be happier with “like-minded” people around instead of sitting locked up in their fourth-floor apartment watching Netflix the whole day and killing time, and fretting why their offspring (who lives in a different city) has not found time to dial in his bi-weekly calls.

But I do have an issue with this entire notion of being put into a silo because you have aged. It’s an entirely subjective perception, I admit. When I was growing up, my parents’ generation — which included my uncle and aunt — were my buffer from the reality of ageing. Our grandparents were the “old people” (even though I have a friend who became a grandmother at 38 or 39, and I certainly don’t think of her as being “old”); and they were old people simply because they were the moms and dads of the “grown-ups”: my parents and their siblings.

I don’t have a conventional problem with old-age homes: the theory that unwanted, unloved people are hived off into these dreary spaces where they spend the rest of their lives feeling desolate and miserable. I don’t buy that at all. But I have a problem with my uncle and aunt being part of the “old” package. They’ve always managed to make me feel young. Now I’m dreading they’ll make me feel old.

See, there’s nothing uncool about an old-age home,” my father — who’s older than my uncle and continues to stay at home, alone — offered. “It’s not going to convert them into ‘senior citizens’ overnight