As my brother used to say when he couldn't quite wrap his tongue around the actual Spanish: "OUCHIE WOW-WOW."
Up and at 'em early this morning to visit with a woman who runs a moving service for the elderly. Great idea, much needed, she's very dynamic and great to talk to, but hanging out in a "senior living residence"? Yeeeeeah, not so fun.
Some years ago, I did a day-in-the-life story of a parish director (layman who does all the administrative tasks, freeing the priest for sacramental stuff only). Our last stop for the day was a nursing home, where he held a brief Communion service.
Maybe there were 15 people there. Most were in wheelchairs; some were on oxygen; some were drooling on themselves, and even though he was standing right in front of them and practically yelling to ensure they could hear him, several fell asleep.
When we got back to the car, he turned to me and said, "And THAT is why I always know where my son keeps his gun."
Since Oregon requires you to have a physician certify that you are terminally ill and have 6 months or less to live, somebody just buy me a one-way ticket to Switzerland when it looks like I might start heading down that path. (They're not so picky.) I can't stand the thought of having struggled so hard to make something of my life and myself only to revert at the end of it to toddler status. If my mind is mush, I'm not that interested in keeping my body running...I have no desire to pay for the privilege of being stuck in an old people ghetto. (Even though most of those apartments are more modern, not to mention larger, than most of the ones I've ever lived in.)