By Melody Goetz

Edna was my roommate in Guatemala. I had never roomed with an 86 year old before, and was very conscious of her heart condition. For the first few nights, I lay awake, listening for her breathing. If I didn’t hear it, I’d get out of my bed and quietly stand beside hers, my eyes straining to discern her form through the darkness. I’d hold my palm in the air above her face, hoping to feel the reassuring coolness of breath.

Needless to say, I didn’t sleep so well. As far as I know, however, Edna had fantastic sleeps, so deep she hardly needed to breathe!

One night Edna told me about some of her experiences while raising seven children. She’d done such a great job of it that they didn’t need her so much anymore, and, more recently, her husband had died. Just before we turned out the light, she said, “I feel superfluous in the world.”

That was Edna – ever eloquent, ever succinct – even when speaking of something so disquieting. I didn’t know what to say. In my relative youth, I couldn’t comprehend how that might feel, or how one would endure that kind of life change. I did think, however, “Edna just articulated the cry of elderly people in our culture.” I wondered what could bring a much needed sense of purpose back into the season of aging.

Her suffering spoken, ever-practical Edna wakened each day in Guatemala, dressed and joined us for breakfast. She was pleasant, committed and resolute. She played with children in orphanages, visited with Guatemalan elders in a care home and – when she became tired – uncomplainingly endured bumping along the cobblestone streets in a wheelchair.

The children didn’t seem to care about her grey hair or her limited mobility; they swarmed Edna in her wheelchair, fighting for a place on her lap, coveting her attention. They had her laughing, and she them; they called her ‘Abuela’ or ‘Abuelita,’ words meaning ‘grandmother’ or, more tenderly, ‘little grandmother.’

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Upon her return, when asked to comment on her Guatemalan experience, Edna smiled and said; “Guatemala is the jewel in the crown of my old age.”

There had been moments of tenderness between us all – which I so easily forget, or too often find hard to take in – but this one is so memorable: Edna turned to me and said, “You care for me as though you are my own daughter.”

My thoughts returned to our earlier conversation and her underlying question of, “What do I give now?” Once Edna had been needed by seven children, and now she needed to accept the care of others. How strange it all is, and not always comforting, that we all must let go of what we know. The givers must learn to receive, the receivers learn to give. In the end, is it all the same, do these opposites come together and make life whole?

I have written a book of stories for the Ednas of this world, for the many elders whose stories and lives are vivid and real, the telling of which can enrich and fill those of us with many years still to live. These elders have graciously lived, have survived the hard lessons and now face what may be the most difficult adventure of all: the rocky and heartbreaking terrain of letting go, in trust.

From the crucible of that journey, they pass on a rich inheritance to those of us approaching from behind. Far from being superfluous in the world, they are relevant and essential. Their stories are the gift of the elders to their children, their children’s children and the world they love. They are our history, our roots, our bedrock.

Excerpted from the book this small window: true stories from well-aged people. Melody Goetz is a freelance writer from Abbotsford who works in senior management for Hallmark Communities. For information on the book: conexionspress.com, 604-755-7715.

January 2011