FADING TO GREY

The Coffee Shop in Narrabeen is packed. It always is on Thursday. There’s the 'activewear' Mother’s group circled around the long bench, and at the table closest to the window, a handful of high school students talk loudly into their smartphones. The voice and the music all blend into a collective hubbub. But there something is comforting about the white noise, something reminiscent of what a baby must hear in the womb; persistent, indistinct, soothing.

Amidst the bubbling soundscape and aroma of fresh coffee, an old man in a fuchsia polo shirt and khaki shorts sits silently staring at the swollen fly crawling across his half-eaten custard tart. Occasionally he looks up, his rheumy blue eyes scan the faces of the other customers eager to make eye contact, desperate to start a conversation. His neediness is palpable, his reward nothing more than a brief smile from one of the mothers nursing her bub. The High School students don’t even notice him.

Frankie Perry is one of the 484,600 Australians aged over eighty-five, and like one-in-four of his demographic, still lives in his own home. In fact, he’s lived in the same house for sixty years. “Bridget and I bought our home in 1958, I was working two jobs to pay the mortgage.” He smiles, remembering his wife, Bridget, and happy times. “The place seemed like it was always full of people. Bridget was the social one, and I just let her be. I mean that’s what I loved about her, she was quick to smile and slow to anger. Always had time for people.”

Frankie sips at his cold coffee, his watery eyes overflowing, the small rivulets running down his cheeks. “She was the one with all the friends, and when she passed away, they drifted off. I mean, they were her friends after all.” He dabs away the tears, “See, I was never one for making friends, I had a mate, and he helped me when Bridget died. I was a mess back then, and I was grateful to have him around.” Frankie’s wife died five years ago, and his friend, Sid, in the last few months. “He was a good mate you know. I used to enjoy a beer with him. Only the one, mind.”

 When Bridget fell ill, she didn’t want to go into care, didn’t want to leave her home and the husband she had doted on. So, Frankie took care of her full-time. “It was bloody hard. A lot harder than I thought. She’d wake up in the night and start wandering about. Sometimes she’d start screaming, and when I tried to calm her down, she’d start hitting me. She didn’t recognise me.” He turns his head and looks into the distance, “She was the love of my life and to see her stripped of her dignity, of her memories…” He looks back at the fly and shoos it away with a wrinkled liver-spotted hand, “I miss her.

Bridget was finally taken to the hospital after a severe fall. She died three months later due to complications associated with dementia. Frankie was there when she took her last breath. “I watched as a white wisp of air left her mouth. I’m not religious, but I couldn’t help thinking that that was her soul leaving her body.”

Pointing at the Mother’s group, Frankie says quietly, “Before she died Bridget said she regretted not being able to have children.” He nods to himself as though listening to an unheard voice. “We were in love, and that’s all that mattered; she was all that mattered.

Frankie has no family. No children. No friends. He feels alone, disconnected from those around him and yet he still makes the same twenty-minute pilgrimage to the coffee shop every day. “He’s always in here. Stays for an hour or so and then goes.” Amelie, the manager, smiles sadly. “He once told me that this was the best part of his day. It’s regrettable if it is.

“I like the noise.” Frankie smiles wanly, “It sort of makes me feel less alone when I’m here.” He smiles and nods at a stranger who rewards him with a cursory nod in return, “I like listening, and I’m a bit of a sticky beak too.

Loneliness is a significant issue for older Australians especially those over 65. But how? We live in the age of connectedness, where you can have a chat with someone on the other side of the world on your way to work. Research suggests that it’s not about talking to people and fulfilling a quota, but it’s more about the level of connectedness we feel to the people we’re talking to that determines if we feel lonely or not.

Frankie has tried to talk to the High School Students on several occasions, but they’re not interested in talking to him, quickly making excuses to leave, only to sit outside with their smartphone. “Kids, people,” Frankie sighs, “They just don’t seem to care about anything.”

“After I pop my clogs, there won’t be another Perry, not from my family; it all ends with me.” Frankie dabs at the crumbs on the plate with his finger, “It’s not that I regret not having had children,” he looks over and gives a little wave to a curious bub peering over its mother’s shoulder, “It’d just be nice to know that there was someone to remember the life Bridget and I had… like a legacy to pass on.

“I was an amateur boxer you know.” He raises his fist and smiles exposing his yellowed dentures. “I stopped when I met my better half. She introduced me to ballroom dancing of all things. Me with my two left feet.” He laughs as he recalls, “I inflicted more injuries trying to waltz than I did in the ring. 

When asked if he’s considered going into Aged Care Frankie shakes his head, “No. No way.” He takes a neatly folded blue and white checked hanky from his pocket and wipes the spittle from his clumsily shaven chin. “I’ve read the papers and see the News on the telly.” He puts his hanky away. “They hurt old folks in those places. Like I said, people just don’t care.”

People just don’t care. That’s a pretty damning statement, but to a certain extent, it is true. Ageism is endemic and widespread in Australia. Turn on the TV, and negative stereotypes of doddering or grumpy old people fill the screen. Indeed, the Human Rights Commission has said that it is entrenched in our society. Now, this doesn’t mean that it is necessarily direct, more often than not it is indirect ageism that is causing the hurt. The way we speak to older Australians can be condescending or even dismissive. Even the health system can be ageist, regarding some symptoms from the outset as being caused by old age as if it in itself explains away the loss of memory and aches and pains that plague older Australians.

Ainslie is a former geriatric nurse and the owner-operator of an in-home aged care company. “The push to help older Australians live at home for longer is a double-edged sword so to speak. On the one hand, it means they remain in a familiar environment, but it also increases the chance of social isolation.

Various factors can cause social isolation for the elderly: disability, sensory impairment, particularly loss of hearing and of course, as in the case of Frankie, the death of a spouse. Research by the Whiddon Group, an Australian aged care provider, suggests around 50 per cent of elderly Australians living at home have said that they are lonely or experience perpetual loneliness. While the Australian Human Rights Commission say that thee out of four 85-year old’s live in private homes. The Commission also predicts that by 2050 almost a quarter of the population will be 65 years and over. And with an ageing population, the number of socially isolated seniors will inevitably increase.

“There’s been a huge focus on the physical care of the elderly, which is great,” remarks Ainslie, “But what has been overlooked is their social and emotional needs. Their care has to be all-encompassing.”

Loneliness has a health impact. It is linked to adverse health consequences that affect both the mental and physical wellbeing of an individual. “There’s a need for both government and non-government organisations to increase focus on facilitating intervention strategies that specifically targeting loneliness to determine whether or not decreasing isolation improves elderly Australians quality of life.

Indeed, there are accommodation services and support available for older Australians, provided by both government and non-government (for-profit and not-for-profit) organisations. But as has been widely covered in the media, there is a great deal of variation regarding quality and safety.

Ainslie agrees, “There’s a lot of good intentions supported by a large skilled and dedicated workforce.” But she also acknowledges that “Rogue operators and a few bad apples have undoubtedly rocked the boat of public perception.”

Ainslie introduces one of her clients, Lizzy, who has just celebrated her 77th birthday with her two cats. “It was lovely, Caesar and Romero even got me a present.” She laughs and pats the large tortoiseshell cat on her lap. Her dyed blonde hair frames a wrinkled brown face. More leather than skin.

When my partner passed away in 2011. It was an end to our adventures together.” She looks wistfully into the distance, “It was devastating. Lots of our friends said they’d stay in touch, but they drifted away… and if I’m honest, I may have been partly to blame."

“I don’t make friends easily anymore,” she admits, ‘I used to be quite the social butterfly. I briefly dated a British racing car driver.” In her heyday, Lizzy swanned around streets on Monaco rubbing shoulders with the rich, the famous and the infamous. Looking at her photographs of the time it’s not hard to see why she was invited all around the world. A cross between Grace Kelly and Heid Klum, Lizzy would undoubtedly have been turning heads.

“I used to stay at a close friends apartment on the Boulevard Rainier.” She pauses, lost in the memory, “it was quite beautiful.” Lizzy points to a black and white photograph in a silver frame sitting on the sideboard. “Then I met Max. He was a crewman on one of the yachts. We fell in love, had adventures and then he followed me here.”

Lizzy still travels. Her loneliness sees her going back and forth on the bus between Avalon and the CBD three or four times a week. She admits she'll try and strike up a conversation with almost anyone. "They all sit there with those earplugs [ear phones], and it's like I'm talking to myself." Sadly, she probably is.

Ainslie has worked with Lizzy for some years, popping in two or three times a week to clean her home, do the shopping and, most importantly have a chat. “Lizzy could talk the legs of a table” smiles Ainslie. “She’s a fascinating lady."

There are many interesting elderly ladies and gentleman, who bereft of family and friends, retreat into a cocoon, shrouding themselves in isolation. Their homes, once the vestibules of cherished memories become mausoleums to past glories, perished dreams and untold stories. They sit in the departure lounge of their life waiting for the next flight into oblivion.

Rather than seeing the elderly as the source of increasing demand and cost, a burden on government and society, maybe, just maybe we could look to our past. Remember how it used to be, how we used to respect and care for our elders. In cultures across the world, elders impart their story and in doing so educate and enrich the young. In Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander cultures, yarning is one of the activities that help link the past, the present and the future. Passing on the history of the ancestors helps strengthen the cultural and familial cohesion of the now. It bonds. This is something that Western culture seems to have largely forgotten. Ageism is rife, and old people are disparaged and seen more of a nuisance, than a gift of wisdom and sage advice.

Even though society has changed, the need to feel heard, to have one's story recorded, passed down through family history, is still high. No-one regardless of their age wants to pass silently into oblivion. If being unfriended on Facebook can unhinge a millennial, then having your entire life, your family forgotten is a terrifying prospect for the elderly. There are thousands of untold stories waiting to be told and all we have to do, is take the time to listen. 

Yes, the ongoing provision of services by both government and non-government organisations is critical to the care and welfare of the elderly in Australia. However, we shouldn’t cede our responsibilities and ignore the loneliness that sits in cafes and travels back and forth on buses every day. We need to reconnect, and reaffirm our commitment as caring beings, and recognise when the most important thing we can do to help, is to stop and have a yarn. You’ll be enriching two lives.

Footnote: Please note that all names have been changed for the purposes of privacy.

Images are courtesy of the fantastic photographers at https://unsplash.com/