It's strange how we've systematically segregated the latter stages of life and aging from the rhythms of society, family, and daily existence. As if we don't want to be reminded, or inconvenienced, by what's in store for each of us. Of course, we do the same thing with death, so its no wonder we live in a culture that celebrates an illusion of perpetual youth as a multi-billion dollar industry. Personally, I think I'd rather step in front of a truck than get shuffled off to the warehouse. Then again, that's probably not fair to people who've dedicated their careers to providing elder-care services. Or those who want to hold on til the bitter end. But still ...

I'm having to deal with this now with my mom and step dad - not in a home yet, but with O2 tanks trailing them around like metal dogs, walkers with brakes so they don't break. It is not a pretty sight. You bring up some good points in those last two stanzas. I wonder what I will wish for then.

And I guess it's good to see a poem about the real living dead, instead of the vampire nonsense that seems to dominate some youth's reading and viewing choices right now. Romantic, it ain't.

I know it, man. I know it. This one hit harder than usual.

Having experienced this poem from many different angles, except (touch wood) for the patient's point of view, I hear you and I pray, every day, that I never get old like that. I think if I knew was coming, I might wander out into a snow storm, let the cold send me to heaven, and hope that it didn't traumatize anyone come spring. I'm not saying all those folks should want that, it's just what I think I'd do, before I forgot.

This hits me soulwise so truthfully hard. Many times we close our eyes to realities such as this forever hoping we don't live in such a space as that. But how long can we do so? So very well written, so vivid, so truthful!

I am reminded of a Stephen King short story collection (unfortunately I can remember neither the name of the collection nor the name of the particular story) in which, amid genre tales of horror, a mundane tale of a man visiting his dying mother in the hospital - the most horrific of all the stories. Your poem provokes thoughts we don't want to think.

When you're 50 or so you start thinking about things you haven't thought about before. I used to think getting old was about vanity—but actually it's about losing people you love. Getting wrinkles is trivial...Excellent poem here. Thanks.

That second to last stanza, Chris, evokes questions I suspect a lot of us have asked ourselves and can't yet frame an answer...Not publicly, at least. Just stunning, this poem.

How incredibly sad, and yet so true. Heart-wrenching poem, Chris.

what can i say chris? this is amazing! and unfortunately all to familiar.

Death seems to be the way to go, having seen the results of several enquiries into the treatment of the elderly in UK rest and residential homes.
Western culture revels in occupying the moral high ground, but doesn't seem to understand the concept of family.
Blah, blah (unlike your emotive discourse here).

I too have seen this and wondered... You still know how to make the reader .... feel! Well done Chris!

Stark, poignant, all too real! Yes, one hopes to die before becoming an invalid in a nursing home.