Growing older is not easy

I was on-call again this past weekend.
I was consulted to see two older patients in the hospital, both of whom had baseline dementia and were even more confused than usual because of their on-going medical issues. One of the patient had a history of prostate cancer and a urethral stricture and I was consulted to place a catheter. The other patient had epididymo-orchitis and possibly a scrotal abscess. They were both in their late seventies and when I came to see them in the hospital, they were both alone in their respective rooms, sleeping and not easily arousable. Both of them were essential non-verbal which made it somewhat difficult to obtain an accurate history. Fortunately, as a consultant, I am usually able to focus on the problem at hand, without needing too much information from the patient himself.

I introduced myself to the patients whom I suspect neither heard nor understood me, and started to explain (in vain) what I was going to do. I proceeded to perform very irritating (ie: painful) procedures at bedside, namely a urethral dilation on the first patient, and a needle aspiration of the scrotum on the second. Both patients moaned, stirred and briefly arose from their torpor, but I was able to complete my tasks efficiently. (Sometimes, I think there is a real fine line between "treating" and "assaulting". The saving grace is that I have the letters M.D. after my name). These two old men were simply anonymous confused patients recumbent on a hospital bed in a generic gown.

That is until I looked around their hospital rooms, and saw a few "Get Well" cards propped up on the bedside table in one room, and a beautiful floral arrangement in the other.

"Get better grandpa!" said one home-made card with a child's drawing of a stick figure.

"Dear Pastor Smith, we are praying for you quick recovery" said the card on the bouquet of flowers.

These simple words suddenly put everything in perspective. They conveyed care, concern and love, and these patients suddenly became very "real". They had led "real" lives outside of the hospital and had "real" families and friends. I knew nothing of their former lives, but I was painfully aware that they were beings who had mattered (and probably still did matter) to other people. It also made me immensely sad to realize that these two men, once animated and vital, were now lying in their rooms, a mere shell of their former selves.

Even with caring families, it is still so damn hard to get older and I can't help but imagine myself at that age. Will I still be alive? Where will I be? Will I become another anonymous casualty of time?