Remembering Margo Clancy: What’s it Like to Live to 97?
A 97-year old friend of mine passed away earlier this month.
(I say “a” as if I have plenty of friends in their 90s, but really, she was the only one. And the full context of “friend” is my ex-fiance's aunt's wife's mom, but I don't technically think there’s a title for that. “Friend” I think sums it up a little better.)
Margo Clancy was a spunky lady, is how I can best put it. We had an instant connection–she had a big sense of humor and a sweet heart with lots of sarcasm. Meanwhile, I was an attentive audience for her stories and a willing participant in her jokes. It was a great match. We both had tough skin and could take being slightly roasted by each other.
Margo’s birthday was just a few days before mine, and as Gemini sisters we always laughed about something or another whenever we talked. I guess there’s a certain level of closeness you need with someone to be able to make fun of each other and have it taken in kind. We shared that. I always celebrated whenever she got me with a good joke or comment.
When I least expected it, she’d always insert into our conversation a reminder about how I shouldn’t be jealous of how beautiful she was. She made sure I'd never forget that she would always be more gorgeous than me, and I was fine with it.
For a good time, call Jolié
We always loved talking and bantering, but Margo was always worried that she was bothering me. So I remember for her birthday one year I got her a coffee mug (she loved her coffee–so unbearably dark and strong that it could wake the dead) and had it printed on it “For a good time call Jolié: [my phone number].”
She got a hoot out of it, and whenever I hadn’t heard from her in a while, I’d tease that she literally had no excuse for forgetting my phone number and not calling.
Apparently, that mug was in her room, recently used in her last days.
What’s it like to live to your 90s?
I remember one time we were talking over some coffee and tea, and I asked her what it was like to live into your 90s. She responded by saying how just about all her friends and most of her family was dead. She said it so plainly, so matter of factly. It so hit me.
Wow, to live into your 90s means to be one of the last ones standing. While you get to live, you’re going to experience a lot of loss. It’s the course of life, and yet it seems so cruel, so lonely.
She’d outlived her late husband, her son, her daughter-in-law, five of her sisters, and three of her brothers. So much loss. She still had her one sister, two sons, and her only daughter, Sharon, whom she lived with and who cared for her. She also had 10 grandchildren and 12 great grandchildren.
To think of all that life that she’s been a part of creating: so many of these people have never known a life, a world, without her in it. She’s been a constant. When you’re around almost 100 years, it’s easy to see you as the backdrop of life, to almost assume that you’ll always be there.
Coping with a body that’s declining
It must be hard to get to an age when you always need help and yet never want to be a bother. Imagine being a baby or young child in terms of your ability to take care of yourself, but to be in a grown person’s body. At least when you’re a kid, you’re too self-obsessed and not self aware to notice.
But as a grown woman, it’s hard if you care. Because you are aware enough to realize how much work others put into taking care of you and making sure you’re okay. It must be hard to ask everyone to repeat everything over and over again because you can’t hear and understand what they said. But pretending you understood what they said doesn’t work either.
It must be exhausting (I have a hard enough time accepting help now, when I’m in my prime, I can’t imagine being forced to ask for and accept help every moment of the day).
Making it through the day
What I learned from her is that there comes a point in life where it seems like life isn’t all that funny anymore: there are health issues, constantly needing help with things, stomach aches after eating, needing to lie down, making sure the walker is always nearby,
It’s a lot to just make it through the day, a single day, when you’re in your 90s. And for the caregivers, there’s not much room for fun or laughter either; it’s exhausting for everyone.
Life becomes all based on survival and mitigating risk: Where’s your walker? Do you need help? Let me get that for you. What are you hungry for? Little things. It might seem like petty things. But I guess it’s all you really have control of or a say in anymore, so it becomes a bigger deal.
Margo’s longest, best day ever
When she was 94, there were a few days that it was just me and her–I was entrusted with her care while the family was away. I was the one who would both be around and enthusiastically willing to hang out with her and the dogs at the home.
(Ironically, 94 is how old my great grandmother was when she died. It's the age my grandma says she wants to live until, since that's how long her mom lived for. She says anything on top of that is just gravy.)
Margo and I had such a blast. We had so much fun that one of the days, she must've asked me 5 different times, a few hours apart, “What day is it?” When I gave her the same answer each time, she kept replying how this has been the longest, most fun day ever.
We went out for dinner at her favorite restaurant in North Jersey. She wasn’t too good at reading the menu, so I asked what she wanted: soup. But it needed to be thin. When the soup came, it wasn’t quite thin enough, but you could tell she didn’t want to be a pain about it, so I did the advocating for her.
We went to the grocery store together and I pushed her around in a wheelchair. We didn’t even really need anything, we were just going for the fun of it.
What it feels like to be missed
After a few days together she went to her son’s house for the rest of the week, and I remember noticing that I really missed her company. So I called to tell her.
I remember at the time it made me think, “When's the last time this lady has probably heard someone say they miss her?” Do you stop getting missed, after a certain time in life? It's just assumed that you're there, and that one day you won't be. Your caregivers are there so often there’s no room for “missing” to happen.
It's kind of sad to think about it. In a way it’s like you're missed when you're young and in love and all that. And then when you’re older, you’re not missed much anymore, everyone is running around with their own life, and it’s kind of assumed you’ll just be there. And then you die, and then you are missed again. It's quite confusing.
There’s always something to laugh about
I remember when her son came to pick her up and me and her were doing our typical banter back and forth, making sarcastic jokes at each other while I was helping her get into the passenger seat of the car and getting her seatbelt on. I don't recall exactly what I said or how she responded, but I remember how she made a sarcastic joke and I noticed how off guard it caught her son.
There was a pause, a moment, a look of trying to catch up and figure out what had just happened. It was this moment of remembering that even as a 94-year old, that she still has a quite lively sense of humor. She didn't mean what she’d said literally, and she understood that I didn't mean what I said literally, either. There was no explanation needed. That's the definition of humor, that unsaid part. It was really beautiful to be someone who shared that with her.
She taught me that even when it seems like there is no more room for fun or laughter, there always is. There has to be.
Staying in touch
Margo and I would still stay in touch every so often. Whenever we’d catch up, she’d always say, “Hi! How are you? You were always so nice to me.”
It was as if she always needed to remind me that she didn’t forget. Maybe reminding me so I didn’t forget (I could never forget you, Margo), or reminding me that she didn’t forget. I guess I may never really know.
Celebrating Margo’s life
The day after Margo passed, my grandma celebrated her 85th birthday. The timing felt very ironic to be grieving and celebrating at the same time.
At Margo’s wake, her grandkids were there, full grown adults with families of their own–I realized I don’t normally think of grandchildren as grown adults, but as young children.
Live long enough, I suppose, and you notice everyone gets older.
A few people reminded me how much she loved me. As if I needed reminding. I loved her, too. It wasn’t work, it always just came naturally.
When I’m in my 90s
I hope when I’m in my 90s there’s someone to pull out the laughter that’s still in me, even amidst all the loss, all the grief and sadness, all the years.
I hope there's a young buck around with some sarcasm and patience, with an interest in hearing some of my stories, someone to pull out that laughter from inside me. And maybe I’ll even tell them, “Don’t be jealous that I’m more beautiful than you.”
Love you Margo. <3