When your parents grow too old...

to navigate and manage their lives adequately.

My folks are going off their rockers and its causing endless concern and worry for me. My Mom’s always been the fundamental submissive sort with my father holding the power over her and everything and everyone else, so she’s become extremely childlike in these latter years. My father’s mind still lives somewhere in the late 1970’s or thereabouts and the new fangled laws and ways of doing things are completely foreign to him

My mom called me into her bedroom a couple months ago and handed me a plastic bag full of… her pension money, ALL of it, neatly tied into bundles on R100 notes. I was horrified. Her reason? The bank’s fees translates into theft and she’s saved up for the last 60 odd years and now they’re stealing it…I took it and banked it under my name and now gives her an allowance. My Dad, on the other hand, took a similar route (he’s still working and earning a monthly salary), he promptly withdrew his salary come every payday. The result? Nothing got paid, not the rates and taxes, the bond (the little that was left to pay quickly escalated with interest up to more than the original bond amount), the cellphones, the dstv, his car and gods know what else.

So the taxman and the sheriff made their debut in these two unfortunate old soul’s lives. And Faerie getting the frantic phone calls because there are people there WRITING STUFF DOWN!!!

I’ve had to concede the loss of the house to the bank, considering there is no way that they can repay that amount at this point of their lives, it is better for them to just let it go. I managed to get my Dad’s car refinanced so at least they still have transport. Both had to be sequestrated, and hopefully we can find a way to sort out the taxman as well. Yesterday I had to bully my father in signing a lease for a new place to stay (close to my own home in a security complex). So, here they are, two people that lived a life of comfortable middle class means, who bought up three children and managed to afford a couple overseas holidays, now just about completely broke, their finances managed by their kids and utterly, completely confused as to how this happended to them.

Growing old aint for sissies…

The stuff of my nightmares.

Just to cheer you up. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AxwEHh6srKk&feature=g-all-c
Hell, I don’t want to get old rather just die while I am still me.

My dad passed away early last year and my septuagenarian mother continues living alone 350km away near Mossel Bay. I confess that I’m worried about her :confused: … even though she’s still my equal when it comes to mental agility (which doesn’t say much ::)) she’s had several minor accidents with her car, and the house and garden is clearly too much for her. I’d love for her to come stay with us, something everyone including her grandchild would enjoy. But there is something keeping her there, almost like she’s clinging to the familiar in spite of there being more logical options.


I’ve met with severe resistance from my folks once it became clear that they would have to move house. They’ve been in their home for the last 55 odd years, and its where their roots are. I, myself had a good crying under a towel moment for the house that I grew up in, with our and the grandchildren’s handprints set in concrete on the one side of the house, the old trees and familiar mess of a back garden. When we inspected the prospective rental home, I just felt that it was all so wrong

The downscaling is something else too, 60 odd years worth of emotionally special junk is really, REALLY hard to sieve through and deciding what to keep. My mom kept so many of my little girl clothes and all of my church hats made their appearance (much to my horror my mother wanted me to take it home!), all my dolls and the little furniture that comes with it was kept (heavens alone knows why). There will be a very happy charity out there soon.

I’m reaching the age where these issues are becoming very real: My wife and I have decided that we do not want to get to a stage where we shit ourselves, become dependent and physically/mentally incompetent; so by mutual agreement have decided that when the time comes (and therein lies the rub, methinks) take ourselves out. At least three of our 4 children agree. Now the question is: How?

The problem with that reasoning is that when you get to the stage when you would, if you were compis mentis, be thinking of taking yourself out, you’ve lost your marbles and can’t remember what it was you were supposed to be doing.

But if you do remember, I’d say an inert gas is the way to go. Nitrogen is common and available. Buy a cylinder of that and a mask, breathe it in a well-ventilated room (so your nearest and dearest won’t be overcome when they discover your corpse), drift off to sleep. When they did experiments on hypoxia in the air force, they say some people don’t show any symptoms at all before passing out, some experience slight euphoria, like the beginnings of drunkenness. If you want it to look like an accident for insurance purposes, organize a kids’ party, buy a stack of balloons and flake out on helium.

Felix Baumgartner like helium balloon with no parachute. See space and break the sound barrier on the way down. What a ride.

[quote} The problem with that reasoning is that when you get to the stage when you would, if you were compis mentis, be thinking of taking yourself out, you’ve lost your marbles and can’t remember what it was you were supposed to be doing.
as I said: therein lies the rub :wink:

I’ve a 19 kg cylinder of nitrogen in the brewery ! could go with a glass of Robson’s Durban Pale Ale in hand… ;D

Holy cow! You’ve got a brewery! Then a swan dive into one of the better fermented vats is indicated.

Reminds me of the tourist who drowned after falling into a large vat of estate wine. Whilst struggling, he apparently climbed out twice to take a pee.


Did he get pissed after that?

I reckon 250km/h on the Fireblade into a bridge support. That way:

  1. You make the newspapers
  2. “Bikers” Funeral, with cool music & booze
  3. Insurance pays the widow
  4. There is no Fireblade left that my 19 y.o. so desperately wants to ride.