"Because inside every old person is a young person wondering what happened."*

I often wonder if people who wish for a long life have thought about what it means. Just as we do not get to choose the manner of our death, neither to we choose the manner of our aging. Sure, we can all say that age is just a number. It is just a state of mind! And I'd be the first to say that it is, but some times age is very real indeed.

I don't feel any different approaching 40 than I did approaching 30. But actually, I do. My knees hurts more. So do my feet. I have more aches and pains than I used to. I visit the chiropractor relatively regularly and often feel an actual need for a massage, and not in a "I need to pamper myself" manner. I need more sleep than I used to, but also ironically struggle to fall asleep more than before. My memory is not what is used to be. It takes a little bit more concentration than it used to for me to learn something new. And all that scares me. Not the state of things now, complain about the little things though I may. Not my age and the gradually increasing number of it. the gradual degeneration, the decrease in my physical and mental abilities, and perhaps eventual disabilities; that is what scares me.

I cannot recall having ever been confronted with aging very much, until recently. My grandmother, of course, got older, had various health issues, eventually passed away. But I was not around for much of it. But it is happening to all of us. As we get older, even older do our parents and aunts and uncles get. My mum has had some medical issues in the last few years, which always makes me think. And since the last month or so, I have been visiting an eldery woman in town. I say, I "have been visiting", I mean I have visited threee times. It is part of a Red Cross initiative for the "involuntarily alone", that is to say the elderly who have no family or next of kin for care or company. Volunteers visit them on a regular basis to help them out with little things (though not chores, as there is another state run service that helps with that), take them for walks and generally provide them with company and someone to talk to.

My elderly person (let's call her Beatrice, not her real name of course, but I cannot keep calling her my elderly person) is in her early eigthties, and aside from the fact that she is unsteady on her feet even with a rollator (or whatever you call those wheeled walker type things) and is medicated for various health concerns, she seems in good health. She remembered that I was visiting (the appointment was made two weeks prior) without even writing it down in a calendar. Unless she remembered to write it down afterwards. However she did it, she remembered our appointments.

And she was chatty, which is to be expected. After all, that is one of the biggest reasons they sign up for the programme, for the company and conversation. She talked about various things on her mind, many of them old memories, some of them recent. Some of them funny anecdotes, others painful and poignant. She was quite lively when she told tales of days gone by with her husband and friends, melancholic when she talked of their passing, and chuckled in recollection as she related something funny so-and-so said. But often she shook her head. "it's terrible, it's terrible," she repeated. "It's terrible to live," she said once. What do you say in response to that?

She had many, many concerns on her mind. Spending time with her made me think a lot about the things that we do not tend think about when we are young and able.

Remember this thing called cash?
I assume this is a phenomenon that is also ocurring all over the world, but Sweden is becoming more and more cashless. It was disconcerting at first, to not have cash in my purse, but nowadays, I don't think twice about it. I cannot remember the last time I used an ATM. The only places we ever needed cash were street fairs and flea markets, and randomly at club where Postmodern Jukebox played (very suspiscious!). But even street fair and flea markets tend to have one of those little iZettle card reader payment processing thingies. I am so used to paying with my card for everything, that it did not occur to me to get some Euros in cash before I last travelled to Germany and we of course needed cash to pay for a bus ticket.

Now there is even Swish. Is Swish a worldwide thing or Swedish only? It is a phone app which is connected to your bank account (totally secure, of course, because a pin code is required, duh!) and enables you to transfer money to others with the app using only their telephone number. A bit like sending an sms, except it be an sms full of money. Many small businesses use it nowadays and it is quickly becoming the number one method to settle accounts amongst friends. It dispenses with the need to exchange complication banking information like your bank account number. I do not have the app. And I do not want to have it. Call me old fashioned, but I don't trust it. But I get told off for not Swish-ing. Why can't I just pay in cash? I protest to no avail. Cash is no longer king, I am told.

Beatrice has a problem on a whole other level. She gets a regular welfare payment (whether it is every week or month, I have no idea) which is deposited into her bank account. An old bowling buddy who was once upon a time a policeman collected those payments from the bank on her behalf, in cash. She gave the cash to the "home service" (hemtjänst) who came weekly with groceries and helped with cleaning and other errands. The buddy now has age and health concerns of his own and can no longer help her. And the bank has told her that they no longer handle cash. She could get a bank card instead and she can withdrawl cash from an ATM. It is much safer and more convenient than cash, they tell her. More convenient? For an elderly woman on her own who just about manages to shuffle around in her apartment with a rollator, who leaves the apartment only when she abosultely has to? More convenient, I don't think so. Aside from all that, "how am I supposed to remember a 4 digit pin?" she asks me. And of course, the bank tells her that she musn't write the pin down because it is not safe. For someone like me, who hardly ever carries cash, it is an unexpected dilemma. What is the solution for her? I have no idea. I suspect she'll just have to trust someone with the card and pin. I think she is getting a card that has a fixed weekly limit or something like that, and she still gets statements get sent to her so, so she'll know afterwards if anything was amiss but not sure there is a way to prevent any misappropriation.

Pulling up your socks
Beatrice wants me to take her shopping. She needs new socks, she says. Then she paused and looked down at her feet. "But then I can't put them on," she says and sighs. She can't bend down or lift her feet up enough to actually get socks on. It's not exactly like putting on trousers, is it? I don't have an answer to that one either. It certainly makes my complaints about not finding stockings that match my skintone a tad trivial.

A mopping a mess
Her eyesight is understandably not the best, though I am not sure what she means when she says she does not see clearly. On two of the three occasions I have been there, she's told me that she spilled water because she couldn't see where she was pouring so ended up pouring the water onto the table or the flour instead of into the glass. And because she can't really get to the flour, the most she can do is throw a towel on the spot, and shuffle it around with a foot that she barely dares to lift off the ground for fear of losing her balance. There lies puddle and towel till the next visit by the cleaners. And I know these are separate incidences because the towels could be spotted at different locations.

"You foreigners..."
I must admit, that before I visited her for the first time, I did wonder about how she would having someone dark skinned visiting her in her home. I assumed of course she would have had some say in who visited her, and she could have specified "no foreigners" or something like that had she been of such ilk. I was nevertheless glad to have the company of someone from the Red Cross when I visited Beatrice for the first time. You just never know.

On my second visit, we talked a bit more about where I was from and how long I have been in Sweden and so on. Then she mentioned another lady she knew before, who also came from ...somewhere she could not remember and had lived in Sweden for many years. She proceeded to tell some anecdote or other about that person. That the person she mentioned was not originally Swedish did not play a part in the story as far as I could tell, but it was mentioned anyway. Then Beatrice said something which for the life of me, I did not see coming. "You foreigners," she said, "you come here and you live here, and you enjoy it here..... it's so nice to see. It's so nice to see that you like Sweden and you think it is good. And you learn the language. It's so fun and exciting."
Well, go figure. People often think that the elderly are more rasist, perhaps because they are more intolerant and set in their ways, and less accepting of change and anyone who is not like them. Perhaps it is the case. I have meet people in Sweden who believe so, but it has not been my experience. And I say this not just based on what Beatrice said.

The joy only a kanelbulle can bring
The last time I was there, I bought several kanelbullar (cinnamon buns). She mentioned something about them on the phone, and though I did not really hear what exactly she said, I thought I could not go wrong with a kanelbulle or two. They were selling them in fours at the shop so I bought four, thinking that I would not mind if I had one or a few leftover. I love them! We ate one between us because she had other snacks and cakes too. When I was leaving and helping her clear up, I asked her if she wanted them. She first asked if I did not want them for myself, to which I said I can always get more. Her face lit up! Yes, she will have the kanelbullar, they are really nice, she declared matter-of-factly.


I was rather nervous before these visits. I did not think much about how it would be like when I signed up. I had my reasons for volunteering, but a lot of time had passed between then and anything happening. And even though the first meeting went well, I was still nervous about going for the second visit, which was the first on my own. Now, I think the nervousness has gone. For now, anyway. I will not say that I am certain the relationship will work and I do not know how long I will continue these visits. Suffice to say though, that I am not on the brink of quitting just yet. And I am looking forward to the next visit.

* Terry Pratchett, Moving Pictures - I have no idea if he was the first ever to say this, but this is where I know it from and so I am quoting him.