Experience of old age abandoned in a corner

My father-in-law is 103 years old, notable enough in itself to get him an annual birthday greeting from the United States television show Good Morning, America.

But there's a great deal more to George than the charm afforded to the TV audience by his age. For one thing, he's the very definition of the word "stubborn" - he still lives in his own home and, though he gave up repairing his roof in his mid-90s, he is fiercely proud of his independence.

It was with some reluctance that he agreed to be driven to a Sunday family brunch given by his grandson's girlfriend.

That is where it happened. George was sitting quietly in the sunny backyard and, with few exceptions, most of the guests did not venture to include him in conversation. Of a sudden I saw he had fallen asleep.

George has not been a man you could easily ignore during the decades I've known him, he's always had strong opinions and been unafraid to share them.

Politically a populist and a staunch environmentalist, his long life gave him the perspective to judge the increasing failure of our stewardship of the natural world that sustains us.

We've often joked that he is president of the end of the Earth club, and that title would have the ring of truth were it not for his natural optimism in conflict with his observations.

He's hoping the next generation will listen and become more caring and careful, but first the younger folk would have to pay attention.

And where George is concerned, that is their shortcoming.

After his outing he was discouraged and more resistant to any repetition. He had been largely ignored - it was as if he had been entirely absent as others went about their chattering, their joking, eating and drinking, all excluding him.

From George's perspective, sitting quietly, he was as ignored as if he didn't exist.

It's an easy thing to do where old people are concerned. Unless people make an effort to engage with them, old people easily remain silent, seem to drift into a quiet corner ... almost to disappear entirely.

The others - adults, as they're called in tickets for public events, distinct from the seniors - go about their business, unaware of the effect of their busy behaviour on the ignored old person.

It's not just the old whom we ignore like this. Barbara R, a friend who is wheelchair-bound from childhood polio, informs that she, too, is easily ignored at social functions. People, presumably out of their own discomfort with a disabled person, tend to look away, with the result that she, on more than one occasion, has been "disappeared" in the eyes of others.

Her adaptation over time has come to be a chirpy ebullience that refuses to be ignored. She simply speaks right up and so becomes admitted to whatever is going on.

Our friend is an accomplished artist who works in pottery and painting - she also designed the home she owns to meet her personal needs for mobility and access.

It's a fact that those of us lucky enough to live a long life may also find ourselves at least partially disabled, either temporarily or permanently, as bodies undergo the wearing down that time proscribes.

Will we inevitably be "disappeared" in the backwash from the more active younger folk. Or should we find some adaptation, like Barbara's, to keep others from their own need to ignore what is uncomfortable - the aged or the infirm.

It's not just the loss to the old or disabled from the failure to be included. It's also the loss to those who will also grow old and who can clearly gain from the experience that someone like George or Barbara can share.

At the cusp of that old age, I know this in my bones: Growing old is not for sissies.