Originally appeared in The News & Observer:
Lured by the promise of a tickle, many a woman and child have sent their unbidden palms gliding over the glistening bristles of Grandpa's white flattop.
For years he enjoyed the attention paid to his handsome head, sparingly adorned but still irresistible to strangers who itched to see whether his hair really could be the living equivalent of a shoeshine brush.
Today, the hair is nearly gone, shaved down to the quick because his weekly trips to the barber shop have ended. The barber must be brought in now, waiting his turn among the nurses and aides who attend the infirm, some betrayed by time-worn bodies, others by deteriorating minds.
And as the ranks of the elderly increase, so do the the legions of loved ones left despairing over how to help make longevity a gift.
Grandpa is 81, felled by a series of strokes followed by a series of falls. The last one broke his collarbone and sent his 80-year-old wife sprawling, her glasses broken, her tailbone bruised. Once she struggled to her feet, she couldn't get him off the kitchen floor.
In the emergency room, the young doctor looks sorrowful as he tells Grandma he'll be calling in a social worker. She can no longer care for her mate, whose scrawny knees betrayed him years ago and whose arms are now idled by the collarbone injury.
The referral leads to a bed in a two-man room on the ground-floor of a personal-care facility. The eye-watering odor of pine cleaner emanates from the weathered, white house, assaulting visitors even as they drive up to the gravel parking lot out back.
His roommate is not of sound mind, and the aides mercifully keep him busy outside much of the day. At night, however, the man must be allowed his bed, and he frequently rouses from it to urinate on the floor.
Several exposed pipes run the length of the ceiling, and the tile floors are cold - just another reason to keep unsure feet and the rest of a weary body up in the bed.
Not that Grandpa needs a reason. He doesn't want to leave the bed.
With each new fall, and with each loss of some treasured piece of his humanity, the thoughts of suicide grew stronger until a gun was brought from its hiding place and put into service. It, too, was too old and broken down. It failed to go off.
But suicide toys with him still and guilt has come courting his wife - guilt from being unable to care for him and guilt from feeling relieved that she doesn't have to anymore.
At the personal-care home, his loud snoring goes unnoticed as people scurry by the open door. Privacy is not a resident here. He awakens with a start, and tears fill his blue eyes. The one hand he can move connects haltingly with his face, and he wipes at his tears, his lips mouthing his mantra.
It's hard to understand him because his teeth are in the cup on the metal nightstand, which shelters the few belongings that have followed him here: the lacquered domino set, a deck of cards and his favorite Pecan Sandie cookies.
His shoulder hurts, and he's moaning. He wants to die, and he says it over and over and over again. He talks of his head aching, and it must be a frightful pain because he's lifting even his bad arm so he can put both hands on his face as he rocks back and forth.
His granddaughter slips to the edge of the bed and gently pulls at his hands, asking where it hurts so she can kiss it for him. Her lips find his pale forehead, then linger on the top of his head as she remembers the prickly flattop of long ago. His lifeless hair now brings only tears.
His longevity remains a gift to her and a burden for him.
(Burgetta Wheeler is assistant news editor.)
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