The Yale Journal for Humanities in Medicine

Escaping Retirement

Roland C. Clement

When my wife was diagnosed as having Parkinson's syndrome we decided it was time to move into a retirement center. She was already seventy but I was eight years older. She therefore especially felt the need for institutional support in case something happened to me. So we moved in 1981.

The first five years were almost altogether pleasant. Our physical needs were taken care of and we still enjoyed walking, visiting around, and entertaining. But then her walking became increasingly difficult, and her sense of balance became so tenuous that it was a major concern for her. Constipation increased but she was kept reasonably stable, thanks to participation in a Yale experimental study that provided cutting-edge medication.

When she died in 1998 I faced the question of my own final years. I was now 85. She had advised me to stay in residence. My two daughters also thought that would be stabilizing for all of us.

Although we had made several good friends, I now felt that I was surrounded by too many old people. A cohort now mostly in their eighties, many of them already resigned to terminal decline. The so-called Health Center attached to our complex was a constant reminder of this unhappy prospect.

By great good luck, I was still healthy and vigorously enough active in a variety of activities, both on site and outside. Yale's proximity helped nurture my interests. Being a naturalist by profession, I had led bus trips to study the region; I initiated the building of an attractive butterfly garden; and I led Sunday evening discussion groups. We read E. O. Wilson's On Human Nature together. But the group's interest in reading declined rapidly, so my share augmented. I gave a weekly lecture! This was almost expected of me, as a contribution to the commonweal. So now, in addition to having been my ailing wife's willing caregiver, I had a dependent community to consider.

The retirement center's investment plan required me to give a full year's notice before withdrawing my sizable deposit and leaving the compound. But I fretted increasingly as the months passed. I couldn't talk about this, but the social worker, quietly appraised of my intentions, complimented me on asserting independence. When I finally announced my decision to leave, I got a strong reaction. The more polite ones reserved judgment and wished me good luck, obviously concerned for my welfare. But several people were blunt in saying that I was making a serious mistake, and some actually felt that I was abandoning them!

As I write, four-plus years after the loss of my wife, I am happy I returned to the fray. I have traveled a bit and become a watercolorist. But living alone at my age has its own problems.

Published: March 13, 2002