Growing old in Guyana

Dec 07, 2019 Editorial

Oil might wash over in the golden years with the riches eluded for a lifetime; or were, perhaps, foolishly wasted; or sadly never tasted, despite a devotion to trying. It may be of missed opportunities, the luck of the draw and never getting a real, fair break in life, or having to face poverty through the gravity of personal catastrophe.
Growing old here can be of all the pains that do more than ache and remind of mistakes made, of what could have been, if only there was the commonsense to be thoughtful and constructive to make provision through sacrifice. Instead of the nagging aches, there might be the full-blown daily torture of not having, not knowing where to go and to whom, for the next hand along the steps of life.
As their days lengthen, those steps of life could look terribly long too, and disturbingly steep. What is there for the elderly? The fortunate aged in this society may exist well, with caring children living overseas. Caring is the key, because if they do, then there is that trickle of relief coming with another family member, friend, trusted neighbour or, many times, even total strangers.
But that bit, no matter how sporadic, could make a difference: the difference between the old having, or not having necessary medicines, help with bills, buffering the cost of basics, such as food and other supplies.
For those elderly Guyanese, who are the comfortable recipients of such a trickle of assistance – steady and reliable, no matter how tiny – it is heaven. For those not so blessed, living can be a heavy horror.
They are compelled to the whims of public hospitals, public transportation, public assistance and, at times, public compassion (if not indifference, sometimes scorn). Respect for the elderly is of a different quality now: faster and nastier; hungrier and less humane; and powered by personal visions of descendants, who will not be slowed down by excess baggage. The older and slower, the weaker and wanting, too often serve as impediments to ambitions, interferences to family ambience, and reminder of roots that, sometimes, bring regret, are ignored, if not concealed.
They are left on their own, have to fend for themselves and left poorly equipped by either life’s choices, the environmental and public support system, or state of physical wellbeing. It is a dim world, a stark and unsparing one reduced to listening to the clock (if there is hearing), counting one’s sorrows (if the mind is still there), and waiting on the call from eternity (if such belief resides).
What is it that the older, the sicker, the weaker wait for here on earth, in Guyana? What is it that is waited for amidst the noises and rush of minds and haste for a space on the oil capsule?
For the old, that world largely passes them by: heard before and almost tasted before. Just like the clamours of elections and the bracing promises that come with them, only to fade into futility and the frustrations of what could have been…
Growing old and being old (older than the actual number of years) can bring even more darkness to an already darkened world. The flares from the hullabaloo about gas are too distant to mean much, not enough to lead to a stirring. The disappointments of Guyanese life have been too many, too often, too overwhelming.
For some of the older, this is the grittiness, the impenetrable grimness that lingers and encircles. Who is there for them? The shiny cars race by impatiently, the modern buildings sprout, cash is king. But don’t tell that to the grizzled, vacant, shuffling veterans who gave so much and now have so little. Spittle comes thick and choking; the head is unclear, the vision less so. And the stomach still less with the gut shaking, there is fear and trembling. What will there be? What will become of them?
And here we are, a nation poised on the doorstep of dreams, of riches, of the promises that hold out so much hope, but wondering if the substance will ever be felt. Amid all the grand plans, somebody should think of them, then do something for these roots of ours.