Failure To Thrive (Late Onset)

I’ve been sick for a couple of weeks now. It seems that I am suffering from an amalgam of differing ailments; asthma, allergies, stomach flu, and most germane to this piece, what I call “failure to thrive.” It is the latter that I intend to concentrate upon. Being sick in the winter time isn’t all that unusual — but becoming despondent is. This has been an eye-opening experience, one that has brought into my awareness, one of the most heartbreaking aspects of being human. When one is left alone long enough, one’s system begins to lose life.

 

‘Failure to thrive’ has traditionally been associated with the young. It refers to the way the organism of a young person loses energy and collapses from not being touched, or cared about. It is a very sad and tragic form of demise. Usually thought of as an orphan’s ailment, I have come to realize it is a very human form of neglect. Old people are also prone to it. I am now, someone who knows more about it, than I want to. I’ve been touched by the absence of touch.

 

There comes a point in some people’s lives where there just isn’t anyone around. This is inevitable, and we all should be prepared for it. These moments can be a lot of things; refreshing, disturbing, distract-less, elevating, abysmal, or happy; but they all are only temporary. An old person, like an infant, can be completely neglected. Even if cared for, the busyness, or involvement of another, can result in neglect. That’s when the failure to thrive can set in. And when it does, I can now attest, it is worse than depression, and kicks the legs out from underneath the will to live.

 

I hate to say it, but I think many of us old people need to guard against the potency of neglect. In my experience, this isn’t just about how often I get touched, although sometimes it is, but rather who is doing the touching, and with how much care. I find myself seeking out attention, like the hungry seek out food. And I’m learning my spirit needs attention, touch, and especially caring, as much as I need air. If I don’t have an adequate supply, I go out of existence more slowly than with the absence of air, but it is a painful form of drowning, never-the-less.

 

Recently, I learned that the highest rate of suicide in this culture is amongst people over the age of 83. This is even higher than the much more publicized rate of suicide amongst teenagers. Both are tragic, and say too much about our dysfunctional culture, but only one is considered a problem. The other reflects the neglect prevalent in the elder world.

 

Speaking of the environment, I have long contended that the old and the environment are on the same continuum — treat one badly, you do the same to the other — but this period of my life, is making more vivid, how neglecting one form of life (old people) is neglecting all forms of life. Nature is suffering from a failure to thrive too!

 

The Slow Lane has always been devoted to the notion that going too fast has obscured too much. Busyness, doing, staying active are all forms of neglect. Ones we too easily take pride in. It is the way of modern times, modern identity — and a lethal treatment of those, like old people, and the environment, who can’t maintain that velocity. This is efficiency at its worst. I have known for a long-time the cost of speed to our spirituality, but now I have a more vivid sense of what a failure to thrive is actually about. It has come for, and from, all of us. 

 

Neglect is an equal-opportunity experience. It isn’t something you want to experience; nor your family, friends, or other loved ones. It is a social disease, which is characteristic of our modern times. Guard yourself against it — but remember — you could be a carrier, and someone near you may be failing to thrive right now.

 

 

 

  

The Slow Lane

The storm had already broken when I began to write.  I was decimated by the stroke, and further assailed by brain damage. I began the Slow Lane while I was going down. It looked, and felt, like I was dying — losing functioning on a pretty regular basis. I wrote in some desperate attempt to feel like I was of some use. Nothing was very pretty or elegant.

In the beginning, I called it “Reports From The Slow Lane,” thinking that the challenges I was experiencing might be useful to my community. Amazingly, I could still think of others, as I was being pulled under.  In part, the writing of ‘reports’ gave me a sense of connection. I needed to feel less alone. I also felt like what I was going through could be meaningful to oth

“The Slow Lane,” from its advent, was an attempt to integrate the role of tragedy in my / the community’s life

Later on, I’m not sure when, I received the first gift of awareness that transformed my suffering. I didn’t know it at the time. I was too consumed with going down. But I fairly quickly realized I had been slowed down, and could no longer function at cultural speed. Suddenly, I got how much I was missing, when I operated normally. “The Slow Lane” became about speed, physical, psychological and spiritual. It hasn’t always been consistent, but speed has been a regular subject. The world changed as slowing occurred.

I started writing as a drowning man. Strangely, as I lost functioning, I gained awareness. New parts of me, came on-line. I was going down, but becoming new, a better, more aware me. I hope I captured some of those changes in those lost and confusing years. “The Slow Lane” helped me integrate a slow-breaking miracle, a time where nature re-made me. I discovered I could swim in the darkness. Writing took on a new meaning.

Since that time, “The Slow Lane” has taken its current form. It was written partially for you the readers, and partially for me, the writer. Hopefully, I have conveyed the benefits of hardship, and how much life shapes us using pressure. That is a lesson that we could use right now. I also hope “The Slow Lane” does something to increase awareness of the true miracle of being human. Human’s, I now see, become more as they become less. It has been a painful but enduring lesson. A lot of Slow Lane pieces have been about that. Reassurance as we age.

Now, it’s morphing into something else. I think it will always be about slowing, and the human condition, but I can feel some other awareness pulling me into another orbit. The monk side of me is trembling. The writer, is going to be more of the ventriloquist in the future. Meaning: the dummy will keep going. I am also going to be getting even slower. Feeling the call more. Going farther astray. Eventually gone.

There isn’t much, in the usual sense, to look forward to. Life is moving me slowly towards the barn. I intend to keep writing, to be smitten with learning, to be more and more at home with myself, but I feel the weeds parting, and me moving slowly towards them.  So, be forewarned, we are all headed in that relieving direction. The Slow Lane is too.

I’m not sure of the when, where, or how. I don’t know how imminent change is. I’m very human in that way. The unknown stalks me too. But, I can feel something coming, and I have a sense that it is beyond undoing. The moment remains a great favor to us, and I intend to be in it thoroughly. I want the Slow Lane to be there with me, but I’m not sure it will be.