The 50-somethings in our office joke about getting older. We acknowledge that our recall isn’t as immediate as it used to be, that our figures aren’t as streamlined as they once were and that our comfortable outfits are somewhat less fashionable than in years gone by. But we face aging with a smile.

Once in a while, however, reality intercedes and reminds me that for some people, growing old is no joking matter.

When I was a kid, there was no more welcome guest for Sunday dinner than my godmother, Ethel. Ethel lived in Sarnia, probably some 50 kilometres from Dresden in southwestern Ontario. I know people who drive that daily, but in those days, it seemed a long way. A visit from “Esther” — as we called her — was a special occasion.

My mom and Esther were in nurses training together in Chatham, Ont., before the war. They were roommates in 1942, when my mom got word that her young husband, who was in the air force, had been killed. Esther married in the 1950s, but I think the marriage was brief. I don’t remember him at Sunday dinners.

But I do remember her. Slim, athletic (she was a great golfer), attractive — and witty. She always had something funny to say. She teased and wisecracked; I loved listening to her and my dad gently needle each other. There was always lots of laughter served up with the roast beef and mashed potatoes.

Certainly one of the highlights was the episode of the pies. In those days, Saturday morning was reserved for baking. We made two pies for Sunday dinner — apple, lemon, pumpkin, coconut cream, whatever we fancied. On this particular Sunday, we had cleared away the main-course dishes and Mom brought in the pies. She set them on the table in front of my dad. Unfortunately, the table leaf hadn’t been put in properly and, as soon as Dad leaned on the table, the pies went sliding — right into his lap. There was a moment of stunned silence, and then the hilarity broke out.

That is what I always associate with Ethel — laughter and youthful enthusiasm.

Ethel isn’t so enthusiastic about life these days. In fact, she has told my mom, she would like to die. But she hasn’t.

After my dad died 20 years ago, Ethel returned to Ontario from Arizona, where she had been working. And after a series of events, she and my mom ended up as roommates once again. They had a good time — they golfed, travelled and enjoyed their “happy hours.” They always seemed to be in the midst of a good laugh.

A few years back, after Ethel suffered a series of small strokes, Mom decided to sell the house in Dresden and she and Ethel moved into a “retirement resort” in Chatham, Ont., where they were closer to a hospital. They each got a one-bedroom apartment: my mom on the first floor so her little dog, Mandy, could more easily use the facilities; Esther on the fourth floor, where, she joked, she was closer to heaven.

The past few years have not been good to Ethel. She has a liver ailment that makes her itch. The medication she takes makes her drowsy; she can fall asleep mid-sentence. The swelling in her legs is painful — and requires yet another medication. And the small strokes continue. She got lost recently, and the “resort” staff searched high and low. They found her: she had gotten confused and gone into her closet and shut the door. She wanders the halls at night, stopping in to see my mom in the wee hours, looking for a glass of water or a place to sit. She has life, but there is no quality to it.

Ethel is in hospital now — in a psychiatric ward, where it is secure. She will have few visitors. I am not sure she would know them if she did.

But Ethel is not alone. Old age is a road down which we will all travel. I would just wish for a better end — for Ethel, for all of us. IE