I recognize her voice in the hall. Betty. She’s one of my favourite people here. There’s no hesitation in her step whatsoever. She walks just as quickly as someone half her age. On Tuesday mornings she goes to a core training class. On Thursdays its weight training. During the spring and summer and fall, after supper she’s always out walking on the measured trail in the backyard here. She does eight circuits. That’s two miles. Her hair is always done immaculately. She dresses nicely, always has accessories like earrings or a necklace, wears pantyhose and shoes with slight heels.
Whenever someone else needs help she’s always the first to jump up and hold the chair or pick something up. She visits other residents when they’re in the hospital. She’s completely independent in this place of supportive living, if you want it. She even does her own laundry. She lives here because she doesn’t like to eat alone. When I grow up I want to be just like her. Oh, did I mention in two months she’ll be 101?
Betty had a small stroke a couple years ago. When she arrived at the hospital they were convinced there was a mistake on her birth certificate. She came home after two or three weeks. Her speech was slightly slurred for another month, maybe, and then it was back to normal.
According to the last census, one of the fastest growing demographic groups in Canada are folks over 100. And these aren’t frail, wheelchair-bound people who managed to hang on longer than everyone else. These are people living active, satisfying lives. Like Betty. There must’ve been something special about the year 1919.
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