When I am very old and fall sick, I want you to take care of me. If I seem wizened and disoriented, there is something I want you to know.

   When I was the seven year-old in the photo, my dear childhood friend Jill Bloksgaard (nee Rutkin – a friend to this day) and I would cast a spell on our Schwinn bicycles that transformed them into horses. Draping a rope across the handle bars, we would mount our animals and shout "Giddyap" just like Hopalong Cassidy and the other cowboys who roamed the range of our 10" black and white television screens.

   After rounding the block a couple times, slapping our legs all the way as if they were horse's flanks, we would pull up at a neighbor's lawn, tie our horses to a palm tree, spread out gray blankets and light an imaginary fire. All along, we kept a close eye out for marauding bad guys. Periodically spotting one, we would blast away with our silver-barreled cap guns until all opponents were eliminated. 

  The danger thrwarted, we would say, "We better turn in for the night." Lying down beneath the California sun, we would pretend to sleep – sometimes for as long as thirty seconds.

   Who could sleep when cattle rustlers lurked nearby? We needed to be sure our cap guns were loaded.

   We needed to have as much fun as possible. And we did.

   If you were my caregiver, I would want you to know about the seven year-old cowboy and some of the other roles I have played – anything that you would help you understand that I am more than my troubled body.

   Inside every elderly patient (strangely and frequently described by caregivers as little as in, "That little old man") are the thousands of stories that make up that patient's life.

   Obviously, the elderly are so much more than the wrinkled bodies whose legs may not work and whose ears may have trouble making out our words. When we imagine the stories each person has within – their troubles and joys – we are so much more likely to treat them with love and respect.

   Absent that, we run the risk of diminishing these precious souls. The "little old man" may be left for hours on a gurney in a hallway staring up at fluorescent lights. The confused old woman who can't remember our name may have her call light ignored.

   You may hold memories of a childhood when you spoke to dolls or flew like a super-hero or played games with your friends up against dinner time.  When I can see the various lights in you, I find them in myself.

   I hope our caregivers will imagine our life stories when we are transformed, on any given day, from caregiver to patient. If they do, than we may journey together to that strange and loving land called Healing. 

   When you are very old and fall sick, Love will be with you and know your stories.

-Reverend Erie Chapman, J.D.