I Hope I Die Before I Get Old

Une histoire de Slate aujourd'hui, belle, touchante, triste, et qui va arriver de plus en plus souvent avec le vieillissement de la population. C'est la version 2008 des amants tragiquement séparés.

Un homme de 95 ans et une femme de 82 ans, tous deux atteints de démence, qui tombent amoureux, et sont séparés par le fils de l'homme, pour avoir commis tout un affront : celui d'avoir des relations sexuelles.

Before Dorothy came along, the manager said, Bob was really kind of a player and had all the women vying to sit with him on the porch. But with Dorothy, she said, "it was love." One day, the staff noticed that they were sitting together, then before long they were taking all their meals together, and over a matter of weeks, it became constant. Whenever Bob caught sight of Dorothy, he lit up "like a young stud seeing his lady for the first time." Even at 95, he'd pop out of his chair and straighten his clothes when she walked into the room. She would sit, and then he would sit. And both of them began taking far greater pride in their appearance; Dorothy went from wearing the same ratty yellow dress all the time to appearing for breakfast every morning in a different outfit, accessorized with pearls and hair combs.

Soon the relationship became sexual. At first, Dorothy's daughter and the facility manager doubted Dorothy's vivid accounts of having intercourse with Bob. But aides noticed that Bob became visibly aroused when he kissed Dorothy good night—and saw that he didn't want to leave her at her door anymore, either. (...) His overnight nurse was an obstacle to sleepovers, but the couple started spending time alone in their apartments during the day. When Bob's son became aware of these trysts, he tried to put a stop to them—in the manager's view because the son felt that old people "should be old and rock in the chair."

Le fils a fini par déménager son père, sans même le prévenir, sans même leur donner la chance de se dire au revoir. Je suis peut-être dans une journée fleur bleue, mais ça me brise le coeur.

Pensez-y : vous avez près d'un siècle, vous êtes au crépuscule de votre existence, perdant lentement vos esprits, et tout à coup, une petite flamme renaît. Vous vous redécouvrez une jeunesse inespérée. Vous remplacez les séances de bingo, de chaise berçante ou des Feux de l'amour par des parties de fesse. Vous ajoutez un peu de bonheur à vos derniers jours. Et on vous arrache tout ça, pour un stupide tabou, celui de la sexualité au troisième âge. Ridicule.

Vieillir est déjà bien trop triste pour se priver des plaisirs de la vie.