There doesn’t seem to be any reason to celebrate living to 100

How do you feel about living to be 100 years old? Apparently the chances you might make it are increasing at an almost frightening rate. Last year, in the UK, there was a year-on-year increase in centenarians of nearly 20 per cent, with women over 90 outnumbering men by more than double – and the highest proportion of both sexes living in Wales.

This stark rise surely owes a great deal to the baby boom following the First World War, improvements in social and housing care – and (obviously) some incredible advances in modern medicine. Covid will have given these figures a knock over the past 12 months, but the fact remains: getting that telegram off the Queen (or whoever) has never been more likely.

But how many of us really fancy it? When I was a little girl, I imagined living to be 100 and running a sweet shop. I saw myself as one of those powdery-pink-cheeked old grannies with a grey bun that everyone adores, but the reality of very old age is often quite different. My child’s eye view never factored in incontinence – or senility.

My opinion on living for a very long time has probably been coloured by a recent visit to my mother’s, whose dementia is now reaching a more distressing level. I’m 61, and holding a weeping 92-year-old in my arms is something I find very difficult to deal with.

My mother is utterly confused as to where she is and what’s going on around her. Currently, she believes she owns a flat in London (she doesn’t, she lives in a nursing home on the northwest coast) where two teenage boys have become her lodgers. According to her, they follow her everywhere and when she sees them behind her, they nod and bow. She would like to get rid of them but they are so well behaved and “no trouble really”, so how can she ask them to leave?

I tell her I will sort it out, and the next minute she is pretty lucid – she knows who we all are, but she worries and worries and worries, particularly about my older sister, even though there has never been anyone more law-abiding than our Sara (seriously, this is a woman who threw up celebrating her A-level results because, thanks to an August birthday, she wasn’t legally old enough to drink and consequently had too many Britvic oranges).

Regardless of this, my mother has spent weeks in imaginary court with her recently – as she narrowly escaped a prison sentence for something my mother cannot bring herself to reveal.

My mother is in torment, but she is not in pain. She has nothing else wrong with her apart from dementia – no heart disease, no history of cancer – and I have no idea how long she will last. All I know is that the visits get more heartbreaking.

Not everyone is destined to develop dementia; my mother’s older sister is 95 and still remembering the birthdays of grand-nieces, sending cards and cheques, hampered only by the fact that she is registered blind and must do everything by touch. Somewhat amazingly, she is also the best-dressed member of the family.

My widowed aunt’s marbles are fully intact; she had a heart operation on her birthday last year and she may live to see 100 – but whether she wants to, I’m not sure. Her adored sister no longer makes much sense and many of her friends are dead. However, she is living in her own home, with regular carers and family nearby, and when I last visited, she had made a chilli con carne from scratch, grateful that her particular type of macular degeneration has left her with some peripheral vision. How many of us would cope so well?

We all age differently and the beacon of light that is held up to most oldies is the likes of Captain Tom, who raised millions of pounds for charity last year before Covid finally claimed him. But for every Captain Tom, there are many very elderly people who, given the choice, would rather quietly shuffle off this mortal coil.

My mother always said that 87 was the best age to go – at that age she was still driving, meeting her mates for regular coffee mornings and attending a book club. To be honest, we thought she was underestimating herself – she was living a pretty good life, until 2020 when at the age of 91, her mental health nose-dived.

The past year has been awful for her, and a lot of the time she is embarrassed by her condition. The cogent side of her brain tells her something is wrong: “My friends must be so disappointed in me,” she told me the other day, both of us fighting back more tears. Imagine that – imagine being old and feeling ashamed of yourself. It’s unbearable.

I do not want to live like this, and I do not want to put my daughter through either the emotional pain or the financial strain. In fact, for me – and I suspect many others – I can’t see that living until you are 100 is any reason to celebrate.