The Science of Older and Wiser, scientists say it is the key to contentedly facing physical decline and death.

The NY Times cannot be stopped in its pursuit of The Science of Older and Wiser. And so is Marquel, TPVs Times Death Correspondent. Marquel adds: It’s the key to gentle physical decline and death, though scientists differ on how exactly to define wisdom.

Like everyone else, Marquel is getting older. That should mean he’s getting wiser and he likes that idea. But everyone else seems to be getting older as well and, as Marquel puts it, “the older they get, the stupider, meaner, and more inhuman they seem to get, as well as balder and fatter. Especially,” he added, “if they’re politicians.”

So, I wondered, how does that make them wiser. According to this latest study, older people collect much more information which makes them think more slowly, but more effectively, able to make finer distinctions, and thus face illness and death with more equanimity. So, I wondered, how do I research this story? According to the report, there are very few wise people, unless you include comedians, I suppose, so how do i find them to interview them?

I had an idea and it should work. I went to my nearest hospital (that’s where they say you should go in an emergency). I searched out the geriatric wards. They looked in bad shape. I decided to interview them all. There had to be a wise man somewhere in all that humanity. Or at least a pony.

The first guy was miserable, “This is worse than death,” he groaned. Definitely not wise.

The second was similar, “Oy,” he whined, “what I wouldn’t give to be young again.”

That wasn’t the wisdom the report discussed. I didn’t think wisdom began with “Oy.”

Next up, a woman in pain, “I need morphine,” she repeated over and over until an angry nurse approached her with what looked like a horse hypodermic. I had the feeling that wisdom didn’t start with morphine, but truthfully I hadn’t done enough of my research to know yet.

The fifth or sixth patient seemed content. She was punctured with at least six ivs, was intubated, had a message by her feet that said DNR (Do not resuscitate), but was smiling. “You seem happy,” I said, “why is that?”

“I love Paris. I adore it,” she said.

“Paris? This is Bellevue,” I told her, afraid of puncturing her dream, but journalism before everything, right?

“Oh yes,” she said, “La Belle Vue. They have such gorgeous onion soup. Nurse! Some more bordeau, please!” The nurse gave her the tiniest cup of water I could imagine. “Merci,” the patient said. She seemed bonkers.

“What year is it?” I asked her.

“1492,”she answered still smiling broadly.

“And who is president?” I asked.

“Silly,” she said reproachfully, “King George.” She was the happiest I’d seen. Definitely wise. And demented.

The pattern held. I saw at least a dozen miserable patients. They were really old, should have been wise, but half of them were screaming, “I’m dying here!” Not the contentment the researchers mentioned. Not wise.

I did run into two highly religious patients. One of them had lost almost all his organs, was fingering a rosary, mumbling prayers, and in tears. The second seemed in better shape but was being intubated with oxygen and, at the same time, undergoing kidney dialysis.

He mumbled something. “What’s that?” I asked.

He mumbled again. “Huh?” I asked articulately.

“I’m going to Hell!” He shouted.

“Why do you think that?” I asked. “I’ll bet it’s not true,” using my best therapeutic voice.

He screamed, “I’m going to Hell,” and started sobbing. Not wise, I thought.

My day was almost over. I met a man who was what can only be called deliriously happy. Both legs were amputated, he was triply intubated, and had a ghastly grey complexion. He was gasping but smiling. He thought Andrew Jackson was president, that we were all in Mexico and the year was 1984, “when the aliens landed” I asked if he were scared.

“Of what?” He asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I answered cagily, “sickness, dying, malnutrition?”

“Ha” he laughed. “Nothing can harm me. I’m invincible. I’m Batman!”

I left Batman and noticed several private rooms. I snuck in one. There were four nurses tending to the patient. He asked for wine just like my Parisian psychotic but they poured him a glass of Chateau Petrus. What a way to go, I thought. Lunch was served. He had filet au poivre, some broccoli au gratin, and a gorgeous creme brulee. “How ya doing” I asked.

 “Fine,” he said with a broad smile. “Could be my last meal but who’s counting, right?”

I was suspicious so I asked him the year and the president but he got it right, then started describing the intricacies of ObamaCare. I asked him how much a private room and private nurses cost.

His answer was classic, “if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.”

I went into the next private room. She knew the president, the year, and challenged me to a game of chess while the nurses moved the pieces for her. She won in about 90 seconds. Then they served her some lightly sauteed foie gras with grapes, a ramekin of mixed vegetables, and souffle potatoes, with a nice panna cotta for dessert. One of the six nurses seemed charged only with the wine and she poured her patient a large glass of Chateau d’Yquem. I asked if she was happy or afraid.

She said, “to be perfectly honest I’m happy I’m rich. I’m afraid I can’t afford this forever, though!” She seemed wise. Or rich. Or both.

My research was over. It was obvious. Wisdom is not hard to obtain if you’re nuts enough. Or rich enough.

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If you want a few French recipes, follow Marquel on Twitter @MarquelatTPV.