A large turnout is expected for the funeral of Brooke Astor at St. Thomas Church on Friday afternoon, but if everyone who benefited from this wonderful philanthropist attended, it would have to be held in an arena.

Those of us who grew up in dire straits in the city had every cultural advantage at our disposal, thanks to the beneficence of Astor and others in New York City.

When I was a child, I virtually lived in the 110th Street Aguilar Branch of the New York Public Library after school, and my weekends were spent exploring the Metropolitan Museum of Art; both were Astor’s pet charities. Last summer, after learning of Astor’s declining condition and alleged mistreatment by a family member, I wrote a column describing my gratitude and respect for her generosity.

More and more, however, I am reading essays on the horror and indignity of growing old when one’s body no longer functions at an acceptable level. The burden of dementia and incontinence falls to family and close friends, and the term “euthanasia” loses any negative connotation. At what age do we start thinking people are too old to live? When do we pull the plug on a failing human being?

When I first saw Astor, at a City Hall event in 1999, she was frail but of sound mind, and she showed she still had a sense of humor when she lamented being too old to head the Astor Foundation. She enjoyed giving money away and, at that point, was 97. She was 105 when she died, and according to her wishes, her gravestone will carry the epitaph, “I had a wonderful life.”

Last week, the oldest person in the world, Yone Minagawa, died at 114 in Japan, which has one of the world’s longest average life spans, a fact often attributed to the healthful Japanese diet rich in fish and rice. Maybe it also has to do with a healthy respect for the elderly.

America Online recently aired a video that showed a caregiver repeatedly striking a defenseless 91-year-old male patient, unaware of the hidden camera. The caregiver rained her slaps and blows on the poor man, who did not even have the strength to shield himself from the attack. Unfortunately, this video is not unique, and similar episodes of rage toward the elderly can be viewed on the Internet.

My first summer job before entering college was as a nurse’s aide at a nursing home on West 86th Street. I was 17 and unprepared for such an introduction to the reality of geriatric infirmity. I was only there for two months, but I left wondering how anyone could endure working for any length of time under such depressing conditions. The staff members at nursing facilities are grossly underpaid for the work they do, and it’s not surprising that the low pay attracts only the ill-qualified or the saintly.

I was reintroduced to that environment when my mother-in-law came to live with us in 1996; she was headed into the latter stages of Alzheimer’s disease. There’s no need for me to detail what a challenge this was for my family, but I did have an epiphany about this disease and what it means when bad things happen to good people. When I took over caring for Mildred, my mother-in-law, I was nearly crippled with osteoarthritis. I could walk only short distances and at times resorted to using a walker at home. Taking care of Mildred, although sometimes maddening, actually strengthened my legs and muscle tone. In addition, I rediscovered how madly I was in love with her son, who tended his mother so gently. A silver lining is ever present when one looks for it.

The truth about our humanity is that there is a skull beneath the face that will emerge one day in each of us. There is no escape, but how we meet the challenges of life while we’re here may be the secret to inner peace. Edith Wharton once wrote: “In spite of illness, in spite of the archenemy sorrow, one can remain alive long past the usual date of disintegration if one is unafraid of change, insatiable in intellectual curiosity, interested in big things, and happy in small ways.”

I suspect Brooke Astor lived by this rule. May she rest in peace.