On July 9th, I celebrated my 72nd birthday. Now despite the increased pain I was feeling that day, in a way it was a sigh of relief. Mom had died at the age of 71, and the haunting specter of DNA was always in the back of my mind. Yeah, I know that it sounds silly, but… well it is what it is.
Today, in many respects I’m much happier now than I’ve ever been. I’ve love, community, friends, and well, it is possible to live with pain and still find happiness though. Plus it all beats the alternative, at least for now.
So wait a minute. This is a memoir blog, and we were about to start with the third grade back in Tyler. What’s this all about? Well, one of the things old people have to reckon with is their own mortality, and no amount of assurance about how I’ve still got years ahead of me changes that uncertainty. This past week I had a conversation with another woman around my age. I was laughing about living as the old Hebrew blessing says, to the age of 120. She looked me square in the eye, and said, “you know, I don’t think I want to live that long.”
So I never allow a chance for a serious conversation to slip by. I thought for a moment and responded, “I think you may well be right.” No, this is no dark death wish, and I am truly happy. But there are realities to face. The body and mind over time deteriorates. Already, I’m alternately using a walker or a wheelchair, and pain is mostly constant. Most recently, I got a diagnosis of Mild Cognitive Impairment, which can get better, may stay the same, or more likely will lead to dementia. Today I choose life, and I am by nature a stubborn sort. But I can imagine a day when it will be the right time to let go and leave this earthly body. That’s keeping it real.
There are things one has to do at this age. I’ve got a medical directive written, including my wishes if I do move into dementia. I’ve a will that I am going to revisit soon to be sure I’s are dotted and t’s are crossed. I’ve shared my funeral wishes. And quietly I’m pushing my wife to do the same. I’ve put off but need to get on with an ethical will to leave for family, some estranged. This memoir is another step, wishing again how I wish the stories of my elders had been written down, for memory fails over time.
Too much of a downer? That’s because our culture too often runs away from the realities of our own mortality. I remember a time when death was seen differently. I can recall as small children my grandfather on Mom’s side laid out on the kitchen table with coins to keep his eyes shut, for all to see as we had pallets on the floor and slept nearby in the living room. Then some years later, my Grandpa on Dad’s side was dying of cancer and he had us come in, one person at a time, to pass on whatever wisdom he wished to share, young and old alike. Then after he died, we all took our turn sitting watch over the body until he was buried.
I share these stories because I feel death is the one thing every one of us will experience, and it makes no sense to run from it. Mind you, I prefer our Jewish custom of burial within 24 hours, but there is also a complete system for mourning and comforting those who survive after we are gone. Today, I choose life. But this memoir would not be complete without these realities set in the here and the now. I have had to attend a lot of funerals in my 72 years. But I have so many blessed memories of each one of those lives for which I sat and mourned. I’d have it no other way. Even as I write this, I feel my beloved Skip standing over my shoulder, nodding with approval. Skip z”l of blessed memory passed away in August of 1997. But he is still with me. As are so many others. There is much more to say about growing old, and over time I will do just that. However.....
Next time: Back to Third Grade stories
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