Open Writing

Much has been written about the last years of the Old; perhaps too much. However, now I am a life member of that aged community, I consider I have earned the right to add to the literary pile. But I’ll try to resist the temptation to get into the usual clichés about memory, hair and tooth loss etc. What fascinates me more is what I have come to call the expectations of aging.

Like almost every other life experience, each of us has to learn for ourselves how to handle aging, and the experiences of others aren’t really helpful. William Shakespeare probably laid out the progress of aging best with his ballad, “The Seven Ages of Man,” but this was more of a simple road map and I’m more curious about the topography along the way.

Gaining an understanding of what’s going on with my mind and body as I age isn’t made any easier by the fact that each generation is growing older at a slower rate; today’s seventies are yesterday’s sixties, and so on. I try to gauge my progress by trying to recall my father’s condition at my current age, but even though I take after him, my life has been so different in every respect that using him as a benchmark doesn’t make for an accurate measurement.

I suspect that my nutrition has been eminently better than his was; as has been the medical care I have received. By age thirty he had lost all his teeth to gum disease, and used false teeth for the rest of his life. He suffered with undiagnosed emphysema for many years, and by the time it was discovered it was too late to treat it. It is possible that he was invalided out of the British army in WW I with shell shock, as they called war neurosis back then, but I never knew the truth of that.

By comparison, I have not experienced the degree of emotional trauma that he did, nor have I had my life disrupted by two world wars. By the time he was in his sixties he had taken to his bed most of the time, not because he had to, but because he chose to. Against the advice of his doctors he did not exercise regularly, eat well or go outside much. I suspect he was deeply depressed, though I didn’t come to understand that until recently.

In my own case, I have enjoyed good health since I was a pre-teen. I exercise regularly, eat well, and because of that, have kept my strength. I lead a full, good life, rich with experiences, options and commitments. My father died from emphysema in 1971, a little less than two years older than my present age.

I think I was in my sixties when I started to think seriously and consistently about how and when my life might end. If I’m a true example of slower aging, how much longer than my father would I live? Would my death be as the result of a heart attack, or a stroke, but hopefully not a long and painful illness? If I were diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, would I have the wherewithal to voluntarily end my life rather than be a burden to my wife? If my wife dies before me, how would I handle the rest of my life?

Like many people of my age, I read the obituaries every day, not because I expect to see an announcement about someone I know, but simply as a way to get a clue about the lifestyle of the deceased and their age, and to learn the cause of their death. Do professional people live longer than manual workers? Do scholars enjoy more longevity than adventurers? I can’t say that I have noticed any correlations, but that’s not to say there aren’t any.

Not knowing how much longer one has to live makes planning difficult. Should I take my trip of a lifetime next year, when I can’t really afford it, or should I wait until I have the money and risk not being around? Will my fairly new car last the rest of my days, or should I save for another. Around and around I go.

With every passing decade it seems that more and more people are living to be a hundred or more. I personally know a couple of women who are close to their centenary. The sad fact is that neither of them knows it. Living that long never entered my calculations, and I always thought that making eighty would take a miracle, though now it looks like a possibility.

Then the question arises of where I want to go when I die. Heaven doesn’t sound like too much fun even if I qualified, which I don’t. The Purgatory of Catholicism isn’t very appealing either. Islam’s version of heaven with all those virgins sounds intriguing, but I think you have to be a martyr to qualify, and martyrdom never was my strong suit. My wife is Jewish, and the Jews believe their dead are consigned to eternity, so perhaps if I’m nice to her that’s where I’ll finish up. It sounds good.

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