Growing
older is catching up with me. I still can’t believe I am in my 50s and not dead
yet. It may be cliché but I don’t feel
old. I never have. I am well into the second half of my life and yet,
until recently, I really didn’t have a clue. I understood the aging process, I
understand all that entails, but I never felt old. Time creeps in that petty
pace. The transformation seems to take forever but the results are
instantaneous. At some point, we all shift into that “I am going to die” phase
of our lives. Having survived a serious suicide attempt back in the 1990s, the
experience made me more able to seize each day, to claim my life as my own.
Unfortunately, the years flew by and so did my youth. I stand at a precipice,
looking back with great appreciation and forward with a little bit of fear. Who
knows what tomorrow may bring?
It seems
that the older one gets the younger one feels inside. I have heard it said over
and over and over again. Somehow life makes us feel youthful within as it rots
away the outside. The decay is a natural event. There are sure fire signs
of doom as we travel on our way. Slowly
but surely, one symptom after another, and soon you realize why your Dad slept
on the floor so much or your partner took a header off that building.
Regardless of your state of mind, time is not really a friend. I suppose it
should be easy ignoring the obvious. You can try to disregard your reality but
eventually all the aches and the pains and the limitations build up to a point
were you can no longer dismiss them as incidental. Decomposition always comes
with the territory, it is the most relevant part of living. We all end up
at the same place and we are dying to
get there.
Some fight
aging. Many people can handle getting older but they can’t handle looking
older. Age rejuvenation, cosmetic surgery, and creams coming out the wazoo, are
huge business, preying on the idea that you may die but you can look good when
you go. I’m sorry but becoming a plastic cat is not better than crow’s-feet and
the ravages of time. I don’t understand how these people think they appear
better than they might have otherwise. You can tell when someone has had “work”
done. I’ve recently noticed the increase in “transformation” among those my age
or older. In the 1980s, it was all about sustaining youth but these days it all
about hiding your maturation date. Celebrity icons like Amy Grant and Madonna have given in
to the stretch and weave approach. It’s like they are cheating the truth. When
I get even older than I am today, I want my scars to show. I will have earned
it if I get that far. I do not choose to be in disguise.
Watching my
father age rapidly has shifted my sense of what it means to be elderly. It
ain’t pretty, this slow and long withdraw of one’s life force. The passage of
times seems more like deflating a balloon than growing old gracefully. We puncture
and then we die. Since my Mother’s death in 2010, I have been witness to his
decline. At times, considering his age and health, its like waiting for him to
die. He himself admits that sometimes he feels like that. Still, I cannot
believe how strong he remains. He continues to grunt and bear it. Surely, that
counts for something in the overall scheme of things. Pearly gates and streets
of gold aside, I cannot believe that dying is better for us in the end. If
you’re going to resurrect me, do it now. Life should come with some extended
warrantee. Make me pretty and make me sweet. Don’t let me wither like we all
do.
In 2022, my
first partner will have been dead longer than he was ever alive. On May 1st,
without fail, I have recognized the date of his birth. Unfortunately, just
below it on his stone is the date it all ended.
He has been gone longer than he was here. The chunk of time which has
passed since he passed has done nothing but to polish up this fact. Sometimes
you have to cling to something when there is nothing to cling to. I believe it,
all this time that has passed. It’s no surprise; I was there for each second,
each moment. For 27 years year I have counted, keeping track so I could see how
long surviving takes. Every moment I breathe, I remember. There was a day that
my life started over. It was a long, long time ago but it defines me still. I
wonder what he would look like now? Would he still stand tall and structured?
Would he ripple or would he sag? The best I can do is hope he is happier where
he is than where he came from. Getting
older has only highlighted his cost. The best I can do is watch time bring me
closer to knowing what happened and that, in the end, he is alright.
I’m
slightly cautious befriending people over 75
years of age. I don’t have issue with anything other than the closeness to death that comes with them.
It like adopting a mature dog, near the end of life. You try to invest, you
make the effort, then they die on your
floor. I must admit that I am “once bitten twice shy.” All my friends born
before the baby boom generation seem to be dropping like flies and I don’t like
it one bit. In the last 10 years, one after another were here one day and dead
tomorrow. Most had a peaceful end. Others I know suffered greatly and death was
mercy. If there is one thing I have seen more than enough of in my life it is
expiration dates. I’ve almost mastered feeling nothing at all. Death becomes
like a friend who we never want to run into. Although I have never seen a baby
being born, I have witnessed departure after departure. They come without fail
and they always occur in the end.
When I look
in the mirror I see change. I recognize this line and that line. My beard is
turning blond instead of grey. My back hurts. Diabetes is a fucking pain in the
ass (actually, upper leg or abdomen). Almost every time I look at my present,
its been unwrapped and thrown on the naughty pile. In moments when I am aware,
I take a good look at myself in that mirror. I notice the difference every time
there is one. They are like comic books which have waited to be read or badges
of honour screaming that you somehow
made it this far. It’s a race, I swear. We are all going to the same
destruction so I have decided to take my time. Distractions like beauty and
youth somehow seems less important when you’re already ugly. Inevitably, we run
the race thinking death will always come later. There is no such thing as a
long life. We forget, you don’t have to get old to die but you always die when
you get old.
I remember
watching the winds blow sands about the dunes of Cape Cod .
Nothing remains the same there. The shift and pull of environmental factors
insures than such things never ever stay the same. From what I recall, sand dunes
don’t come with crow’s-feet or grey pubic hair.
Photo
https://www.bostonglobe.com/2021/03/04/magazine/30000-steps-cape-cod-three-day-walking-tour/
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