No one told me it would be like this. I thought growing old was supposed to be the “Golden Years” where you sort of enjoyed life with your spouse, traveled, spent leisure time with your family, grandkids, and friends. For me it would be plenty of time to write and read, mess with my art, work a little, mow and ogle over the garden. Oh, I was aware of the humorous cliché that when you grow old you spend most of your time “going to the doctor and funerals.” I chuckled at this and even voiced it myself. But it's true! That's what we do when we're old—go to doctors and funerals.
My good friend from college, Joel Boy, just passed away. I can't believe it. We were the same age, 75. We partied hard in college—Iowa State. He bailed me out of jail once. We both sobered up, thank goodness. He was best man at Ginnie's and my wedding. We just went to a Celebration of Life for Joel Boy. He's in an urn. And his sister, a year younger and a good friend also, is in a nursing home.
Then my high school buddy, John—we hunted together and played football side-by-side—his heart gave out. I never knew John to be sick a day in his life. Now his high school sweetheart, another friend of mine, after 57 years of marriage, is a widow.
Another high school buddy has been diagnosed with brain cancer. Gee willikers, what's going on?
I feel like a senior in high school football, half way through the season, just realizing that it was all going to be over in a few weeks. No one had told me this. I was totally unprepared. It seemed so unfair. Something I enjoyed so much was ending.
I guess Ginnie and I have our own health issues. At my latest eye appointment the doctor told me I had the beginning of macular degeneration. Gulp. I can't imagine life if I can't read. Then there's the high PSA and out-of-whack kidney functions. It's almost daily trips to the doctor: dentist, eye, hearing, skin, urology, family doctor, the list goes on.
Ginnie's health seems to be pretty good, knock on wood, although she goes to the chiropractor a lot. I don't wanna be the invalid she feels obligated to take care of. Yes, we have long-term care insurance.
I always read the obituaries in the newspaper. I'm appalled at so many people younger than me dying. Maybe I should feel blessed that I'm 75 and still moving air in and out. Maybe I should take a lesson from our garden. The plants last a season, for the most part, no matter how much water they get, or sunshine. It's over, Rover. Except for the onions. They'll last through the winter and be ready to harvest in the spring. Hmm.
I exercise aerobically daily, thinking of John and his heart. I feel privileged to be able to do this. I told my eye doctor I want to live to be 100. He said, “No, you don't. Quality of life deteriorates, organs fail, the mind goes.” Ginnie's father is 96 and sharp as a tack. He writes letters with hand writing prettier than a grade-school teacher's. I know people in their nineties, bright as a new penny. I feel if I exercise regularly, keep my weight down, eat right, trust in God, and help others I should have a long healthy life. Isn't that the formula?
“Dying is part of life.” I've been hearing that a lot lately and I've said it myself when my parents passed away years ago. Somehow, it doesn't ring true now that friends my age are passing away, and I could be next. The Golden Years aren't so golden.
I guess what we have to do is make sure we're right with God and the people around us, have our affairs in order and accept whatever comes our way. I have no fear of dying. It's the suffering that can accompany death, both for self and others, that's a “hurts don't it.” Growing old is not for sissies.
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