Moving Along

Note to the reader. This post is about death and dying. While I try to take a positive approach to this very personal and sensitive topic, it probably isn't for anyone. Take the week off if you think this might bother you. 

I am 75 now. It's no surprise. It came in bits and pieces one year at a time.

But I have to admit, it’s pretty different now and in some ways overwhelming.

We have always known that the day would come when the lights went out. When you were 14, it meant almost nothing to you. Getting a hit in your next Little League game meant a lot more.

And then life goes by. Education, love, marriage, career, fun, and so much more comes at you.  What a whirl. Some people you know die and you take a moment to process it, but it doesn’t have much to do with you. You learn to smell the roses and to take the good with the bad. You take one day at a time, but you don’t have the time or the interest to wonder about your own eventual demise and mortality.

The demise process is almost as daunting as the end. The lights going out seems scary enough. But lately I have been dwelling on the demise part. Getting run over by an Amazon delivery truck might be the way to go. It's quick and maybe your heirs can collect. You might not even know what hit you. Bam. So long.

But we all can’t be that lucky. I don’t know about you, but I must have a dozen little things that might get me in the end. When you are 75, there is one thing that is very true. Your body is 75 years old! No kidding. Your brain might think like a teen on steroids, but your body is 75 years old.

That means your skin and your organs and your glands and your bones and your teeth and all that stuff are 75 years old. It was probably meant to last 50 years but there it is – 75 years old. Sure, you can work out and you can apply creams and do a lot of things to slow the process down, but we don’t kid ourselves. These remedies apply only a bit of friction against the eventual decline of our many body parts.

My eyes started declining when I was 30. Today I can barely hear a freight train and don’t get me started on my prostate. What about all those brown aging spots? Dudes, it is all going and there is little we can do.

Luckily, a lot of these things are manageable. We can take some drugs and have surgery. I used the word demise above. We are demising for sure but the thing that sometimes keeps me awake at night is the actual process. The Amazon truck is one thing – it’s fast. But what about the slow alternatives? We all want a slow alternative that is not painful and wherein we have some brain functions left as we decline. But we have very little control over the last chapter. It might be painful. It might be perplexing and confusing. Not exactly the way we want it to end.

Some of you notice that I have ignored religion and afterlife. For many of you, there is much comfort in knowing that you will be moving along to heaven. The above is not, therefore, of much interest to you. I hope you are right, and I wish you bon voyage.

I am not sure what is left to say. I am not writing this because I have been diagnosed with something terminal. I hope to live a lot longer. I am writing this because this is a topic that no one wants to discuss. It is probably the best-kept secret out there. People who are very ill don’t want to scare everyone else. People who are worried they will soon be diminishing would rather talk about happier topics like Covid or Donald Trump.

I feel better having put my spin on Moving Along. I’d love for you to share your thoughts too.

One more point. This piece is not meant to be morbid. I don't know how you will react to it. My take is that we should enjoy that last chapter. Some people will want to fight to the very last gasp. Others will go more gently into that good night. Whichever it is, I want to be aware and I want to make the most of every moment. It might be a last chapter but it might also be a really good one. The alternative is that it will be the last chapter and a very bad one. I'd rather not go in that direction.