It’s odd to sit here, in the early stages of the autumn of my life to think back on my life and never imagining I’d ever be “here”. By here, I mean at this age. Not that I thought I’d never make it, as if I’d die young, though 59 feels young to me now, but simply because I never thought about aging.
No…that’s a lie. I did think about aging, only as birthdays came and went, but I never envisioned at 27 what life would be like at 57.
In my 20’s, I would see older couples sitting together at dinner, not saying a word to each other throughout the entire course of meal, beginning to end. That would depress me and I’d think to myself, “Please God, don’t ever let that happen to me”.
That was when I thought there was time to find a husband and a healthy, robust marriage that included lengthy, comfortable silences, never the awkward kind I’d witnessed so many times.
My 30’s were busy achieving career goals. I worked hard and with some luck, I managed to achieve varied forms of every professional dream I had. I also lived hard, played hard and no matter how unhealthy this was life was, I had fun. A whole lot of fun.
I used to sit at a table in sine random bar, tweeked out of my mind, yet I was able to muster enough lucidity to feel sympathy for the geeky guy or dorky couple seated beside me. Their lives, I thought, looked so boring. They looked frightened to me, too scared to have persued their real dreams and instead, settled, got married and fell into a trap made for those who feared to dare. I’d think to myself, “Please God, keep me from falling into the doldrums of that kind of life. Keep me busy and curious. Always curious”.
Then, my 40’s entered the picture, the worst decade of my life so far, and it was as if I spent those ten years paying for past indiscretions and the abject arrrogance I’d displayed in my earlier adulthood. I paid with depression and loneliness and a lot of time on different psychiatric couches. It did no good. We told each other the same thing over again. I was fortunate in that my bouts with depression were relatively short-lived. When these periods ended, it was back to a flatline life. No highs, no lows. And I remember thinking, “God, just let me feel something.”
In my 50’s, my life changed again. I was lucky enough to retire early after 30-plus years in broadcast journalism. I was just 52 and couldn’t leave my profession or Houston fast enough. I moved to a small town in the Texas Hill Country to be closer to my 80 year old mother, who by the way, was the subject of many of those therapy sessions in my 40’s. The move for me, was all about redemption. My mother and I never had much of a relationship and even though I’ve been here almost seven years, things haven’t improved much. She’s more feeble and stubborn and I’m less patient and stubborn. It’s at a constant impasse. She needs me and all I can do is feel resentment and recall glaring memories of certain childhood events. Those who’ve lost parents tell me I’m making a terrible mistake and how much I’ll regret not trying harder. She’s told me the same thing all my life. As recently as two days ago.
I was diagnosed with Muscular Sclerosis the first week of 2017. I’m in the midst of a “flare” as they’re called and mine are always multi-faceted and when these particular flares act up, I’m more depressed and sullen and depressed and self-pitying and did I mentioned more depressed? Not feeling good physically is always exacerbated by feeling emotional and vice versa. It’s never a good combo.
I’m turning 60 in a little over a month snd I keep thinking, “God, help me make amends from my turbulent life and find a redemption within myself.”
I dislike aging. The aches, pains, the bodily functions that turn on you, the psychological changes. The fact that stairs become the new Communist threat.
But I’ll try to end this sad sack blog post with a joke I heard a long time ago.
Three older gentlemen all hard of hearing, were playing golf one spring afternoon. One says to another, “Windy, isn’t it?” “No,” the second man answers, “it’s Thursday.” The third guy, listening in, pipes up, “So am I! Let’s grab a beer.”
PS. Wanna know what prompted this post? It wasn’t the MS, the sad/bad memories that plague me, a yearning to live in a world of revisionist history. It wasn’t even an earlier phone call from my mother which left me with clumps of graying hair in my hand. It was the fact that I’d bought a box of graham crackers because it had been decades since I’d had them and I wanted a taste that could transport me back to an earlier, innocent, easier time.
I took a bite, anticipating taking a lovely little trip on the flavor-fueled way back machine. But noooooooooooo. Yuck and ick. It tasted like sweetened cardboard; nothing like I remembered.
I almost uttered one of my patented “God, why can’t I…….” pleas, but I was interrupted by the love of my life as he crawled in my lap.
Meet Bixby, my furry, four-legged source of all that’s good. The love a dog or cat is salvation with a pulse.
For nothing can be ill if he be well
—-Billy Shakespeare
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