Someone said that to me recently, in a way that sounded dismissive, as though I no longer counted for much . . . or anything at all. “You’re old.” And it struck a nerve.

I knew it wasn’t meant to hurt; it was merely a statement of fact in the context of a broader conversation. But I was hearing that at my age I should no longer expect certain things from the world, like the best medical care (I hope I never need an organ transplant), or concern for every little symptom (when you’re old, stuff just happens), or having a social life (everyone else always seems to be so damned busy). And that I should be content to sit quietly and watch the pages of the calendar fly off into space, ever faster, no longer having any meaning at all to me. No more adventures, no accomplishments, no pleasures. Just old age.

I have some disabilities, mostly in terms of limited mobility, from lots of orthopedic surgery in the past and the inevitable arthritis. I am able to walk, but only with a rollator (a fancy walker with wheels and a seat). I can take personal care of myself — I don’t need anyone to help me bathe, dress, get something simple to eat. And my mental synapses are still firing. But going places other than to medical or dental appointments has become difficult because not every place is rollator-friendly where I live. And having left Washington, D.C. to live with family outside of Savannah, Georgia, there is less to do here in any event.

And on top of all of that, today is my birthday. Again. How quickly they seem to roll around now. This is number 85 — an unfathomable, not-so-long-ago-inconceivable number that seems rightfully to belong to a much earlier generation, not to me. It lends credence to that accidental comment: “You’re old.”

*. *. *

But if we look hard enough, we can usually find that silver lining people are always talking about. And mine is this: I made it to 85. And that is a real accomplishment, because I have been holding my breath for the past 366 days (this was a leap year, remember). You see, both my mother and my sister passed away at the age of 84: mother at 84 years, 6 months and 17 days, and sister at 84 years, 1 month and 6 days. And yes, I’ve been counting. Because I’ve been determined to break that little family curse, as I called it, and now I’ve done it. Hooray! My personal doomsday clock malfunctioned.

So . . . what’s next? Should I just sit here, silently counting the days to 86? Nah. With any luck, I won’t get seriously ill, and I’ll be able to continue tapping away at my computer, writing things I hope someone will want to read. Or with even better luck, maybe I’ll hit the lottery and book that round-the-world cruise to take me to all the places I haven’t seen yet. And I’ll worry about everything else when I get back.

I may be old . . . but I’m not done yet.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
3/18/24