L’chai-im!
It’s official … I’ve outlived my mother.
On November 28, 2010, I was the exact age my mom was when the cancer finally won the war the two of them had been battling for several years. Her “denouement” occurred on Feb. 2, 1973, and I was not quite eight years old. The day it happened, I was staying with Grandma Sophie. I’d gone down to the basement to get something and on my way back up the cellar stairs the phone rang. I froze, mid-step, knowing somehow that it was “THE CALL,” the one informing us that Mom had died. The conversation was brief and Grandma’s end of it was particularly cryptic. I don’t recall any of her words, but whatever she said confirmed what I knew in my gut. I don’t know how long I stood there, numbly, on the stairs, but when I finally made my way up the remaining steps it was as if on autopilot, someone else forcing my legs to move. The stairwell opened into the kitchen, and when I emerged I immediately looked to my right where the phone hung on the wall. A clock was directly above the phone; it was 4:10 p.m.
Sadly, despite my young age, this was not the first time I’d experienced “BIG LOSS;” a year and three months earlier my dad had died in a car accident.
I’ve had people tell me that I’m an old soul. I don’t know exactly what that means. But if it implies a lifetime of experiences “before my time,” then I’d concur. I learned at a very early age that we are not promised tomorrow—and I learned it twice. It probably explains why I’ve always tried to live life to the fullest, cramming as much as possible into every year, day, and experience. Granted, all this is aided by the personality I was born with (an Enneagram 7; our vice is gluttony—I’ve always said that if a little bit of something was good, why the hell wouldn’t you want a whole BUNCH of it?!). So, in most ways, I’ve embodied carpe diem to a fault … and sometimes it really has been a fault! I’ve run myself ragged, burned the candle at both ends, insert-your-favorite-metaphor-for-overdoing-it, all in the hopes of not missing out on anything. I’m the kind of person who once spent two months in Europe and in that time visited 14 countries, averaging 4 nights per country but only 2 nights per bed. (No wonder Europeans think we Americans are crazy!)
In my 46 years, therefore, I’ve experienced a LOT. Admittedly, some of those experiences of DOING have come at the expense of fully BEING in those experiences, but that’s a topic for another time. My point here is that while I haven’t lived in dread, with the Sword of Damocles hanging over my head, I’ve also never assumed I’d live to a ripe old age. I’ve been in numerous conversations over the years with folks who have talked about their good genes, how, if they follow the family “tradition,” they’ll likely live to their late 80s, mid-90s, or even past 100. I’ve listened, sipping my drink, and then stated matter-of-factly, “Well, if I follow suit, I’ve got about 10 more years” … or 5 more years … or, as in this past year, “I’m pretty much coming up on it.” Talk about a conversation stopper!
Have I seriously thought I’d die in my mid-40s? No. But it has been a little weird to be “forced” to think these thoughts way before my time. During a recent gig, I was hosted by a lovely elderly couple. The husband was the older of the two and, through various hints in our conversations, I pieced together that he was around 80. At one point he mentioned his dad had died at 83 and I detected a “pensive knowing” in the look that flickered across his face. But that’s normal. You would expect an 80 year old to be thinking that maybe he didn’t have much time left, especially when his dad died at 83. It’s not quite as normal to be thinking these thoughts in your early 40s or late 30s … or earlier.
In addition to the obvious, the thing I especially miss—particularly as I enter middle age—is having a biological point of reference for navigating milestones. When did my mom start menopause and what were her symptoms? Did either of my parents develop arthritis, hardening of the arteries, or dementia? At what point did they have to start wearing bifocals … and then trifocals? While none of these aspects of aging is particularly pleasant, it could be argued that not even being given the option to experience them is worse. Because it also means that they weren’t around to experience weddings, births, anniversaries, holidays, delicious meals, sunrises, an intimate dance, laughter with friends and loved ones, another day.
Obviously, any of us could get hit by a bus tomorrow. So, making the most of each day isn’t such a bad way to live life. But there’s a difference between jamming each day full of “life” and pausing at the end of each day to reflect upon, and give thanks for, what those days’ experiences provided for you. I’ve said for years that I find crow’s feet, or laugh lines, attractive. Why? Because they’re an indicator that that person has been around long enough to have experienced some LIFE. And while this certainly isn’t a given, hopefully they’ve gained some wisdom in the process, and maybe even done a fair amount of laughing as a result. A sense of humor, particularly borne out of life experience, is desirable to me. So, each day I’m given to gain and cultivate those things I see as a gift.
That’s the main reason, by the way, that I don’t color my hair. My parents were barely given the chance to get gray hair; and my mom, thanks to chemotherapy, didn’t even have hair in her final months to be gray. So I view every gray hair sort of the same way I view every developing laugh line – as a mile marker of (hopeful!) life wisdom, a badge of survival, a visible gift for each day I’ve been given. At least, that’s the ideal I’m striving for. I still spend way too many of these gift days spinning my wheels, doing instead of being, and complaining about one thing or another.
Maybe it’s significant—and no coincidence, therefore—that my recent mile marker of Nov. 28, 2010, happened to be the first day of Advent … a day signifying, among other things, the start of a new year, a new cycle, a new beginning. L’chai-im!