March 29, 2023

Officially not until tomorrow, but…

Now that I’m almost 80, I find myself thinking of death more, imagining scenarios wherein I die, usually in a sloppy way.

For example, I’m taking the trash out, stumble on the steps and crash on the concrete.  I imagine this kind of thing every day. Maybe I’m crossing the street at Hayvenhurst and Victory to go to the park, or even walking into the grocery store through the parking lot and I get hit by a car!

As you know, we have oodles of maniacal drivers in the Los Angeles area.  They’re getting faster and more reckless while I’m slower and too cautious. 

Will I choke on something not good for me – like pizza, or chips, or a meat sandwich? Will they mention that in my obituary?  Me and Mama Cass.

I’ve always imagined these scenarios about my death, knowing that it would be awkward and an accident.  I’m that person who will stick the fork in the toaster, or drop the dryer in the bath water.  For that very reason, I have a wooden grabber to use around the toaster, and I don’t even have a bathtub.  

Of course, I could slip in the shower and be found naked and dead with the shower running.  And it won’t be pretty like Janet Leigh in Psycho. My limbs will be askew, and my tongue will be hanging out.  There probably won’t be as much blood unless I was shaving my legs.

Yesterday, I was listening to the radio when Elton John came on singing “Little Jeanie.”  Hmmm, I thought, they could play that at my funeral even though I’ve never been little anything.  Also, I don’t want a funeral.

But I was once skinny, or slender, if you will.  

Many, many, many years ago, a mutual friend of my friend told her they had seen our friend Jo at a bowling alley and that there was a tall, thin girl, incidentally, with Jo.  Jo made an impression, and they had caught her name because Jo was cuter than I was.  I was only referred to as that tall, thin girl with Jo.  I only offer this painful and humiliating memory as proof that I was skinny once  

Personally, as long as I can remember, I’ve always thought I was too fat, or too big, but when I see those old pictures I can see that I wasn’t.

I have noticed, and this has been for a while, that my balance is not what it was. I have fallen a few times, but so far, I can pop (this is an exaggeration, of course) up. Every time I fall, in my head I’m saying “Here I go, and there’s nothing I can do about it.” Hello Ground.

I used to walk across rocks in a stream, or hike up a mountain without listing to the edge and falling off.

I did all the exercise protocols: Jazzercize, aerobics, boxing (one class) and even completed a marathon – twenty-three years ago.

I see those videos on Instagram of the ninety-five-year old on the balance beam or the uneven bars and think for a moment, “If I started now, just maybe…”  But one thing I’ve learned is that my attention span is very, very short and my stick-to-itiveness is non-existent.  

Just yesterday, I got out of breath walking around the block, and putting clean sheets on my granddaughter’s bed nearly killed me.  I stuck with it, though. I guess you could call me stubborn – or is it stupid to continue something when you hurt?

I am lucky for the fact that I have a loving family and some friends who care about me.  

I’ve received several cards, but I’m waiting until tomorrow to open them, and my family is taking me to Korean Barbecue because I’ve heard my daughters and friends rave about it.*

Disturbingly, my husband, who is about ten months older than I am remembers lots of facts and/or names that I can’t recall.  This, from the man who would start a conversation with someone he met at a party but whose name he couldn’t recall, so he’d  make up one.  But he stumbles a lot, so I forgive him for the better memory.  (I call him “Staggerlee,” an old song from the sixties.)

I do remember things that happened long ago, which I’ve heard is typical of us old folks.  I remember all my grammar school teachers and almost none of my high school teachers.

I like to write about them, and I’m under the false impression that anyone cares.  I’m curious about my family past, but it was not until I was in my sixties that I cared at all or became curious.  Maybe one day when I’m long gone and Maddy (granddaughter) is still here, she’ll be curious about her past and read some of my stories.

Several dear friends have preceded me in death, and that, perhaps, is the hardest part of growing old.  I’d like to think they’re saving a place for me at their table.  I miss Roberta, Becky, Gene, Jeff, Susan, Lynette, Leon and more.  And I know I’m lucky for having survived this long – even with having cancer twice.  My cancers were like catching a cold.

I love my siblings. I don’t think anyone has a brother or sister better than mine.  I even like their spouses.  My daughters are the best, even though quite impatient with me at times, and my granddaughter is just the cutest, though also impatient with me, especially when I ask her about her love life at seventeen.

I have some sweet grand-nieces and grand-nephews, and I have a brand-new grand-nephew — four-month old Hart.  My heart melts whenever I see a picture of him and recently I got to meet him in person, which was a thrill.  I suppose what you find thrilling at 80 is much different than what was thrilling at 30, or even 70.

You could say I have lots to be grateful for.

But still, you probably will agree that EIGHTY is pretty damned old, and things in general are just harder when you’re eighty.

The End.

*The night of Korean BBQ, it suddenly began pouring rain with thunder and lightning, so we stayed home and had pizza and an ice cream cake.  Even more fun than Korean Barbecue.