Another birthday is on the horizon.
I recently had a conversation with my twenty-one-year-old granddaughter who asked, “What was your favorite time?”
Pondering the question, not trying to overthink it, I answered, “Now. I am glad to be alive, to have survived and grown from my experiences, and grateful for my health.”
Even though I have never been concerned about my age (age is “just a number,” they say), even though I acknowledge all that has gone before has made me who I am, for some reason, this one is throwing me a bit. Maybe because I live with someone who, though two years younger, was flummoxed about turning seventy-five. Maybe because of the helplessness and despair I feel about the idiocy of the man who currently occupies the White House, the authoritarian regime he has created, the ideologues who surround him, the loss of health care and other safety net programs for my fellow citizens, the denial of Climate change, and my fear of not living long enough to see sanity restored.
It is more likely because the summer is filled with death anniversaries of family members—parents, siblings, two husbands—and memories of loss overwhelm. Over the last ten years, I have witnessed the grief of numerous colleagues and friends whose life partners and children have died unexpectedly, most of them younger than I. Most recently, a sudden onset of leukemia took the life of a friend, from diagnosis to death in three and a half weeks.
I find myself connecting with distant friends and relatives, through more than the occasional text or email, but via long phone calls and five-hour drives to be face-to-face for lunch, or getting on a plane for a three-day talkathon. We pick up our story where we left off, whether it has been a few months or several years.
In conversation with friends, I am startled when I hear my mother’s voice coming out of my mouth, lamenting another loss, another memorial service, another empty spot at the table.
It may be a natural part of living through my eighth decade, but I struggle to accept being in a time when loss has become more and more common. My body is strong (except for a bit of arthritis here and there), and I have few limitations (except for negotiating stairs).
These things I know:
Resilience is most important.
Empathy is an essential part of my nature.
Compassion cannot be limited.
Grace is crucial.
Community brings solace.
And, as always, relationships are everything.
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