I see signs of my mortality everywhere around me, every day. Certainly, at least in the last few weeks, I am laughing my ass off when I do. My feelings are magical to me — I am certainly in good health for a 52-year-0ld diabetic of 38 years, but my body is wearing down. Then again, so is everyone else’s. The awareness of my mortality is also the promise of my humanity, and a contentment to my spirit.
I speak mostly of little things, and I know many of my older readers have experienced or are now going through the same rites of passage. I forget anything and everything — names don’t come easily, the way they used to. Mom and I often laugh ourselves into conniption fits, over the ridiculous number of times in one conversation either of us can forget a name. Just today, we were talking about the show, A Chorus Line, and I could not come up with the name of the actor who plays the director’s part. A sample:
“Uh, Ray something?” “I know I know his name.” “All that Jazz, he also played the director in that.” “Ron?” “No.” “He was the sheriff in Jaws!” Laugh, laugh, laugh, laugh, and a look from Mom that said, “What help is that?” More laughs. “Schneider. Roy Schneider.” “That’s not it. I’m pretty sure it’s Roy.” “Scheider — Roy Scheider!” We both chuckle, understanding without another word why each of us was laughing; sharing that bond that humans can, when we understand that each of us is losing that firm grip on ourselves.
Earlier this morning, I was showing Mom some of my weird age spots, and my webbed toes, (I never knew, but she told me Dad has them too. I guess I never really thought about my dad’s feet before.) We both often forget medicines. Mom says she has way too many things on her mind; I know exactly what she means.
I spoke at breakfast about my resurgent writing, and my renewed knowledge of my spiritual needs. I realized yesterday, I had forgotten the importance of ritual in my life, the uplifting of my spirit by keeping certain patterns going. Again, too much on my mind, I suppose. But I am devoutly energized now — and my writing is also benefitting from my reawakening. I always liked my blog, and the posts from other bloggers, but I had forgotten I loved to write; blogging had become something of a chore.
My forgetfulness is only one aspect of aging; I don’t sleep as well, or as long each night. I find myself looking out the window at a beautiful day, not even remembering that I’d stayed inside since 10AM. I cannot eat as much as I used to, which is great, except my eyes are, as they say, bigger than my stomach. A couple of times in the last week, I ate until I was just short of being sick. What is up with that?
So, the harbingers of the end continue to occur, and I absolutely love, thus far at least, that I am able to smile, and giggle, and compare maladies. I know I am luckier than many, and I do not presume to minimize the distress many others experience as they age. But, for now, I laugh in the face of death, and then squirt at it from my plastic lapel flower. Ha, Ha, my demise! Take that!