"My face carries all my memories.
Why would I erase them?
--Diane Von Furstenberg
Copyright © 2019
by Ralph F. Couey
It's kind of funny that we can be so consumed by the requirements of each individual day that we can become blind to the larger passage of time. When we finally recognize that particular albatross, it is a moment of shock, and at times, dismay. Usually we confront that moment when we see people we once knew as children who are now full-grown adults. Also for sports fans, when we attend an Old Timers Day and we see athletes we remember as young, strong, and graceful who now are gray, bent, and shuffling. Of course, we never, ever think that such a deterioration is happening to us.
Last week, in anticipation of my grandson's birthday, I recorded a video in which I sang "Happy Birthday" (didn't pay the royalty) and wished him best wishes for the day. I attached the video to a text message and prepared to send it to his parents. (Ain't the 21st Century grand?) Before sending, I reviewed the recording. I was shocked. The face that smiled back at me from my phone was....old! The skin hung loosely off the cheeks and jowls. The eyes were almost lost in folds of wrinkles that I swear hadn't been there yesterday. My smile turned my forehead into something which resembled a topographical map of the Appalachians. Even my earlobes seemed to have gotten longer. Atop it all was a roof of silver hair within which all traces of the original color had somehow vanished. What had once been a youthful visage had now surrendered to Father Time.
I haven't been completely oblivious to this inevitable process. A number of years ago, I had given up softball after I had been thrown out at first base by the left fielder. I had retired from motorcycling when I realized that my reactions had slowed to the point where riding in traffic had become too chancy. On the advice of my doctor, I shifted from running to hiking and walking, out of respect to my knees and ankles. Even reading has become somewhat problematic. No matter how far away I hold small print, or how intently I squint, sometimes it's just illegible. My left ear, which I humorously refer to as my "wife ear," has lost a significant amount of hearing, accompanied by an annoying ringing. But those kinds of things are largely invisible to the outside world. At least that's what I tell myself. Looking at that image of my face, however, made it all so depressingly real.
Aging has had a secret dread for me. I grieve the loss of capability and ability, not just physically but mentally. Watching my father and now my mother-in-law, I have seen what happens to sharp, intelligent people when the brain ages. Mostly, I fear what is likely to happen if I am visited by my beloved grandchildren and I don't know who they are. I know they will be hurt by that, and that bothers me. A friend of mine told me that his father had contracted Alzheimer's and had been confined to a home. His wife visited him every day, caring for his needs even though he had no idea who she was. At one point, he told her, "Don't tell my wife, but I think I'm falling in love with you." She received that comment with graceful good humor, saying, "At least I know if he was going to cheat on me, it would be with me!"
There are some benefits. The combination of experience and pain has gifted me with a certain level of sage knowledge usually referred to as "wisdom." Another way to define that is things that young people really need to know, but have no interest in hearing from an old person. The passage of years creates a unique perspective, something that could best be described as "the long view." When I was younger, it was really hard to think beyond about a month ahead, and usually a much shorter time span. Now I realize how important it was to start putting money away for retirement in my 20's. Back then, I had no interest in putting cash someplace where I couldn't readily put my hands on it to satisfy some transient self-indulgent want. Of course, now I see that every material thing I lusted after became hopelessly antiquated in a very short time. Clothes once cool and hip are now laughably ugly. When I look at pictures of myself from the 70's and 80's, my most-oft spoken comment is "I can't believe I wore that stuff."
The truth is, time, at least in the episodic way we measure it, is moving at an ever-increasing pace. What was cutting-edge last Thursday lies abandoned and forgotten by the following Tuesday. I find myself befuddled at the speed at which each week passes. Here it is about two weeks from Christmas and it seems like July 4th was just last week. I feel like I'm riding a mining cart down an ever-increasing slope and there's no brakes to be had. William Saroyan once said, "Everybody has to age. I just thought an exception would be made in my case."
I guess the worst part for me is that I can't fix this. Time will continue to tick forward, and I will continue my mortal deterioration. I'll never feel better or operate better than I do right now. Tomorrow will be a little bit worse, and so on.... Eventually, a day will come when I'm unable to do much of anything other than sit vacant-eyed in a chair all day and drool. I think I'd rather get smacked by an asteroid.
Most people surrender gracefully to these situations, knowing that there's nothing anyone can do to stop or even change it's trajectory. I suppose that's called maturity. Maybe that's why I'm having such a problem with it.
The answer, of course, is to begin to treasure each passing moment, taking from it a piece of joy and beauty. If we focus on life in that way, maybe we can avoid thinking about that inevitable future. And I have begun to do that. When I go walking after work in the mornings, I will stop long enough to take in the sight and sound of the surf washing up on the beach. When I go in at night, I stop and look up at the sky at the stars. Lately, the Orion constellation has been hovering over Diamond Head crater Within those volcanic walls shielded from the light pollution of Honolulu, the bright points of light that are those impossibly distant stars shine bright and steady. Beyond their obvious beauty, those stars are millions of years old, and will "live" millions of years more. Long after I'm gone, they will continue to shine from above, and perhaps inspire a child who takes the time to look up at them. The universe seems fixed, and implacably permanent. But even the universe is on a clock. Everything that has lived, or now lives, must die, if for no other reason to give space to something new to exist. It is a cycle, to be sure. And who knows? Maybe I'll return to live another life.
I just hope that version is smart enough to buy Apple at the IPO.
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