Death stopped by last night to see how I was doing. It didn't touch me, it just paid its respects and reminded me that we are scheduled to meet professionally within the next few years, so – you know – I should probably be getting ready, burning all the embarrassing stuff, making sure everyone knows where the will is, think seriously about funerals and final arrangements.
It occurred to me that I'll be 65 years old later this year. Susan and I just got back from an event in Palm Springs where we hung out with retirees who, to a person said, “There's no reason to be here if you don't play golf.”
I asked one woman, part of an older couple who was worth a few hundred million dollars, how she'd spent her day.
“Busy” she said. “I was up before 6 a.m. this morning, walking my dog on the golf course, then from 8:00 until 9:00 I worked out with my personal trainer, then I played 18 holes of golf with two girl friends and one of their daughters, then we had lunch out, and by the time I got showered and took a nap I had to start getting ready for this event.”
A male guest noted that he tries to get out on the golf course early every day. “I like to finish up by 11:00 or 11:30 A.M. so I have the rest of the day free."
These are good people who were successful in their business lives, wise (or fortunate) in their investments, and generous with their philanthropy. I admit to being jealous of their financial freedom and ability to literally save lives and make dreams come true with their wealth. But confronting them for a brief period of time, surrounded by people who are desperate to “facilitate their philanthropy” was a little unsettling.
I'm angry with myself for not seeking more insight into their world and their comfort level with their lives.
When death stopped by last night, the thing that immediately worried me was what if Susan died first. I really have no clue about putting on a funeral or a memorial service. I doubt, at this moment, that I could compile a list of invitees. One used to be able to grab the Christmas Card list. I suppose these days you just post to the deceased person's Facebook friends.
From the time we got married a quarter century ago, we always said we wanted to go together. Tonight I imagined the logistics of one of us dragging the other's pain-wracked body out to the berm by the pond where the frogs serenade us in the spring, having a final kiss, then calling the Sheriff to come collect our bodies, hanging up and fulfilling our suicide pact.
Of course there are the logistical problems. We don't own a pistol, we'd have to arrange to have someone look after our dog, and since we don't get cell phone coverage out here in the sticks, I'd have to get a long cord so we could bring the base station for our wireless phone out onto the deck so we'd be able to call. And what if, after one partner is dispatched, the other realizes we forgot to hit send on the email to our family, so the surviving spouse has to run back into the house, finds the computer is off, then discovers that it has to finish 44 updates so please don't turn it off or unplug it . . .
This whole death thing seems less scarey than annoying.
But but death will come. No way to know when, but at my age it's easy to figure out that it will be sooner rather than later. I certainly hope I don't end up being one of those 110 year olds who shows up on the news gumming birthday cake and saying the secret to life is eating legumes, drinking a glass of whiskey every day, and never masturbating.
On his 90th birthday, Studs Terkel told Garrison Keillor that when he was young, he had wondered who the hell wants to live to be 90. “Now I know,” he said. “It's every 89-year-old I meet.”
Well, the time has come to think about it, the time to deal with quantity versus quality. My health and money may run out at different times. What happens when I can't feed myself, deal with my own bodily functions and it's clear that I'm not going to get better? I wonder whether I'll recognize when I'm starting that final glide path, further and further down, until I reach that truly hopeless spiral into death's arms?
In his final days, my father was aware of it and it made him mad. "I'm not finished yet,” he said. He still had things to do that he'd been planning for a long time.
I wonder if many of those wealthy, aging retirees in Palm Springs feel that, somehow, they have finished.
Someone told me Palm Springs's nickname is “God's waiting room.” It seemed like it a pleasant enough place to wait, if you are finished.
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