Everyone eventually dies, so we know of that kind of loss in our lives from an early age. Now that I am in my sixties, that experience seems to be accelerating at an alarming rate. It certainly reminds me of my own mortality, just as it does for most people. It is heightened by the recent threat aspects of what is happening here. You know how most people say that they would not like to live forever. That even if they could be assured of good health and appetites, not to mention being able to stay mobile in the context of how their bodies work and as concerns financial matters, nearly every person with whom I have had this conversation (yes, people do talk about this when they get to be old codgers like me) is absolutely positive that he/she does not want to live to be very old.
My definition of very old is well into my 100s. Maybe beyond that. At least, in this moment, I think that I mean that I would not mind being around in this flesh for triple the time that I have already been mucking about in this body.
Perhaps it is because I have always been a late-starter. I did not appreciate learning until I was an adult. I was nearly thirty years of age when I gave birth to my daughter. I merely dabbled, without much focus by the way, in my life's work until she went to college and then dropped out and I found that I had a whole bunch of money saved for her second year that she was not going to use. I knew that if someone became aware of her changed plans and the shitload of cash that I had, that it would be taken away from me in one way or another. So, I spent it on art materials. An insanely huge amount of art materials, but that is for another story. The point is that I have come johnny-come-lately to everything that I most treasure in my life.
That means that there is a universe of things that I have never experienced and I need to live a long and useful time in order to dive into those things, wallow in them, gobble up their essence and make them mine. I do that now, the diving and digesting, but not so much the wallowing because there is not enough time. Not nearly enough time. I have books to read and places to go. I have art to make and give away or sell or keep until it needs to get the hell out of here to make room for something else. I have work to do and circumstances to create and societies to bring into fruition. I have grandchildren to watch grow and great- and great-great- grandchildren to have sit beside me and share whatever interests us.
Before I die.
And, that is going to happen, sooner than I want, even if it is twenty or thirty years from now, which according to my doctor is a possibility, living for another thirty years. But, I already know that it will be with diminished capabilities and, more importantly, diminished capacities. Like mobility and cognition and the ability to adequately express myself and my needs and desires. I know that with absolute certainty because I experienced that during the last year of a friend's life.
She died last week and her passing was noted and honored on Friday.
M was 92 years of age, and until this past year, she was able to get around reasonably well. We were still able to take her to concerts and out to eat. She still enjoyed books, newspapers and film, but most especially television. She was able to stay in her family home until the past several years and then had an apartment in a senior living facility. There she allowed others to do her heavy cleaning, but maintained her apartment very well. She was active in that rarefied community in which she lived, creating notices for activities and posting them and sharing the information with everyone she encountered. She took classes and painted the most wonderful artworks. She was fully invested in every possible aspect of life, and that was not a new experience for her because she had a full and lovely life.
M was part of a wonderful marriage, which is the aspect of her life that holds the most energy for me. She and her husband did many things together. They were respectful of their individual interests, but the time that they spent doing things together was just so nice. It is inspiring, the way she talked about her husband and their life together. I did not meet her until a few years before he died, and, in the way of women of our age, we spent the majority of our time on us, not on him. You know? But, there is something about the way that married people behave with each other that clearly exhibits what their relationship is about. Yeah.
The eulogy at M's funeral mass was amazing. The priest had known her for decades and was able to share his experiences of her with the rest of us and, my god, they matched and complimented ours with such stunning similarity. What you saw in M was exactly who and what she was, and she was just as wonderful a friend to me as she was to every person that entered her sphere of influence. M's daughter (who was my friend and how I came to know M), one of her granddaughters and a great-granddaughter shared their memories of M. It was all as perfect as only such things can be, and we all laughed and smiled and cried as we heard the reflection of our relationship with M manifested in the words those women spoke.
The mass was meaningful as only those rituals can be. I used to be Catholic, but that is for another story, as well. However, the time not being Catholic has done nothing to diminish my love of the rituals that were precious to me and in which I participated with such devotion and love. It was nice to sit amongst other people who loved M, many of them more intimately and for longer times than I. My Saturday morning coffee friends have joked about our coming-later years with a delicious alchemy of humor, anticipation and abject horror, with horror being the least of those, but still there, nevertheless. Sitting there, watching M's closest friends, observing their cute little bodies, their hairstyles designed to minimize the inevitable thinning of their tresses, their adorable-yet-functional-and-comfortable clothing.
Oh, my. I want to be them. I want to be their version of a woman in her 90s. I want their devotion to one another and to the husbands that still remain. I want their interests, their style, their attitudes, their conversations, their viewpoints and to appreciate what living that long has done to form their view of the world, and most of all I want their wisdom. Yeah, some people might say that not every old person is wise, but I believe that they are wrong. Dead wrong. I want every fucking scrap of what they have.
I want, when it is time for me to leave this flesh and move to my next place, that I am able to say goodbye in the manner in which M was able to do. I would love that the people I leave behind in this world are able to have memories like those I have of M and how she made a difference in my life. I would love if they would love and miss me the way that I am loving and missing M. And, I would hope that that does not happen for a very, very, very long time. I have a lot left to do and I do not want to miss a single moment.
Goodbye, M. I love you.
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