by Larry Brody
I’m not the first person to observe with a feeling (probably inflated) of wisdom that as our lives amble, zip, and sometimes sputter along paths we’ve chosen—or had chosen for us—many different milestones measure our passage.
First day of school.
First communion.
Bar or Bat Mitzvah.
High school or college (and, these days, junior high and preschool) graduation.
Marriage.
The birth of a child or two, or more.
Divorce.
Grandchildren.
The deaths of our parents.
The death of our mate.
A host of others, some intensely personal, others appropriate for us all.
Obviously, many of these moments are wonderful. And, just as obviously, many are 180 degrees in the other direction.
But just a few weeks ago I encountered the most terrifying and, yep, depressing milestone of all.
Like a whole lot of bad news, it came in the mail.
I’m talking about my Medicare card.
I’m not talking political-socio-economic philosophy here, I’m talking psychological reality.
Staring at that little card waiting to be separated at its perforations and slipped into my wallet, I could think of only one thing:
In less than one month—under 30 days!—I’ll be 65.
Yikes!
Was that for real? Could it possibly be true? Once upon a time various of my grandparents were 65. I remember them well. Doddering, deaf, terrifying when they were behind the wheel of any vehicle on any public, or for that matter private, thoroughfare.
And my parents. They both reach 65 too. Shriveled. Barely able to see. Terrifyingly driving each other to doctors and hospitals as bouts of illness became more and more frequent…and severe.
But those old codgers were from other generations. Immigrant oldsters born in Europe at the turn of the 20th Century. Generation Gapped adults of what Time Magazine called “the best generation,” born in the Good Ole USA just in time for the Great Depression.
That’s not me.
It can’t be.
I’m a young, vital, physically fit baby boomer. I’ve trained with weights for over 50 years. Worked at a gig that demands the utmost in concentration and creativity for 40—
Uh-oh.
There are things, some important, some not-so, that I’ve done for 40 or 50 years?
Friends I’ve had for that same length of time?
Stories I tell that begin not with “Once upon a time” but “Back in the day…?”
I am so…so…what’s the word? Back in the day I never had trouble picking the exact one I needed, but now….
Now I’m old.
Medicare old.
Social Security benefits old.
“Grampa Larry” old.
I may not be doddering—yet—but when I stand beside my children I feel nowhere near as tall as I used to be. My doctor recently recommended a good hearing aid so I could appreciate all the now-missing “sha-bop-sha-bops” on oldies radio. The prescription that just a year ago covered the farthest distance of my “progressive lenses” now is too weak for even the middle…
And, difficult as this is for me to admit, I wouldn’t want to be in another car driving on the same road Grampa Larry was on, nosirree. In fact, just yesterday a neighbor young enough to be my son posted these much-too-true words to me on Facebook:
“Hey, Brody, stay on your side of the road!”
He added an “LOL,” but that was just an act of mercy, after a surprisingly close call.
“I grow old, I grow old. I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.”
So wrote T.S. Elliot back in the day long before the day I go back to. He was referring to fashion, a teacher of mine who had heard him speak about his poetry told a lit class I was in.
“At the time Eliot wrote this,” she said, “the style was for young men to wear straight bottoms and for older ones to fold their pants into cuffs.”
I’m still wearing straight bottoms on my jeans, but even though I’ve beaten Fashion, Time’s got me on the ropes.
Having become a grandparent several times over has been wonderful, but what comes next doesn’t seem nearly so good. I’ve spent much of my life throwing myself at the future but fear that the best I can hope for next time I do that is that I’ll be bounced groggily back.
What bothers me most is that after all these years I still haven’t figured out what the Universe is all about.
On the other hand, I’m pretty sure the Universe hasn’t figured me out either.
Hmm, whaddaya know?
Gotcha, U-dude.