I recently developed an unfortunate habit of expecting to drop dead at any moment.
Not in a particularly dignified fashion, either. I don’t imagine myself peacefully slipping away in a beautiful bed surrounded by loved ones, with just enough time to deliver a profound final statement that everyone will quote for generations. I particularly like Oscar Wilde’s supposed last words which were reportedly, “My wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. One or the other of us has to go." Then he did. Priceless.
No, my imagination seems to favor something considerably less elegant. Something involving an inconvenient location, an embarrassing circumstance, and the possibility that somebody will have to explain what the hell I was doing when they found me. Probably on the toilet like Elvis (the singer, not my late and sorely lamented dog) or collapsed in an undignified (and very heavy to move) heap in the middle of the living room. Maybe it will happen while Eric is away on one of his famous camping trips and his cats will eat parts of me before anyone finds me… not quite the weight loss I’d hoped for.
My brain has apparently decided that death is imminent and that its primary responsibility is to keep me informed.
Repeatedly.
At considerable length.
In case I forget.
I am 65 years old. Neither of my parents lived this long. My father died at 51, and my mother at 60. Three of my four grandparents, however, lived to quite elderly ages, so my family history is not exactly delivering a unified message.
Apparently, the ancestors are arguing.
Meanwhile, people I have known throughout my life continue to drop like flies. Schoolmates. Acquaintances. People whose names are attached to memories of a world that still feels surprisingly recent. Dear friends. Cousins.
My first husband’s third wife died recently. I was wife #1 and also technically wife #2 since we married twice, but it all melts together.
Every death seems to arrive carrying a little reminder that I am not exempt from the arrangement.
I know that.
I’ve known it for decades.
I would simply appreciate it if the reminders weren’t quite so enthusiastic.
The Appointment
Today, I have my first appointment with a new nurse practitioner who will, I hope, become my primary care provider.
This is an entirely sensible thing to do. I need a provider who knows my history, understands my concerns, and can help me manage my health as I get older. I had a nurse practitioner I saw for more than fifteen years. She understood me and provided my medical care accordingly. Now she's “out of network,” and we all know how that goes.
Earlier this year, my laboratory results were normal. My blood pressure is normal. My glucose is normal.
My weight is not, although I’m working on that.
There is no particular reason to believe that today’s appointment will reveal some terrible, previously undiscovered catastrophe.
Except it could.
Naturally, I am low-key terrified.
What if my previous provider missed something? What if I failed to explain a symptom properly? What if there’s something significant lurking beneath all those reassuring test results?
The poor woman hasn’t even met me yet, and my imagination has already assigned her the responsibility of delivering devastating news.
This seems unfair to both of us.
I know that normal test results cannot guarantee a lifetime of good health. I also know that the absence of a guarantee is not evidence that something terrible is about to happen.
My rational mind understands this.
Unfortunately, my imagination has apparently taken out a separate lease.
Going Down the Rabbit Hole
A friend recently described what I’ve been doing as going down a “mortality rabbit hole.”
That is an excellent description.
The trouble with a rabbit hole is that you can enter it through almost anything. It’s not just a hole. It’s a whole warren.
A medical appointment. An obituary. An unfamiliar sensation in your body. A casual reference to somebody’s age. A perfectly ordinary plan for something you hope to do next year. Your adult kids speculating on whether you'll still be here to see them accomplish some long-term goal.
Suddenly, you’re wondering how much time you have left.
Then you’re wondering whether you should bother making any plans at all because, “…but I will probably be dead” by then attaches onto the end of every proposal.
Then you’re mentally rehearsing circumstances that have not happened and may never happen.
And there goes a perfectly good afternoon.
The particularly irritating part is that I’m not afraid of some abstract philosophical concept. I’m afraid of losing this life.
I like my life.
I love my husband and my children. I love our home and the beautiful forest surrounding it. I love my work, even when the technology involved makes me contemplate throwing expensive equipment into the woods.
I have books to write, things to make, people to love, and approximately eleven million tiny diamond-painting drills that have not yet been placed in their designated locations.
I have shit to do! I’m just not sure what it is yet.
More than that, I feel like I just got here. I feel like I’ve finally made it past the shitshow anxiety circus part of life and arrived at the good part of life.
And now some nagging part of my mind insists I’m a ticking time bomb, with a heart attack or stroke waiting to detonate at any moment.
Yes, thank you.
I was aware.
The Impossible Guarantee
I think I’ve been trying to obtain something that no medical professional, laboratory result, or family history can give me.
A guarantee. A date. One that is not next week, although at some point, it will be next week and then tomorrow and then an hour from now and… rabbit hole.
I want someone to examine me, review the evidence, and announce that everything is fine and will remain fine for a reassuringly long time.
Preferably in writing.
With a warranty.
But that isn’t how being alive works.
I can attend my appointments, take my medications, pay attention to meaningful changes, and make choices that support my health. I can ask questions and follow through when something needs attention.
Those are reasonable things to do.
What I cannot do is eliminate uncertainty.
And spending hours imagining terrible outcomes doesn’t eliminate it, either.
It just means I’ve spent those hours imagining terrible outcomes.
I don’t want to ignore my mortality. There are practical things worth considering and conversations worth having. I want to take care of my body, and I want to be responsible about my health.
I simply don’t want the possibility of dying to become the dominant experience of being alive.
Getting Busy Living
There’s a familiar inspirational instruction to live every day as though it were your last.
Good Goddess, that sounds exhausting.
Imagine the pressure of having to make every Tuesday sufficiently meaningful to qualify as your final Tuesday.
Sometimes I just want to answer my email, work on a diamond painting, have dinner with Eric, watch something on television, and go to bed. Not necessarily in that order.
I don’t need to turn every ordinary evening into a profound celebration of existence.
I would, however, like to experience it without mentally composing my obituary, then spending an hour lamenting that no one has obituaries anymore.
Perhaps that’s the distinction I need to make.
You would think that being aware that life is finite could encourage me to appreciate it. Constantly anticipating its end, however, will prevent me from appreciating much of anything.
Those are not the same thing.
Today, I’ll go to my appointment. I’ll tell the nurse practitioner what she needs to know. I’ll answer the questions as best as I can. I’ll ask my questions and listen to her answers. If something requires attention, I’ll attend to it.
Then, barring an actual reason to do otherwise, I’ll come home and get on with my life.
I don’t expect one sensible afternoon to cure me of the mortality rabbit hole. I’m sure I’ll find myself peering down it again.
But perhaps I can learn to recognize the entrance before I tumble all the way in.
I am 65. I have outlived both of my parents. Three of my grandparents remind me that my family also contains examples of considerable longevity.
None of that tells me exactly how much time I have.
What I do know is that I have today.
And I would rather spend it living than rehearsing the possibility that I might not have tomorrow.
Death will have its turn. It doesn’t need to have today, although I am writing this at 5:30 am and have been awake since 2:00 am writing about dying and therefore, thinking about dying.
And wouldn’t it be spectacularly ominous if I dropped dead immediately after publishing this?
Rabbit hole.