April 28, 2012

            Today I am 70 years old.

            My father in the 1960s used to talk wistfully about living to see the year 2000, but he came from a line that led short lives, so he knew it was unlikely that he would live to see the new millennium.  He was right:  he died in 1970 at age 55.  When he did the arithmetic back in the 1960s, he knew he’d have to live to age 86 to see 2000.  No, he conceded, that was hardly likely.  But it pleased him to think that I, his only child, might.  After all, I’d only be 58 in 2000.  Yes, he smiled, there was a good chance I’d make it.

           When I turned 55 in 1997, I wasn’t so sure.  That was the age when my father and his father had died, both of colon cancer.  But in 1969 medical science made a breakthrough in the fight against this particular cancer, which led me to think in 1997 that I might escape the family fate.  In the late 1970s, I began having sigmoidoscopies and then a few years later full colonoscopies, procedures that allow doctors to remove colon polyps which otherwise turn slowly into deadly cancers.  Modern medicine had extended my life:  becoming 58 and actually seeing the year 2000 had become a real possibility.  Still, I was surprised and relieved when I finally made it because I hadn't thought, down deep, I'd last that long. 

    
            When I turned 60 in 2002, I really did think I had reached old age.  No question about it.  I was so thrilled that I quit my job, began receiving my pension, and waited impatiently two more years to begin receiving early Social Security benefits.  I wanted to experience the retirement part of my life, which I hadn’t thought I’d ever see.  I was overjoyed that I had cheated death and that I would have a 60-something-year lifespan.  My God, that was truly old compared to my poor father and grandfather.  And I was grateful.  Deeply grateful.

     
           Then I began creeping toward my 70^th birthday, one slow year at a time until I was but a year from it—and suddenly I wanted it very badly.  I had never even imagined living that long.  70 was really old.  In my heart I had known all along that 60 didn't amount to much on the longevity scale, but it was old enough to satisfy my imagination.  70 was different.  At 70, no one would ever say “the poor guy died so young.”  No way.  And so I wanted desperately to become 70, to defy the odds that had seemed to argue all my life for an early demise.  My tombstone would read 1942-2012, which has a nice, easy-to-compute balance to it.  Oh, there may be a little more time left, but it’s okay with me.  I’m not greedy about longevity.  Not anymore.

          70 is a wonderful age to be.