• Reaper

    I am aging and death looms

    The moment we’re born, the mortal clock begins to tick and each second that passes is one instant closer to the end. Barring sudden illness or misfortune, we all grow up, grow old and die. That is the circle of life, no matter how much we may wish otherwise.

    The end bit is often ignored until it happens. It’s like if we don’t think or talk about death, perhaps it won’t come. Instead, we focus on the aging, as though that is something under our control. This is particularly true when it comes to appearance.

    You know you’re getting old when…

    * Your first gray hair appears
    * Bouncers at bars no longer check your driver’s license
    * Your skin feels less supple
    * A clerk at the supermarket calls you “ma’am”
    * Your hair starts to thin
    * Flirting opportunities seem to have vanished
    * Wait, is that a wrinkle?

    Some people are unaffected by these changes. Oh, they notice, but they aren’t really bothered by them. A few folks embrace these fading alterations. But many start to feel invisible when they get older. There’s a reason the global market for anti-aging products is estimated at $38.9 billion (2022) annually — and that number is expected to climb to $60 billion by 2030. Simply avoid the appearance of aging and it won’t become a reality. Or maybe the reaper will reschedule your appointment to a different someday.

    Another way people try to cheat death? Ignore the changes in their body’s capabilities.

    How you know the body has started to decline:

    * Do you wake up in the middle of the night to pee?
    * Are your joints able to predict the weather?
    * You’ve said, “At my age, I’m done with… (ENTER SPORT HERE)”
    * You feel pains in weird places
    * What sex drive?
    * Why am I suddenly so hot? And now cold? And now hot again?
    * Surely this brain fog is due to that one time I had covid

    People can adjust to these changes by trying less physically-strenuous hobbies. They can make their twilight years easier by adapting their environment. Or, they can tumble down the “midlife crisis” path by purchasing expensive toys, having affairs, dating younger people, experimenting with risky behavior — anything to feel like they’re reliving their past or extending their youth.

    I complain about my aging appearance and I certainly notice the change in my abilities. Yet, my nemesis isn’t death. It’s Time. I know death is coming and I’m doing what I can to make the most of every day, no matter what age. But, Time keeps sending these annoying reminders that someday I’ll be pushin’ daisies.

    Time’s favorite hobby is nostalgia:

    * “They sure don’t make things like they use to. Why, I just picked up these shoes last year and already they’re falling apart. I bought this T-shirt at a concert back in the ’90s and it’s still wearable.”
    * “Have you watched ‘Stranger Things’? The filmmakers really managed to capture what it was like being a kid in the ’80s.”
    * “Today’s music just doesn’t move me. But when I want to listen to ‘good’ music, I have to turn on the ‘oldies’ station.”
    * “That book is so good! I read it when it first came out, um… in the twentieth century.”

    Time thrives on milestones. For example, I’ve been with M for nearly 18 years. Where has the time gone? It’s just flown by. I’ve maintained certain friendships for decades and with each passing year, I wonder how many more will we have?

    But what really gets me is the knowledge that Time is so limited. Someday, I won’t be able to do certain things anymore, not necessarily because I’m infirm or unable, but because my life will end.

    A few years ago, I looked into getting a turtle for a pet. In researching this idea, I learned that many varieties of turtles live 50 years or more. So, being the practical sort, I tossed that plan out the window.

    More recently, I read that a total solar eclipse will be visible in my state on April 8. According to the experts, the skies will fully darken at 2:28 p.m. Although I want to see it, 2:28 p.m. is basically 2:28 a.m. in my world. I will likely be fast asleep.

    I had nearly decided to skip it when I heard the date of the next total solar eclipse that’ll be viewable from my locale: May 1, 2079. By then, my hourglass will surely be out of sand.

    I suppose I’ll just have to sacrifice a little sleep in order to see this one.

  • Rest in peace, George

    Wee George and Brigid

    Georgina Walker Weir died on Saturday. She was 14.

    George was the first kitten Marcus and I ever adopted as a couple. She was just 10 weeks old when we met her and her siblings at the local humane society. The litter was named after famous artists and she was called Cezanne. While it was difficult to choose just one, the wee black kitten with a small white spot on her chest quickly won our hearts.

    Before we could leave the building with our new furry girl, another cat stopped us. Brigid was a 1-year-old stray, skinny as a supermodel and a bit scraggly around the edges. She implored us to adopt her too and so we did. The moment Brigid and George met, they instantly bonded, mostly in a mother/daughter fashion. The two them would remain close until we lost Brigid in 2020, also at the age of 14.

    George was a rambunctious kitten, the sort who liked to explore, pounce, attack, wrestle and zoom. She was also the first cat I’ve ever had who liked to play fetch. We’d wad up a square of aluminum foil and toss it across the room. She’d run after it, bite down on the silvery ball and bring it back for more. She liked the way it bounced on the tile and wood floors and the texture of it against her teeth. At one point, we moved the living room couch and found dozens of those little balls hidden underneath. When she had finally exhausted all of her energy, George would fall asleep on my chest. I sense she was comforted by my warmth and steady heartbeat.

    “I’ll hug her and love her and call her George.”

    Over time, George grew into a big, beautiful cat with bright green eyes. She liked climbing on condos, watching the birds through the window, munching on catnip, rose petals or tuna and rubbing her face against hardcover books (especially plastic-covered library books). Not much of a cuddler, she would from time to time hop onto chair arms for pets or lie on our legs, especially if we used a blanket to create a hammock for her. When I was really lucky, she’d rest on my chest and purr, just like she did when she was young.

    Although she loved hanging out with Brigid, George wasn’t particularly fond of the other animals living in our home. In fact, she developed a reputation as a bit of a bully because she liked to sneak-attack Dany and Autumn, both of whom where older than her and had quieter dispositions. Of course once we adopted the litter of kittens in 2017, George received a lesson in karma, particularly when Treacle began sneak-attacking her.

    M and George keeping each other warm

    Because George was our first baby, and the first of many black cats we’d eventually adopt, Marcus and I often made exceptions to our house rules just for her. Unlike the other kitties, she was occasionally allowed into our bedroom, where she could curl up on the bed or on top of us while we slept. If M wasn’t around to see, I’d also open the door to the bedroom’s ensuite and George would saunter down the forbidden hallway, hop on the bench in the bathroom and receive booty-scritches.

    Once we lost Brigid, George turned inward. She preferred spending long stretches of time alone, either lying in sunspots or sleeping in her heated crates and condos. However, until she became too old and weak to do so, she’d still come downstairs at 3 a.m. to receive treats with the rest of the brood or to sleep in the suitcase next to me while I worked overnight.

    More recently, George was granted daily access to M’s cat-free office. The room would eventually include two heating mats, a variety of toys, a litter box, a small condo and special food brought in every day via a tray (a.k.a. room service). Since he works from home full-time, M and George bonded deeply during the last year of her life.

    There will never be another cat like her. We miss her so much already.

     

  • Broken windshield

    The day I realized I was not immortal

    Thirty years ago, I almost died.

    I was 17, newly graduated from high school and back in the Midwest for a wedding. It was the beginning of July and oh so very hot. Friends from high school — my first high school — wanted to cool off a bit so we hopped inside an old Ford Bronco and drove to the city to attend the Taste of Chicago.

    If you’ve never been, the Taste is a massive food and music festival held right on Lake Michigan. For three days, vendors sell all sorts of delicious treats, from grilled burgers and polish sausage to funnel cakes and ice cream, while a wide variety of musical acts rock out from numerous stages. Although it’s often very crowded, the breeze off the lake provides a cooling respite. Once darkness falls, the city puts on a huge fireworks display. I’ve been many times and I can still hear the sound of the pyrotechnic booms echoing between the buildings. The noise rings in your ears even as the vibration shudders inside your chest.

    My friends and I spent several hours at the Taste, eating and making merry. As the sun started to set, however, we decided to skip the fireworks and head home, thus avoiding the sprawling lines of traffic that transformed the process of leaving the city into an hours-long process.

    It was on the way back to the suburbs that the accident occurred. Even now, decades later, I can still remember everything as if it happened in slow motion. Climbing into the front passenger seat of an older model Ford Bronco, one friend in the driver’s seat and three others crammed in the back. Listening to them rib me for being a Girl Scout because I always donned a seatbelt when none of them did. Loud music playing on the radio as we cruised on home. The sky turning from blue to orange to red before fading to black.

    Suddenly, a small car in front of us hit the brakes, its rear lights glaring at us, demanding that we, too, stop. There wasn’t enough room to do so and my friend instinctively reacted by swerving into the right lane. Unfortunately, at that very moment, another car was pulling out of forest preserve parking lot and into traffic. Its grill crunched against my door and sprained my right thumb. My friend couldn’t see the car that plowed into us but he felt the impact and immediately responded by turning the steering wheel back to the left, only this time he overcompensated, crossing two lanes of road at 45 mph and into oncoming traffic.

    The headlights of an older model car, one of those solidly built boats from the 1970s, blinded us seconds before impact. That driver was going 50 mph when she smashed into us, head on. The physics of two fast-moving objects crashing into each other at high rates of speed soon became evident.

    We hit that car so hard, the long front end crumpled all the way to the windshield and crushed the driver’s foot. My friend who was driving crushed the steering wheel with his chest, bending the strong metal like it was aluminum foil. The two friends who sat behind us slammed into our seats but the one who was perched in the middle flew forward into the front and into windshield. Then he fell, half-conscious, in my lap.

    Thanks to the seatbelt, I was fine.

    First responders soon arrived and removed our driver from the wreckage. As they began treating him, I managed to climb out and give my statement to the police. In the end, I was the only person in the three cars who was coherent enough to explain what had happened.

    Everyone was then separated into different ambulances, based on the severity of injuries, and sent to area hospitals. I ended up watching the fireworks through the window of the ambulance with the friend who had broken the windshield with his head.

    The emergency room doctors treated my friend for a concussion. I received some meds and ointment for the 2nd degree seatbelt burn across my chest. While the admins finished processing my paperwork, I heard the doctors tell my parents that the seatbelt had saved my life. If I hadn’t been wearing it, they said, I would’ve surely gone through the windshield and died.

    The physical pains from the accident were rough but tolerable, particularly in light of the alternative. I did suffer some mental distress afterwards when my mother insisted on driving past the scene of the accident. I also nearly had a panic attack a year later when the film “Patriot Games” came out. There’s a scene in it where a woman and her child are being chased by bad guys and they crash into a highway divider. The accident was filmed from within their car and it was so well done that I instantly experienced a flashback to my own crash.

    Two weeks after I returned home to Florida, in that limbo time between leaving high school and entering college, I spent an evening hanging out at my friend Steve’s house. Another pal stopped by and asked us if we’d heard about a classmate’s car accident. She was a real sweet girl with wild hair and a wide smile. I asked how she was doing, assuming that like me, she was banged up but fine.

    “Her funeral was tonight,” he said.

    I was, of course, horrified. But it was only in that moment that I truly realized I was not immortal. None of us are. Death could come at any time and its arrival is rarely fair or understandable.

  • In Memoriam: A Look Back At Many Of The People We Lost in 2020

    hourglass.jpgSome people view obituaries as morbid stories, but in truth only one line of an obit deals with death. The rest of the story focuses on the amazing lives people led.

    In 2020, these were the obituaries of people whose lives — and deaths — most affected me:

    * Betty Pat Gatliff, forensic artist

    * Neil Peart, drummer

    * Michael Cafferty, author and attorney

    * Mary Higgins Clark, mystery novelist

    * Kirk Douglas, actor

    * Katherine Johnson, NASA mathematician

    * Clive Cussler, adventure novelist

    * James Lipton, “Inside the Actors Studio” host

    * Kenny Rogers, country music singer/actor

    * Bill Withers, R&B singer

    * Earl Deutch, ‘Kiss Cam’ favorite

    * William Helmreich, sociology professor and New York walker

    * Bob Otto, who played “Taps” at more than 5,000 veteran funerals

    * Tom Burford, apple expert

    * Kate Matte, bookseller

    * Brian Dennehy, actor

    * James M. Beggs, NASA administrator

    * Madeline Kripke, doyenne of dictionaries

    * Jack Randall, ichthyologist and coral specialist

    * Little Richard, self-described “King and Queen” of rock and roll

    * Roy Horn, illusionist

    * Motoko Fujishiro Huthwaite, last of the “Monuments Women”

    * Fred Willard, actor

    * Ian Holm, actor

    * Joel Schumacher, director

    * Carl Reiner, comic actor/writer/director

    * Hugh Downs, broadcast journalist

    * Ennio Morricone, film composer

    * John Lewis, civil rights leader and congressman

    * Kelly Preston, actress

    * Regis Philbin, talk show and game show host

    * Olivia de Havilland, actress

    * Wilford Brimley, actor

    * Chadwick Boseman, actor

    * Ruth Bader Ginsburn, Supreme Court justice

    * Eddie Van Halen, rock guitarist

    * Sean Connery, actor and original James Bond

    * Luis Troyano, “Great British Baking Show” finalist

    * Alex Trebek, game show host

    * Jan Morris, travel writer, historian and memoirist

    * Ben Bova, science fiction writer

    * Betsy Wade, journalist

    * Al Cohen, magician and magic shop owner

  • stone angel

    What happens when a penpal perishes?

    Nearly 30 years ago, while I was away at university, I received a letter. It was from my Aunt Mona, a woman I hadn’t seen since I was a young child.

    I remember only three things from our last face-to-face encounter:

    * It was Thanksgiving so all of the family had gathered together at my grandmother’s house in suburban Chicago.

    * I lost not one but two baby teeth while biting down on a carrot.

    * Aunt Mona held me in her arms and comforted me while my mouth bled. Then we sat on the couch and read together.

    It was the late ’70s-early ’80s. She and my uncle lived in Kansas with my two younger cousins. Although they had traveled to Illinois for the holiday, they returned to their home state, divorced soon after and I never had the opportunity to see her in person again.

    Fast forward to college, the early ’90s, and the arrival of that letter. It was handwritten in blue ink on lined notebook paper. She reintroduced herself and asked if I remembered her. She said she’d once had an aunt who became a special friend and she wanted to be mine. Although I hadn’t seen her in many years, her kindness had made an impression.

    From that point on, she and I began exchanging letters and gifts, stories and friendship. I told her about how I wanted to write full-time and live in New York City. I described falling in love with my husband and sent postcards from our travels overseas. She wrote about the books she read and the animals she cared for. She called me her “first niece” and said she always knew I would become a writer. She also told me about the dreams she had for her daughters’ future and how she hoped they would find happiness.

    Aunt Mona died last night. I’m still trying to wrap my brain around it.

    She’d been ill for a while and living in a nursing home. Apparently she started having trouble breathing yesterday and was put on oxygen. Then she developed a fever and her lungs filled with fluid. I suspect COVID-19 but in the end, it doesn’t really matter. Her body just gave out.

    And just like that, the world is a little less sweet.

    I keep a list of Christmas presents that I update all year long, adding new ideas next to the names of dear friends and family. By sheer coincidence, I had the file open because I needed to buy a present for a friend’s upcoming birthday.

    After my cousin told me the news about her mother’s death, I returned to the list. There were still six gift ideas written under Aunt Mona’s name. I’m so sorry I’ll never have the opportunity to send them.