2020 vision

**Just heard today about a friend near my age who just had a stroke. Two strokes, actually. They say he’s doing well and will make a good comeback. Happy for that. But it got me thinking about why I am so careful about my health these days. Since I’ve had so many health issues (probably a million dollars worth of treatments), why am I still trying to live a “healthy” lifestyle at age 74? My friend has undoubtedly come across and practiced all the tips and tricks of a “healthy lifestyle.”I know he golfs a lot so he’s getting some exercise. He lives in a community that encourages lots of social interaction  And he’s not obese, but not scrawny either. So he’s been cautious and hopeful as he enters this final phase of life.

So why did he have a stroke, and perhaps start the slide into death in the foreseeable future? Why haven’t I had a stroke? How come I don’t have the diabetes that my two brothers have? How come I had heart issues ten or more years after they had theirs? You could say it’s probably genetic — I got  better genes than my siblings. Maybe the spurts of “healthy living” that I’ve engaged in for the past twenty or thirty hears had something to do with it. However, that doesn’t’t account for the years of “unhealthy” living that went on in the same time frame. I’m sure if you dig deep enough into the evidence there’s some logical reason, even other than genetics. My point is that my friend is in my age bracket. By actuarial tables, neither of us will be alive in 2020. So what’s the point, at this point, of living “healthy?” I’m inclined to think that at this age it’s more important to enjoy life even if it means violating some of the rules of healthy living. This is not an attitude I’d recommend for younger people, between 60 an 70. You should probably take care of yourself so that by the time you get to my age you might have a year or two or three more to live. Your friends and family will appreciate it, but it wouldn’t make much difference if you disappeared from their lives a year or two or three earlier. It’d be the same hassle, the same disappointment, the same sadness. Just earlier. There’d be stuff we didn’t get to do in any case.

Tonight I asked: what we’re having for dinner? I was told, how about a nice salad? I said “boring.” All I really want is a bowl of pasta with some butter and garlic and chives along with some parmesan cheese and a couple of glasses of red wine. I’d be happy, and full and probably nowhere nearer death. I’ll probably not get it, but it at least the option lets me contemplate the question: what’s the point at this age? Maybe this should be the age of “wine, women and song?” (We’ll, maybe not so much the women, since nature has pretty much killed that option, although feminine company is always a treat for other reasons than sex.)

Prior to my big geographic move, I had kept alive by striving for a creative goal. Last fall that was pretty much complete. And so did the job that afforded me a modicum of “community” to keep me in the present moment and not contemplating the bleakness of the future. As I do these days.

What has provided me incentives and vitality in the past has been engagement with younger people, whether in Sunday School (feh) or just plain jamming in the living room. But I don’t have that now, and probably won’t have it in the future unless the grandkids suddenly realize that I’m worthy of their attention.

If I can survive until 2020 by having fun with kids and grandkids and the rare friend, I think my life will have been worthwhile.