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.

The Hard Board

**BW was one of the most intelligent, well-read and astute thinkers I have ever known. A couple or three years ago he graciously invited me to play Words with Friends on our phones. At first he would win handily, of course. Still, I enjoyed his companionship, virtual and actual, especially when he and his wife got a place nearby in the City. Gradually, after I'd gained some experience, learning much by playing him, the results weren't always so lopsided. In the past year it was getting closer to 50-50.

Too hard

On occasion, he'd explain his low score by stating that this particular game had a hard board, meaning that the tiles he'd drawn were difficult to turn into high-scoring words. It was an acknowledgement that regardless of the innate intelligence or expertise of a player, the game — like life — is subject to the luck of the draw.

The hardest board

Our last game

About a year ago BW's body was dealt a hard board: Cancer. Despite a generally healthful lifestyle and the best medical treatment money could buy, bad genes also had a place at the table. He played all-out to win, with many ups and downs along the way. But the last move of that game was a few days ago, on March 1 (WWF informed me that "It's been 10 days" since we'd exchanged plays). And it's a down

Not an immortalist
One of several books he'd recommended to me, a book I could actually follow, was one he'd recently re-read: Immortality: the Quest to Live Forever and How it Drives Civilization. We discussed and agreed with the conclusion of that book: though there is no way —  here or hereafter —  to gain immortality, the best policy is to live here kindly, seek the welfare of others and be rid of as much illusion as possible. Qualities BW exemplified amply, gently.

While expected and prepared for, his death still pains me. I will miss the companionship of this formidable opponent and virtual/actual friend.

But, wait —  sadly, there's more.
Just a couple hours after being informed of BW's grim prognosis I got this distressing tweet from my former colleague and friend, CG:

She's a brilliant writer, specializing in food. Her restaurant reviews, descriptions of food, travelogues and the like were always fascinating, even if one didn't care for her subject (my favorite is an entry, with video, about dining on a pig's head.) After leaving our religious citadel, where she was employed as a rare "non," she got a job at a cancer hospital.

And then got cancer.

In the mouth.

In the mouth.

Hard board, indeed.

A couple years of chemo, some ups and downs, and now: "end of the line." What makes it more appalling is that she's supposed to be in the prime of life — arguably unlike BW and, certainly, me. She's supposed to get a better deal. Life is supposed to be a lot easier. And longer lasting.

How tweet it isn't
Adding to the weirdness of this experience is the fact that she's sharing her death process ON THE INTERNET! Now, I accept that we're in a connected age, but this is bizarre. Maybe outrageous. Yet, strangely, in her case, it's also inspiring. She can pull it off because her good cheer, humor and eloquence take the edge off.

But beyond the edge is the rest of the blade: She'll be gone soon. Too soon.

Why me?
I don't know if I have better or worse genes than these two hapless friends. If better genes, I'm sure I've compromised their ability to help me. I smoked for twenty years — two+ packs a day and drank heavily during several periods in my life, including the most recent seven years. High salt. High fat. High alcohol. High tension. High risk.

But easier boards:

As I've blogged about before, last October, when an echocardiogram showed that my heart was delivering only a 37% ejection fraction (40%-50% is considered below normal), it was decided that I needed an angiogram to determine the cause and treatment. This involves slipping a very thin tube into a coronary artery (don’t ask how) and taking a look around. What they saw was a vessel 99% blocked by plaque — a sign of hard living, and maybe hard genetics. As I understand my cardiologist's explanation, when this thin tube (catheter) was inserted into that coronary artery it made the blockage go from 99% to 100%. This essentially induced a "heart attack" right there on the cath lab table. Emergency measures ensued and the medical team was able to bring me back and complete the mission. I left the hospital a couple days later with three stents in that artery.  

As boards go, this was "hard." But not "too hard," thanks to medical expertise.

And a stroke of good luck 

It affirms where I stand now: soberly atheistic after decades of believing in, teaching about and advocating for a supreme benevolent force for good in the universe. I am not naïve and unschooled. I've studied the Bible, theology and metaphysics; studied and unsuccessfully practiced an unrealistic 19th century healing system based on that premise; taught it; written about it; and carefully observed my life and the lives of others (including those of my atheist friends BW and CG, as well as my believing family and other friends). I have studied and tried several different belief systems including the no less loony one I was brought up with. 

And my conclusions: We live in a material universe that has originated, evolved and is run by chance. "Spirituality" has more to do with insight into human consciousness than with any tangible substance. In sum: There is no "God."

Why not?
By far a most convincing argument against a theological ground of existence is expressed by the website: Why won't God Heal amputees? It's based on the fact that there has never been a credibly documented case where an amputated limb was restored to normality through "spiritual" means. If a god can't do that, the rest is bullshit. The "goodness" in our experience has nothing to do with any "Principle" of goodness. It's just optimal human practice.

As a blog pal and also former religionist, Liz Heywood, has expressed it: "I'm happier with Chance instead of fate." Well, I wouldn't exactly say I'm happy with chance — I'm not happy with anything that determines my destruction. But it's certainly more intellectually honest and satisfying than believing in an imaginary but impotent Friend.

I'll leave it there for now.

Farewell, precious fellow players. 
Sooner or later I'll be joining you in oblivion, if not renown.

And to my still-playing companions in this perilous and doomed game, for as long as possible, may the boards be with us.

At my age, "Why a Moosical…?"

**I take great pleasure in and gratitude for two young people who are living with us for a few weeks. Grandson and his girlfriend are in their mid-twenties and have been luxuriating in the freedom to travel the world. Having spent the summer in Australia and New Zealand they are on their way back to Detroit, which seems to be a kind of staging ground for their next set of adventures. Because of scheduling problems they were not able to spend these  last few weeks in Hawaii as planned, and sought a mainland alternative. Quite a downgrade, from Hawaii to here, but the timing couldn't have been better. They arrived the week I went into the hospital. My Friend and Producer (more later) and I had planned to spend four or five days alone together here to work out some of the major issues about the Moosical (more later), while Wife traveled to NYC to help nanny the kid of a friend's daughter. Would have been a nice arrangement. But the day before she was to leave, Wife ordered me to the ER, whence began that series of scary adventures that have left me sitting quietly at home typing, while my body tries to recover from the ordeal (see previous post).

Friend/Producer arrived the day I was released from ICU and we spent a couple of days working in a limited fashion. That's when the nosebleed part of the saga began (see previous post.) F/P's wife arrived on schedule midweek and somehow we managed to get work done. Including downing a couple of glasses of heart-healthy red wine.

Since their departure, grandson and grandgirlfriend arrived to take up the guest room, and to supply what feels like 4-star Celebrity Rehab Spa service. This has taken some burden off of Wife, who has been quite stressed, but competent, throughout. They prepare mostly veggie cuisine, which in conjunction with the "heart healthy" low-sodium/fat/fluid/flavor diet the docs put me on, has been nutritionally adequate. (I'm resigned to being a non-foodie from now on.) They walk with me on my somewhat slower excursions, and talk with me about everything from video games to the details of the Moosical (still coming), and and even manage to spend some quality time with each other, it seems, enjoying our patio against the often salty backdrop of duffers golfing away their retirement years. Grandson has even recorded a few bits for the Moosical (story begins now).

www.themoosical.com

In 2009, my Friend/Producer, upon learning of my songwriting passions, urged me to write a musical based on the seemingly abstract premise of the "net neutrality" debate. I've put up a placeholder website that explains some of the issues and presents the songs I've written (18 so far). The subtitle is "In Defense of a Free and Open Internet."

After lying dormant for a few more years, the project was reopened when friend came for a visit in 2012. We wrote more songs and continued thinking about how to design the project. This is when my "Friend" added the role of "Producer" to our relationship. With his strong guidance I've been able to keep on track and the project has blossomed into a full-time job (my retail job functioning basically as hobby and social therapy.)

This post initially addressed the issue of "Why a Moosical" for someone who if lucky, will be 73 years of age this December. All the other people in my age group, and even younger people within the family, have graduated to being grand-things. Some even go the travel route, and some even play golf . I, on the other hand, between visits to the various tentacles of the medical establishment, claw my way to my studio to write, produce and edit these songs; maintain the website; discuss the project with F/P and graphic artist (from Scotland); and embark on creating an animated video of the program. Sometimes I am too tired to do very much, so I write things like this, which don't take much energy but do use up the time.

I don't easily slide into grand-thing roles. My kids and grandkids live thousands of miles away and their visits are few and far between, though most manage to stay in touch via the media. I have no social life. Most of my neighbors appear to be Republicans (at least they frequently fly their flags for no apparent reason). And most of the friends I had when I was in the good graces of the Church are distant and mostly silent. My part-time work life keeps me in touch with general, if upscale, humanity, and I enjoy most of my co-workers, half of whom are younger than grandson. If my body wouldn't keep failing me, I'd consider myself a happy person, doing what he loves with greater involvement than ever. This passion had to be kept in abeyance all those years I was trying to live the idealistic life of a devoted religionist, practitioner and teacher -- ascending the scale of the Mother Church hierarchy. Being a big fish in a small pond seemed sufficient, especially in light of the ideals of being a magical healer and inspiration to others. But I now see that it was the exact opposite of what I believed was my motivation. It was mostly for fame and "success." Unfortunately fame took the form of notoriety after the tragic and needless death of a friend's 11-year old boy who was placed under my deluded "care." And success came in the form of being booted out of the church headquarters for being on the wrong side of a political issue. Success, in that it landed me here within a few months and this phase of my life began.

It's the only life I feel I have left, and as of a few weeks ago, it seems shorter than I ever imagined.

So, again, why do I work so assiduously on this odd little "Moosical?" Mostly because it allows me to use the resources I already have (talent, tools, experience) and continually add to my store of knowledge and expertise by learning to master in some degree whatever new thing stands as an obstacle to progress on the project.

This is my notion of "living:" continual learning, acquisition of vision and expertise, production of something worth leaving behind. That's called "Legacy." Since I can't take it with me, it should be something worth leaving behind for other people to examine and use if and as they see fit. There's no "heaven," no afterlife, no more to my story. I know this is it, have known it for some time. But the swift kick in the chest of mortality has made me a possessed man. Sorry if I'm not a good grand-thing. Sorry if I'm not a good neighbor. Sorry if I've become less than what others might have expected of me. Sorry if I'm not the best husband and father one might wish for. I work on a crazy "Moosical" because no one else could or would. Because when I finish any part of it, I have the satisfaction of knowing that something now exists in the universe that wasn't there before.

Small potatoes to be sure. Others are known for their great compassion, patience, generosity and unselfishness. And these are worthy ideals to strive for, Wife being the supreme example among them. But I'm finally having to admit that my body is older now than it was ever designed to be and that I may be only one little mistake or twist of fate or unrealized technological improvement away from being dead and gone. No one will have me as tangibly as this silly little Moosical and dozens of other songs I've managed to introduce into the universe since leaving the thrall of religion.