It always seemed a little odd that we celebrate the day our mothers birthed us. For children, it’s a way to lift them up with special attention and affirmation. In our middle years, it’s a reason to have a party, especially on those big, round numbers. “Lordy, Lordy, look who’s forty!”
I said to someone that I find myself looking up at the clock now and then. If life was a basketball game, you wouldn’t pay much attention to the clock the first three quarters. But when you’re in the fourth quarter, you start to check how much time’s left in the game.
I am mindful of friends who didn’t make it to the fourth quarter. If you are blessed, you will be in the game long enough to see your children grown. That is not guaranteed. As friends have passed away, those of us left behind say to each other, “You never know.” Now we’re old enough to know that we never know.
The basketball-as-life analogy is imperfect in one way: Unlike set minutes in a basketball game, we don’t know how long the game of life is. Soccer might be a more apt comparison. There is no visible clock. The referee is in control, and various stoppage times and injury times can be added. You play till the referee blows his whistle. Insert your own referee-as-God metaphor here.
I am 67 today. Like I said, oh boy. Regardless of my lack of enthusiasm, it is a fact that as of about ten this morning, I have been out of the womb and breathing Earth’s oxygen that many years. That is measurable. As a sportscaster might say, “You can put it in the books.” As for my time remaining to breathe that oxygen? That’s a mystery. Same for all of us.
I certainly hope I have a couple decades to hang out with the rest of you. But, all together now, “You never know.”
Would I want to know my expiration date?
Part of me says no. I like to think that I’ll just put my head down and keep pushing forward till I don’t, whether that’s tomorrow or twenty years from now.
At the same time, it would be helpful to know how long I’ve got. There are a whole host of matters where that information would come in handy. We’re wrestling with when to take Social Security. If you want to find a hundred different opinions on something, Google that. If you’re going to live a long time, there is benefit in waiting. If you’re going to live a short time, take it now. So, you tell me?
Medicare is another largely confusing thing that is thrown at you in your Golden Years. I had that a couple of years ago. Now Pam is wading into those murky waters. Long ago, Medicare was a nice government program that worked. Then private insurers were let in, increasing our choices exponentially, and enriching a bunch of CEOs.
Some of these decisions might be easier if you retired on a certain day. One day you’re collecting a paycheck and the next day you’re not. There is a before-and-after. Farmers tend to ease out the door over a period of years. I joke with Pam about what she’ll need to know if I fall off the bin. I’d like to quit before I do. The last couple years have been profitable, which means I’m having fun.
Who wants to quit when they’re having fun?
Again, if I knew how many growing seasons I had left to go up and down the rows, it would be helpful to making decisions.
Should I upgrade machinery?
Am I fertilizing for the next year or for the next decade?
Having an exit strategy would be easier if I knew how close the exit ramp was.
Would we want to know our end date?
A few of us will get a terminal illness and have a known time to get our ducks in row. Some will die suddenly and maybe have minutes to say our goodbyes. Most of us will decline over several years, gradually walking a path that healthcare providers know well.
The Social Security Administration has a life expectancy calculator. Just going by my gender and date of birth, they give me 17.7 years to live. I’m not too optimistic about that last .7 of a year. There are other surveys on the internet that consider current health, lifestyle, and family history. If I fudge the number of years I smoked and how much I weigh, I come out better on those. Were it so easy to cheat the Grim Reaper.
All we know for sure is none of us is getting out of here alive. Or as someone told me, 10 out of 10 of us are going to die.
See what cheery thoughts come into my head on my birthday?
A while ago I was at a wake talking to a couple young people. Something about writing came up, and almost in unison they said I should write my obituary. We all should, as it would be a help to our survivors. I can see the truth in that, although writing one’s own obit sounds rather morbid.
But what the heck. As an aid to my kids, here’s the Cliff’s Notes version of an obit:
“Randy never got far. He lived most of his life on one farm and got all the sacraments in one church. He raised a lot of corn and soybeans. He was too cheap to pattern tile out his farm. It was a regret. Regrets, he had a few. But then again, too few to mention. (Okay, I stole that.)
“He was better at fantasy baseball than real baseball. He wished it were otherwise, but you get the skills you get. Randy liked all animals and most people. If he offended anyone, there’s not much he can do about it now. His favorite thing to do was drink beer and talk to friends. He never figured out how to make money at that.
“He was most proud of raising three kids who are smarter than him, all doing good and interesting work. The most important thing he did was love Pam for “X” years. Some days he was better at that than others.”
