Seventy-five and Counting

I don’t remember who he was other than a prominent doctor with a public platform, but I definitely remember what he said: that 75 is the age most people should die. I’m 76 and I think he’s right.

Samuel Moyne just wrote the book Gerontocracy in America: How the Old Are Hoarding Power and Wealth—and What to Do About It. He doesn’t advocate killing yourself at 75, but he does think we should all retire, sell our houses, and go into old people’s living communities—with the caveat that the government would spend the money to support these communities—so that young people can have our jobs and houses and get a better start at life. I haven’t had a paying job in 10 years and I’m ready to let my younger son, who has almost nothing, live in my house. But since there’s no nice, gentile living community in Santa Fe that I can afford, my other option is death.

I’m hoping that I just drop dead out in the woods while walking the dogs—they can find their way home without me—or not wake up one morning. But that seems like a long shot. While my outside body is falling apart, my inside body seems to be strong: low blood pressure, good lung capacity, digestive system that works well enough, etc. The outside body is ravaged by arthritis that manifests in bad knees—full knee replacement in one knee—a bad arm, lower back pain, and swollen hands. While my heart and lungs keep me on the trail, my back and knees—they damaged a nerve in my surgery that’s never healed—tell me those days are numbered.

My cultural life is practically non-existent. The only live music I’ve heard in years are the local musicians who play at various venues— small wineries and restaurants—on weekends and special occasions. They’re pretty good and because they’re all old, too, they mostly play the music of our generation: Americana, rock ‘n roll, blues, and a little jazz. I don’t think Samuel Moyne would worry that they were taking away young people’s opportunities: one of the main musicians who plays in several of the bands is the retired local dentist. The rest are longtime residents of these land-based communities who made their living as catch-can, finding work wherever they could while they built their own houses. The houses may have appreciated quite a bit over the years, but they’ll leave them to their children as an enticement to come back to the land.

I didn’t plant a real garden for the first time in probably 50 years. Partly because of the drought—we had no snow last winter—but mainly because I seem to have lost my gardening ability. Last year’s garden was pathetic and this year’s meager plantings in the hoop house are also pathetic. Tomatoes I started inside are tall, straggly looking things and the bell peppers are about six inches tall with tiny little fruits. Only the cucumbers look healthy. And they were all planted in the same organic soil enriched with some store-bought garden soil. So, it’s a pretty sorry sight; somehow those years of institutional knowledge have slipped away.

The only plane trip I’ve taken since my knee surgery was to Oregon, to visit my best friend from high school. She lives on a bay near the ocean so we can go to the beach, eat fish, and experience the cool, humid coast air that keeps my hair curly and hers frizzy. Driving more than three hours in the car is miserable. I have to sit on a donut, as my “pudendal” condition, which I won’t go into, makes sitting on anything soft without the capability of movement, extremely painful. I can be a passenger in the car, as I can move around at will, so when my son asks me to go camping near Silverton, five hours away, I’m game. Camping is my main summer adventure, with my little camper that I bought about six years ago when sleeping on the ground and peeing and pooping in the woods became more difficult.

I’ve been to England once and Spain once and don’t think I could stand another overseas trip. So New Zealand is out. I’ve been invited to go to Mexico with the family at the beginning of next year, which I’ve accepted, assuming I’m not dead before that. Mark and I traveled extensively in Mexico and I’m always up for another visit. I made a couple of trips there after he died, which were just fun, beach adventures, but I wouldn’t mind spending time in Mexico City and maybe taking a couple of side trips to the surrounding colonial cities.

So that’s about it. I’d like to see my grandchildren fledged, but I think the cost is more than I’m willing to pay. I’m not going to make any pledges or predictions, but like I said, 75 is a good number and something to bear in mind as that mind begins its own decline and the body continues to fall apart. There was plenty of living before that—the good, the bad, and the not too ugly—so you can go gently into that good night.