THE SPECTRE OF AGING

I took this one!

This evening I am startled by an unfamiliar bump at the base of my right thumb. It’s nothing malignant; nothing more than the thinning of aging skin revealing the armature of the muscle and ligaments beneath. And that small mound has actually been there a long time; I’m just now honest enough to acknowledge it’s presence. The back of that hand seems strange, as if it belongs to someone else. How can this hand be mine, with its crepey skin and fine wrinkles, and the beginning of what looks like an arthritic rise?

How did it happen? How did age creep up on me so suddenly?

As I approach the close of my 6^th decade of life, the uncomfortable awareness of my mortality knocks relentlessly at my brain, which hammering I have managed to ignore.

Until today. It was distracting.

I washed dishes. There were those hands. I worked on the computer. There were those same crinkly hands. I tried to read. There they were again. I tried to read. And finally gave up and started writing this, just to get it off my mind. (And here I sit at the keyboard again. You guessed it: those same two hands, right in front of my eyes. Sigh.)

Doing the math, the truth must be faced. My husband tells me of a man five years my junior, found dead in his bed. In church, prayer is requested for the daughter of a man only a handful of birthdays ahead of me, who collapsed without warning, never to recover. While it’s not common, still, people my age are known to pass away.

I used to pride myself on being unafraid of death. But that was a couple decades ago, when the possibility seemed positively remote.

How did it happen? Why does age suddenly strike such fear in my heart?

How did it happen so rapidly? It’s unfair.

First I am a carefree child, heedless of the impending responsibilities of adulthood.

Then I am off to college, studying, falling in love, marrying, putting hubby through school, welcoming our firstborn, celebrating with my love the earning of his two degrees. Aging is the farthest thing from my mind. After all, decades of life stretch ahead of me, full of marvelous possibilities.

The babies keep coming. Soon I am so engrossed in wife-ness and mommy-hood that I only have time to consider the present moment. Gotta get through the day, bathe, dress, feed the kiddos; naps, school, laundry, dishes, cleaning; put the wee ones to bed. Rinse. Repeat. Rinse. Repeat. Rinse. Repeat. I barely catch my breath, much less peer into the golden years. Time to think about that later.

Deathly illness strikes, with the Grim Reaper hovering at the door for months. If that isn’t a jolting, ever-present reminder of my mortality, what is? You’d think that would prepare me. Thank goodness, that hellish episode is past, and I commence celebrating life with abandon. It’s glorious to be alive and I do what I can to ensure I’m here another 30-40 years.

Occasionally I’m startled to see my mother in the room, then realize it’s only me in the mirror – not much of a consolation; I’d much rather it was Mom in person. My father even comments on how much I begin to look like her. No doubt a reference to the whiting of my ash-blondeness.

The eldest sons leave home. I weep. We move twice. I weep more. Heartache visits much too often, but there is also joy. I laugh. We welcome daughters-in-love. I laugh. Then grandbabies. I laugh more. I notice I’m moving with less ease and grace. That’s a little unsettling; I sigh and I begin to pay attention.

The hair that has been gradually graying - my hair dresser insists - has almost completed the project. The grooves etched along the corners of my mouth and edges of my eyes and center of my forehead grow more pronounced, as if rudely to remind me that one day this mask will disintegrate into dust.

I don’t like these thoughts at all. I push them aside, distract myself with projects and responsibilities, ignore them while desperately seeking youth-infusing health practices. It’s becoming more difficult to deny what the mirror so unsympathetically reveals. I sigh more often. And avoid mirrors.

And then this evening, as I stare at these hands which some outsider carelessly left laying on the table – I must admit they actually are mine. Ugh. What happened to the smooth, supple skin, the youthful flexibility? It wasn’t supposed to leave yet; I’m still vibrantly young – at heart.

I don’t want this to be the truth. It’s unfair. Unkind. Unbelievable.

Heedless of harsh reality, my mind-eye overlays upon my body a lithe figure, ash-blond tresses and graceful gait. But deep inside, I’m beginning to awaken to the fact that I must acknowledge the truth someday...soon.

It’s as if someone fast-forwarded the video while I slept at the end of young adulthood and I awakened a slightly confused, somewhat haggard matron.

This cannot happen. I haven’t been young long enough. There are responsibilities left unfinished, wrongs to be righted, trips yet to be traveled, unchecked items still on my bucket list.

I feel silly, and a little ashamed. I’m not the first one to deal with getting older. Billions of others before me have been swept along in this inexorable current called life. I can’t halt the process any more than they could. It indeed is inevitable, unless I die first. Yet, even should I live 3 decades longer, the grave will eventually claim me, unless my Lord does first.

I never expected to react so violently to the inescapable. I had imagined that I would welcome this stage of the game – maybe not with open arms, but at least with the peace of knowing it happens to everyone who lives long enough. I’m as startled at my reaction as I am at the Rip Van Winkle aspect of my life.

I wish I could finish this piece of writing with a happy ending. But this is more therapy than fairy-taling.

I give another reluctant glance at these five-fingered appendages. And sigh. Hopefully someday soon I can laugh at this.