The Fight Against Mortality

I’ve Lived Longer Than I Will From Today

I’m 48. I’ve lived longer than I will from today. I’d like to think that 100 years old is reachable, but if I am playing the percentages, it’s a pipedream. And even if I do get that lucky, what will it be like? Will I be free climbing at 100? Will I be able to get around without assistance? No and probably not.

In my thirties, I didn’t think about mortality that much even though I had good reason to do so. My mother died when I was 20 of bone cancer and my father when I was 33 of cirrhosis of the liver (he was not a drinker). If someone should have been contemplating their impending visit from the grim reaper, I wouldn’t have been an odd choice. But I wasn’t.

Now I am. Not in a debilitating way, but an ever-present, how the f*ck did I get this old type of way. In a, my son just graduated high school and my daughter is going into her junior year type of way. Like, I can’t get away from it because it’s always staring back at me in the mirror with a smirk. A smirk that says, this is real. You can’t go back.

The Yardstick

I don’t know how long the yardstick of my life goes. None of us do. I could get hit by a bus tomorrow or I could hit triple digits on a beach in Bali. Both unlikely, but possible. Maybe a yardstick isn’t the best representation of my life span. Maybe it’s more like the expandable measuring sticks that my grandmother used to have, a foot at a time. We might add another one, but we might not.

I talk about a yardstick because it’s only three feet. It doesn’t measure all that much. But I think that’s the point. At least the point I am trying to tell myself over and over when I am laying in bed with my eyes on the ceiling wondering how much time I have left. I should look shorter. Three yards. Three years. Because if I am looking out farther than that, I’m missing what’s in front of me.

But I am 48. As in, almost 50. I have to be past my midway point. The rest of my yardstick isn’t as long as what’s behind me. And that’s scary. Because somehow it seems like the last four dozen years flew by. How is that possible? That photos remind me of times that seem so near but turn out to be more than 25 years ago. Sh*t, I went to my 30th high school reunion this year. I think my yardstick is broken.

Coming to Terms

Some days I accept it. That it’s out of my hands. Some days I know I should enjoy every moment like it’s my last. But in real life, that’s not possible. Especially for parents. Sure, I’d like to cook a gourmet meal every night and jet off to Iceland. But it’s Sunday at 7:28 p.m. and I haven’t even showered today. I’m not winning. At least not on the #bestlife scoreboard of the Instaworld.

Coming to terms with mortality isn’t just about living each moment like it’s a movie. I still need to do mundane sh*t. And when I do I can’t feel bad and chastise myself for not using my time better. Sometimes I just need to watch Season Two of Fleabag without stopping. Because it’s f*cking amazing.

That’s how I come to terms with mortality. I have no control over it. And although there are a variety of ways I could be doing life better, I’m content with just being a full-time, 24/7 single parent. Because soon both of my children will be on their own. And there is nothing more important for me to come to terms with than that. If spending as much time with them as I can while they are still under my roof isn’t productive enough, I really don’t care. I am where I want to be.

Being Mortal

Of a living human being. Subject to death. This is the agreement we made. We get to do life, but we will die. And we won’t know exactly when. So how do I stop myself from worrying about it? How do you? I just accept it. I’ve lived longer than I will from today. I eat well. I exercise. I meditate. I read. I learn. I could be doing a lot worse. If disease is going to come for me, it’s going to be random because I am not doing anything to invite it.

We want to be so much to so many people, but it’s not possible. We are just mortals. All slowly transversing this spinning orb in the middle of space and occasionally eating a bowl of sugary cereal. To face mortality we have to accept that we are mortal.

If we never go to the doctor, we will miss something. Mortals go to the doctor for checkups, not just when something is wrong. If we think we are always right, we will eventually be wrong. Because mortals are wrong all the f*cking time. We are kind of a hot mess. Ego and all.

I’ve failed at acknowledging the mere fact that I am mortal more times than I can count. Trying to do everything for everyone. Trying to control everything. Trying to win when winning and losing wasn’t even on the table. I tried to be superhuman, but I failed. Because I’m a mortal. And so are you. And the fight against mortality is futile. Better we just accept it and enjoy another season of Killing Eve. And every single second we have with our loved ones, forever.

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