Remember that old Beatles song? The one with Paul’s voice popping up in the middle of the flip side of Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and your brain asking, “Where on Earth did this come from?”
When I get older, losing my hair, many years from now (bum ba dada bum)
Will you still be sending me a Valentine, birthday greetings, bottle of wine?’
If I’d been out ‘till quarter to three, would you lock the door?
Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty-four?
Anyway, I bring it up because by the time you read this, I will be. Sixty-four, that is. Although I’m not losing my hair, there’s definitely no way I can hold out ‘till quarter to three. And for those of you who immediately looked up at my picture on this page, yes, it is about 10 years old and I’m too lazy to update it. Besides, I haven’t changed a bit.
Actually, I have, and for the better. Aging is so feared by so many that a certain demographic refuses to admit to an accurate number when queried. Pretty much all media marketing is devoted to convincing us we need to look better (meaning younger) and, therefore, feel better about ourselves. But given no one can avoid aging, why should it bother us? Sure, we might lose a step or two and may not match the magazine model as much as we think we should. But with age really does come wisdom, specifically the realization that so many things simply don’t matter anymore, and we need not worry about them ever again. Others’ opinions of oneself. Advancing one’s career. Whether the company/university/contract group meet their arbitrary metrics. You see, with two-thirds of life behind and the third third bounding by like a 6-year-old on Adderall, each day becomes more important to me. And for me, worrying about others’ opinions gives too much power to judgmental people—always a mistake. Letting go of career allows me to focus on what actual personal pleasures await me down the home stretch. And as far as metrics are concerned, they are pure, unadulterated evil that serve no purpose except to justify the salaries of those who invent them, and they deserve to be ignored, if not crushed, into oblivion. Not that I am bitter.
But, as they say, enough about me; let’s talk about my work. One of my 2 new hospital emergency departments has an average patient age of 83, as it was built in the center of several retirement villages. In Florida. This means half of my patients are over stated 83 years of age, and I’ll usually have 8 to 10 people in their 90s each shift. Now, I’ve always had a soft spot in my cold little heart for children and the elderly, specifically as opposed to every age in between, as both the old and young are usually brought in kicking and screaming. The kids want out because someone inevitably pokes them with a sharp steel object, and the oldsters seek to escape because they don’t have enough time left to waste catching some disease they didn’t come in with and dying from it.
But what really makes it fun to flirt and play with them is the clarity of purpose they hold in their souls. One end of the spectrum has not yet become adulterated with being an adult, and the other sees the foolishness of not being a child again. And what is more satisfying than communicating with someone in the present moment? If any of you have ever faced a life-threatening situation or illness, you know the sudden jolt of being yanked into the present (and making promises to God that you really, seriously will keep this time). You are wide eyed and acutely aware of everything going on around you. There is a release and a relief of not thinking about the past or worrying about the future. You are existing in the domain of a nonhuman animal. Or a child. And, in many cases, an elder.
Now don’t get me wrong—there are plenty of neurotic old people, and children, and even pets. But in general, it is us in the middle of our middle ages who are obsessed with the past and future, spending our mental and emotional energy fixated on work, and money, and judging other people and situations. To which I admonish: Nothing ever, ever, ever turns out the way we think it will. So why worry about it?
So Happy Birthday to me, and I’ll write back soon. When I’m sixty-four.
Biography
