70 is the new, ah, 70?

If you google “70 is the new…”, you’ll find that it’s the new 50. Or the new 60. Or, according to the government, the new 65. There’s even someone out there – completely misinformed, IMHO - who’s claiming that 70 is the new 40. As if…

I’ve only been 70 since yesterday, so it may be too soon to tell, but I do believe that 70 is actually the new, well, 70.

And that’s okay by me.

I must admit that I had been dreading this birthday.

No, I haven’t been feeling sorry for myself. Or been depressed. Still, there really aren’t many people who sit around thinking “I can’t wait to be old.” (Other than 9 year-olds who want to be 10.)

Because there’s no getting around the fact that 70 is old.

No, it’s not ancient. But any way you look at it, 70 is elderly, senior citizen, old.

Oh, I should still have some time left. Depending on which actuarial table I look at, I could live until 83.7, 85.6, or – yikes – 95. (That was a financial services company trying to scare me into thinking my money is going to run out.)

I’m told I don’t look 70. Whatever that means, I lap it up. Who wants to look 70? Whatever that means.

But if I don’t look 70 – which I most decidedly do not – it’s mostly due to a) people (especially young folk) not knowing what 70 looks like; b) still wearing jeans 90% of the time; and c) my having inherited my mother’s wrinkle-free skin. (This is aided by being a bit zaftig, which does seem to keep some wrinkles at bay. Take that, slenderellas!)

At 70, I’ve made it farther than any male in the past two generations of my family. My father died at the age of 58. His father was in his mid-forties. His only brother was 65.

On my mother’s side, her father died in his early 50’s. One of her brothers died at 52, the other at 45.

My mother lived to be 81, so I’ll probably make it that far. Her mother died at the age of 78, but her sister, my Aunt Mary, made it to 93 (fully with it and independent up until the last year of her life). All three had “eternal youth” skin, by the way.

My paternal grandmother was a month short of making it to 97, and several of her sibs made it well into their 90’s. My Aunt Margaret lived to be 85.
I’m likely here for a while, so why not be happy?

I’m healthy, financially secure, have a little interesting work and a lot of interesting volunteer activities. I have a wonderful family, most of them close by, and terrific friends. I have a very comfortable condo in a fancy-arse zip code.

Lucky me.

Still, I had been dreading the big 7-0 in a way that no earlier “marker” birthday gave me pause.

That is, I was dreading it until about 10 days ago.

That’s when I got the call from a friend’s wife letting me know that he’d just been diagnosed with ALS.

This fellow is not an especially close friend, but he’s a friend nonetheless. A vibrant, funny, brilliant, kind, generous, goofy man in his mid 60’s, on top of his game professionally, a regular marathoner, philanthropically engaged (and then some). He’s got a great family. And he’s one of the best men I’ve ever known in my life.

ALS.

Fuck, just fuck.

I had seen him a few week ago and thought he was a bit off. I asked him if he were okay and he said yes. A few days later, he got the diagnosis. They were hoping for Lyme Disease. No such luck.

I’ve seen him since the diagnosis and we didn’t talk about it. Business as usual, kidding around. Other than to say "fuck this" when I saw him. Which could have been about any number of things, especially things in the political realm, but it was of course about his diagnosis. He knows I know that he knows I know. But business as usual is the way he wants to keep it. I’ve spoken with some mutual friends, and we’re keeping our tears to ourselves and each other. The way our friend wants to keep it.

At some point, I will put my feelings in words and send him a letter. Not quite yet.

Everyone who knows this man is gut punched by the news.

I have spoken with his wife a couple of times since haring the diagnosis.

I don’t know her as well as I do her husband, but she is an equally wonderful person.

I also know one of their kids. A really great young man, a complete chip off the old block. When I saw him after learning about his father's ALS, we kept it business at usual. But I gave him a squeeze and he squeezed me back.

If his friends are gut punched, you can only imagine how his wife and kids feel.

ALS.

What a horror show.

My friend is unlikely to make it to 70.

What have I got to bitch about?

Hearing the news about my friend came on a Friday.

On Saturday, I got an email from an old friend. An old friend in both senses. We’ve known each other for nearly 40 years, having been work buddies back in the day. We kept up our friendship even after we no longer worked together. This past summer, she turned 90.

She has been failing for the past few years, never really having recovered from the death of her husband seven years back. It’s been a couple of years since she got out of the house for much other than doctors’ appointments, so when we’ve gotten together, it’s been at her place.

We’re a little Gang of Four – all having worked at the same place and stayed good friends – and when we have lunch, we (20 years her junior) bring the food. Some visits, we help her to bed after, she’s so tuckered out.
I called her a couple of weeks ago and she told me that she was tired and winding down.

We made a date for the Gang of Four to get together in mid-December, as her November calendar was wonderfully full of visits from her kids and grandkids.

Then she called me to tell me that she is now in home hospice, receiving family only. She no longer has the strength for a phone call, but she’s still able to look at emails and is hoping to hear from the Gang.

I called the other gang members and we all got sad together. She was a big part of all of our lives.

We all got an email from her son, who is with her to the end, managing visits and health issues and the housekeeper and the house. He will let us know when the end comes.

Meanwhile, I sent a longish email to my friend. Not overly long, as she is flagging, but highlighting a few remembrances of things past. Letting her know how much I have valued our friendship.

I got a brief and loving email back.

Over and out...

Her death is not tragic. It’s not like getting diagnosed with ALS in your 60’s. But it will be sad.

And the death of my ALS friend will be even sadder, as he’s probably not going to turn the 70 corner. (ALS patients typically last 3-5 years, but my friend has a more aggressive form of this rotten disease, and the prognosis is more dire in terms of “how long.”)

All things considered, turning 70 isn’t bad.

70 may be the new 70, but, hey, it beats the alternative.