Narration provided by Wondervox

By Mark McNease

“The more things change, the more they stay the same.” Five years after writing this, it’s still true that so many of the conversations I have with friends and peers is about comparing—not so much to one-up each other with our aches, pains, and fears about our future health issues, but to simply share these things we have in common. Perhaps ‘age is just a number,’ as the platitude insists, but the body has a different opinion.

What is it about aging that has so many of us comparing aches and pains, as if we’re war veterans comforted by knowing we’re not the only ones wounded? Life can feel like combat when you’ve survived enough of it, and maybe the time simply comes when the scars we show each other are the result of putting so many decades behind us.

I remember hearing people my age talk about knee stiffness, back pain, inflamed joints, and the malaise that comes from knowing you won’t die young. “It’s better than the alternative,” we say, assuming the alternative is a cemetery plot or an urn from the local crematorium. We console ourselves with having outlasted and outlived so much, but the body knows better the prices we pay. Friends long gone. Parents a memory that somehow becomes more cherished with the erosion of time. The increasing effort needed to get into a car, climb a staircase, and some days just get out of bed.

Narration provided by Wondevox

By Mark McNease 

Time is not so much an arrow as a comet we ride, streaking across the sky.

You can tell from the first sentence I was 62 when I wrote this. Five years later my perspective on the fleeting nature of time hasn’t changed. I’ve long said that “time is a non-renewable resource,” and I still believe that. The older we get, the less of it we have. That’s not maudlin, it’s just true. As yet another friend died recently, it seemed like a good time to revisit the subject. Pun intended.

The good news is that I’m old enough to collect Social Security. The bad news is that I’m old enough to collect Social Security. When I was twenty, I never imagined being forty. It seemed so far away from that youthful ground I stood upon with naive bravado. Then when I hit forty, I thought fifty would be the last milestone to publicly mark, quietly retiring birthday observations with the exception of a few close friends and family. And finally, when I approached the age when referring to oneself as a senior becomes culturally appropriate, I decided I could at minimum look forward to collecting a monthly stipend for my troubles. We should all be paid for getting old, at least those of us lucky enough to live that long.

I was a wild child in many ways, defiant to a fault. I became a teenager whose rebellion was sometimes life threatening, and eventually I grew into a man with the sorts of weaknesses and appetites that make it slightly remarkable I’m still here. So seeing a direct deposit into my checking account every month from the Social Security Administration is a reminder that a lot of people don’t survive to collect this modest reward. Cancer gets them, or leukemia, or car accidents, or sudden organ failure. A thousand different ways to end this train ride called life before it gets to the last few stations. Friends I lost to HIV are long dead, and memories I have of them are flashcards of much younger men. Were they to stand in front of me again, I may recognize them, but they probably would not recognize me forty years later.

Time is not so much an arrow as a comet we ride, streaking across the sky. We only think it drags because we’re on it, like riders saddling imaginary horses that stand stock still while the ground moves beneath us. We experience time when it is behind us or in front of us, but seldom when it is right where we are. And so it seems to move slowly or quickly, its speed determined by our anticipation of something not yet occurred, or our disbelief at how much is behind us.

It’s only fitting we be paid while we’re still young enough to benefit from it. It’s the least society can do to compensate us for our patience. It seems time really is money, and just as fleeting. We may not spend either of them all in one place, but we will certainly spend them all in one lifetime.

One Thing or Another … a lighthearted look at life, aging, and the absurdities of it all.

By Mark McNease

Age has a strange effect on time: the more we have of one, the less we have of the other.

When my mother died twenty-four years ago I told someone that losing our parents meant we were moving closer to the turnstile. Then my father died, and the parents of everyone I knew who was my age or near it. The truth became inescapable that we were next: our siblings, our friends, people we looked up to and people we looked down upon. Everyone, it seems, is destined for the same fate, and it was quickening its pace. Each loss takes us nearer to our own jumping off place, and with the departure of every friend, peer and acquaintance comes the uncomfortable sensation that we really, truly, may be next.

It’s not maudlin to stare at the shortening line and see the rollercoaster coming round the tracks for us. There’s the sense it won’t be long now, and pretty soon—whether it’s a year from now, or ten years, or twenty—I’ll be fastened into the tiny car, have the bar pressed into me and locked for safety, and rocket off into the unknown. It’s a ride we all must take alone. There will be no one seated next to us screaming with delight as we plunge into … wherever it is we go, or don’t go. I’m not personally invested in the next ride, if there is one, or the next. Heaven can definitely wait for me, since I’ve never had any interest in going there. My hope, and belief, is to flicker out, having lived as bravely and as brightly as I could. Beyond that, just drop me back into the ocean, it’s fine with me.

One Thing or Another … a lighthearted look at life, aging, and the absurdities of it all.

Mark McNease

Too many episodes of heartburn after a meal? It must be GERD! Cholesterol numbers not what they should be? Here’s a statin!

I don’t know about your doctor—how could I?—but my primary care physician is one of those nice, softspoken, well-meaning doctors with a great office manner who reacts to every ill I present him with by prescribing some new medication. Most recently, it was something for Restless Leg Syndrome, which I dutifully took as prescribed for several weeks while I kept reading about its applications and side effects. Two things stood out: it can increase my risk of deadly melanoma, and it shouldn’t be stopped without first weaning off it for an extended period of time. Hmm, I thought, finger to lips while I processed this information. I’m not interested in making myself more vulnerable to skin cancer than I already am, as a fair-skinned older man of British and Irish descent. And I really don’t want to take something I can’t decide to stop taking without lowering the dose first over a period of weeks. I don’t have the patience for it, and I don’t like anything that can have its hooks that deeply into me.

Of course I stopped on my own, with just a day of real or imagined discomfort. The bigger issue for me is that my doctor, like too many others, made no attempt to determine if I do, in fact, have Restless Leg Syndrome. This kind of instant diagnosis happens all the time. Too many episodes of heartburn after a meal? It must be GERD! Cholesterol numbers not what they should be? Here’s a statin!

One Thing or Another: Life, Aging, and the Absurdities of it All

By Mark McNease

We recently lost another beloved cat, if you can refer to ending their lives as mercifully as possible that way. It’s both a euphemism and a truism: the space where Peanut had been for over five years is empty now. I left the soft orange runner on the floor by the kitchen sink where she ate, separately from our other girl Wilma. It reminds us of her, and it will always be where she had been. I’m also turning her litter box into a flower garden, with her name on a small marker. But she is gone, and it’s a sadness that will remain as long as we remember her.

We’ve said goodbye this way to five other cats over the past 17 years, and it never stops being one of the most difficult experiences we accept into our lives in exchange for sharing them with animals. The only thing more I’ll say about it is that it always feels like a betrayal of their unwavering trust, and yet we are entrusted too with making sure they don’t suffer more than dying inflicts on them already. It’s a terrible guessing game.