Today is my birthday and call me foolish but I’m quite relieved. Probably no one is ever happy to age, to reach 59, one year shy of the big 60, but this chick is doing a happy dance and I’ll tell you why.
Since I turned 58, I’ve had a rough time mentally. The back of my mind constantly taunted me with the fact that my dear mom passed away at 58. The fact that I was born in 1958, and how things always happen to me in threes, that number kept haunting me. 58, 58, 58! I thought it might be my time to kick the bucket and it made my cup that is usually half empty, down to a quarter full. I’m not alone. Several people have told me they were a little apprehensive making it through the same age when a parent died, and worried that the same misfortune would prevail.I’m not usually so negative that I willingly bring disaster on myself, but my over active imagination has a mind of its own. There are dark crevices filled with deep, black rivers that leak into my thoughts now and then, whisper in my ear, telling worrisome tales to remind me how my life is as fragile as a robin’s egg.
My mom and I lived totally different lives, lowering the chances that we would follow the same patterns, but we are genetically linked and that’s pretty powerful and therefore concerning. Fifty-eight was so young for her to leave, a terrible loss, and it knocked me off the high horse of invincibility, slapped me in the face with my own mortality and taunted, “You’re next!”. Most of us walk around avoiding that kind of thinking, and usually so do I, but 58 kept up a mantra in my head, if it could happen to my mom, it could seal my fate as well.
So this morning when I woke up 59, I silently rejoiced, breathed a sigh of relief and jumped out of bed with a bit more enthusiasm than any time in the past year. I certainly don’t want to die young; I have so many things I want to do. I have so many plans I can’t leave just yet. So now my head is silent, the Reaper’s whisper is gone, and I’ll be okay until I reach 67. Of course, I might still be struck down in my prime, but it’ll not be a self-fulfilled prophesy through worry. Sixty-seven was when my dad died and the next emotional hurtle to pass. I’m not greedy, I don’t need to live to be 100, I just hope for the privilege of more time to accomplish a few more things……
Since I turned 58, I’ve had a rough time mentally. The back of my mind constantly taunted me with the fact that my dear mom passed away at 58. The fact that I was born in 1958, and how things always happen to me in threes, that number kept haunting me. 58, 58, 58! I thought it might be my time to kick the bucket and it made my cup that is usually half empty, down to a quarter full. I’m not alone. Several people have told me they were a little apprehensive making it through the same age when a parent died, and worried that the same misfortune would prevail.I’m not usually so negative that I willingly bring disaster on myself, but my over active imagination has a mind of its own. There are dark crevices filled with deep, black rivers that leak into my thoughts now and then, whisper in my ear, telling worrisome tales to remind me how my life is as fragile as a robin’s egg.
My mom and I lived totally different lives, lowering the chances that we would follow the same patterns, but we are genetically linked and that’s pretty powerful and therefore concerning. Fifty-eight was so young for her to leave, a terrible loss, and it knocked me off the high horse of invincibility, slapped me in the face with my own mortality and taunted, “You’re next!”. Most of us walk around avoiding that kind of thinking, and usually so do I, but 58 kept up a mantra in my head, if it could happen to my mom, it could seal my fate as well.
So this morning when I woke up 59, I silently rejoiced, breathed a sigh of relief and jumped out of bed with a bit more enthusiasm than any time in the past year. I certainly don’t want to die young; I have so many things I want to do. I have so many plans I can’t leave just yet. So now my head is silent, the Reaper’s whisper is gone, and I’ll be okay until I reach 67. Of course, I might still be struck down in my prime, but it’ll not be a self-fulfilled prophesy through worry. Sixty-seven was when my dad died and the next emotional hurtle to pass. I’m not greedy, I don’t need to live to be 100, I just hope for the privilege of more time to accomplish a few more things……
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