Giving (It) Up

     There's a lot of great writing out there: descriptive, captivating, ingenious, even imaginative and transformative, at least in the nonfiction books I read.  Take this one example from Kevin Fedarko's A Walk in the Park about his (mis)adventures hiking the Grand Canyon ...it unfolded during a time of day that I had come to despise more than any other, which was the hottest part of the afternoon when the fleeting freshness of early morning was nothing but a distant memory, and evening's reprieve lay far too off in the future to even start dreaming about.  A period of such incandescent misery that it felt as if a cackling, fork-tailed demon had flung open the door to the furnace of hell itself.  The sun stood squarely overhead, straddling the canyon's rims, pouring a column of fire directly into the abyss and driving the shadows into the deepest recesses of the rock while causing the cushion of air that hovered just above the surface of the stone to tremble, as if the ground itself were gasping for breath.  But the most striking element of all, the detail that could burn a hole in the center of your consciousness, was neither the brilliance not the ferocity of the heat, but its heft: its thickness and weight as it draped itself over the top of your head and across the blades of your shoulders, as if it were a blanket braided from material that was already in flames when delivered into the hands of its weaver.  It was the kind of heat that would slap you dead if you lingered in its glare for too long...

      Or consider this piece by writer Chris Smith writing for Yankee World Series pitcher, CC Sabathia: I'm an alcoholic.  I don't fit the stereotype.  There was no trigger that would set me off on a binge.  Not a sad anniversary, not a time of the day, not going to a party.  It was all of those things, and none of them.  I didn't ever drink more if I pitched bad; I would drink just as much if I pitched good.  There was always a reason to drink.  I just liked to drink, and drink, and drink, many times until I blacked out...It was as if my arm wasn't connected to the rest of my body.  No, not just to the rest of my body -- to the rest of my life.  My mind, my bloodstream, probably my liver, they were addled by alcohol.  My left arm, the one that carried me from the streets of Vallejo, California, to the mound at Yankee Stadium, that helped me hoist a World Series trophy, that built a secure life for my wife and our four kids -- that arm somehow stayed untainted.  Yeah, over the years it required ice and heat and surgeons and rehab, but those were tune-ups.  My arm endured.  It lifted me from being broke to being rich and famous; it lifted three teams to greatness.  My baseball head got wiser, and it made my arm clever and adaptable, but that was my baseball head.  As my arm got treated and pampered so it could continue being an asset to billion-dollar corporations and to my family, the rest of me was increasingly a mess.  Sure, I was getting old in major league terms, but that wasn't my left arm dragging me down.  Mistreating everything that wasn't my left arm was putting my gift at greater risk than any elbow injury.  I had to find a way to reconcile my physical talent with the weirdness and weakness and rage and love inside -- to love myself, all of myself, this time.

     And this intro by comedian Steve Martin on the late art critic Peter Schjeldahl: Peter luxuriated in rare words.  He liked dormant but appropriate vocabulary that otherwise might languish in the dictionary.  Starting words occurred in sentences as if to say, "Perhaps you'd like to try this wine instead?"  Always perfect, they could jar a sentence midway, unless you wanted to skip over them and miss out on the prize.  I recently ran across the phrase "Kandinsky's epigones,"  Epigone: A less distinguised follower or imitator of someone, especially an artist or philosopher.  He turned twelve words into one with a wave of his wand.  "What a useful word," you think; an epigone is not just a follower, but a less distinguished follower, especially of an artist.  And here I am using it.  It's easy to think you can write like Peter, intrepidly flinging words around, but it's dangerous.  Even as I type his sentences it's like slipping on someone else's clothes: "Hey, this almost fits!"  But an observer will tell you that you look odd.  It's one thing to learn the word "epigone," but it's another to find out you are one.  The book was titled, The Art of Dying.

     Why bring all, or any of this up?  Partly because a friend was over, talented and retired, one who used to fix commercial airplanes, and was now visibly facing dementia.  The laughs, the jokes, the old stories were all still there, sharp as ever.  But it seemed, at least to us, that his ability to read --numbers, letters, words-- was either greatly diminished or gone entirely.  It was a new side of an ailment I hadn't seen.  Certainly I knew about the short term memory loss, or the change in speech, or losing the ability to piece together the logic (such as getting ensnared in a financial scam over the phone).  But not being able to read, or comprehend simple assembly instructions?  What sort of dementia was that?  It became the topic of conversation for another friend and me, for what would happen if and when that happened to us?  Both childless, both handlers of the household finances, both realistic and yet optimistic that we had time to prepare for that eventuality.  And yet...would we recognize it?  Would we be modest enough to hand over control to someone else, to admit that our ability to handle affairs was now better off in someone else's hands?  Would it take me not being able to read before I would do that?  

     Now picture another scenario, one written by William Falk, the editor of The Week: When I took my mother's car keys away, she cursed at me.  I'd never heard my sweet, churchgoing mom use language like that in my life, but she couldn't accept that at 85, her fading vision, hearing, and memory made her unsafe at any speed. I was reminded of the day Mom followed me to the door, shouting "Give me those #@ $&%! keys back," when Joe Biden spent several weeks insisting against all evidence that he was fit to serve four more years.  Giving up the most powerful and prestigious job in the world, obviously, is more painful than losing access to the Camry.  But the denial and the anger are fundamentally the same.  Getting old, I've found, demands a succession of surrenders.  You can accept these losses with some grace and rueful resignation  -- or go to war with the inevitable...Too many loved ones and friends are gone.  Last year, after 22 years as editor-in-chief of this magazine, I stepped down from full-time work so I could have more time to travel, to enjoy our new home in our new community, to kayak and cycle and walk and play more, to savor the passing days and sunsets over the river.  Fortunately, I still get to continue to contribute to this fine magazine.  It's worked out as I hoped, but the surrenders continue.  The best strategy, it appears, is to accept them and fall back behind a new line of defense, and prepare for the next assault.  I know how you feel, Mr. President.  When they come for my car keys, I suspect I, too, will curse.

     My back was hurting; nothing as bad as many of my friends, those who had undergone surgery to fuse vertebrae or screw in spacers.  It wasn't even hurting enough to have those shots of steroids injected into my spine, another thing many of my friends have done, often with little lasting effect.  But it was indeed hurting.  I stretched, walked the dog, popped a few ibuprofen, and thought, it'll get better.  It did, and it didn't.  Now at this point, rather than admit to my age or to my diminishing strength and flexibility, I turned to my logical side.  What could be causing the problem?  Did I twist the wrong way?  Was my gait somehow off because of that fall earlier?  And why was it mainly in the morning?  Was it the bed, which still felt comfortable enough (a new bed later and my back was better...the tag on our old bed said it was manufactured in 2017).  But the truth was revealed after my first ever bone density test.  I was wearing out.

     What is it with us (primarily) men and not wanting to admit that we may be feeling the effects of age?  We can joke about it easy enough, but to actually admit that we may need to "pay" someone to shovel that snow or to lift that new mattress?  The days of moving --at least the physical side of it, those days of calling on friends to help you pack up and help you fill the van or truck-- might be over for me (notice my still not admitting that those days are indeed over).  But then so might the fact of moving in general.  All this is said after returning home from our travels, back to that place where you're tired and done with vacationing, that place where you open the door and sigh, "it's good to be home."  But what, exactly, constitutes "home?"  Is it the house or apartment you're in?  The city?  The country?  And where does one start if contemplating a move, willingly at least (my wife and I do know of people forced into being temporarily homeless due to jobs disappearing and rents increasing).  What do you look for in a new place?  And what do you take with you?

Ad for sweep-second watch from 1990

     After seeing so many places during our travels, my wife and I have joked that should we actually decide to move, the easiest move would be to another country, one where the electrical outlets were different and thus, all of our bigger items such as televisions and stereos and such could be left behind.  Now, even if we move just to another state, that would likely happen as things such as beds and appliances are growing cheaper to replace rather than to pack up, lift, and move (having a sore back makes that decision even easier).  Mattress in a box?  Check.  65" TV for $400?  Check.  A place with appliances already there?  Check.  A smaller place with no stairs?  Check.  See how one's thinking changes as one ages?  So I picked up a book on downsizing, a good thought even if one isn't moving...get rid of stuff is the new mantra when you're older and realize that as much as you hate to admit it, you've become a pack rat.  That set of dishes never used, those old DVDs, the bookcase full of books you'll (now) never get to, even that old coin collection from grade school days (it's going to be worth a fortune, I would think back then...it isn't).  It's all there, gathering more and more dust as the years go by.  And now the years to come, that cushion of time to decide, have substantially shrunk.  Here's how the art critic put it, the one Steve Martin wrote about: Death is like painting rather than like sculpture, because it's seen from only one side.  Monochrome -- like the mushroom-gray former Berlin Wall which kids in West Berlin glamorized with graffiti.  What I'm trying to do here...I'm not in physical pain as I write, though I tire quickly and nap often.  I have been receiving, every three weeks, an immunotherapy infusion --not chemo, and not a cure-- which, at the outset, the doctor said had a thirty-five-percent chance of slowing the disease.  (At those odds in Vegas, you're broke within an hour, but in baseball you're a cinch for the Hall of Fame.)  A recent scan shows marked improvement, likely extending my prospect of survival.  But I have to wonder if, whatever betides, I can stay upbeat in spirit.  A thing about dying is that you can't consult anyone who has done it.  No rehearsals.  No mulligans.

Our rescued stray, unclaimed after 5 months at the shelter

      I have a friend who has genetics in his favor, his dad recently celebrating his 100th birthday.  No cruises for him, he told me, at least not until he's 80.  It was exactly what another friend told me, same story, same background, parents lived until 94 and 98; he planned to ski until he was 80.  Doesn't seem that much of a stretch, even if you're in your 70s.  But something happens once you bid goodbye to your 50s and 60s and are fortunate to keep moving on.  Suddenly those "rare" ailments become front and center possibilities...arthritis, tumors, nodules, bone-on-bone joints, even cancers.  One day that "it'll go away" attitude no longer works.  For my ski friend, having had dinner with them just a week ago, doctors discovered a mass in his stomach, then a rare form of cancer (as in very rare).  To be honest, things don't look good.  The death of my brother showed me just how quickly this can happen, how 3 years of showing zero cancer cells can suddenly mutate and renew their attack in a completely different form.  Within a month the battle was over...he didn't have a chance.  My mother lived until 94 so both my brother and I felt that we also had genetics on our side.  Turns out that recent studies on longevity show that for men, genetics accounts for just 26% of your odds...sort of what that art critic said.

      So I suspect that my wife and I will continue to travel when we can, to enjoy our moments at home, wherever that may be in the coming years, to yes, sign up for another cruise to someplace we'd never considered before, to return to my wife's childhood home in Cornwall, to enjoy a sound sleep with the dog by our side and the cats keeping us warm.  With such uncertain times, now is when each of us need to renew our gratitude at being fortunate enough to simply be here, to be open to meeting and helping others, to continue to believe that all life is on this planet together and that life is to be respected, because it's something we can't duplicate or make on our own.  Life is precious.  Time is precious.  YOU are precious.  As the poet T.S.Eliot wrote: -And the end of all our exploring -Will be to arrive where we started -And know the place for the first time.