…it surprises me now to hear
the steps of my life following me —
so much of it gone
—Galway Kinnell
How much time do I have left? How do I prepare for the end?
Such questions arise because in recent weeks we lost friends, Gerri Jaeger from my current life and Juanita Dominguez from my Chicano movement days. Anticipated deaths are nevertheless grief-stricken on arrival. Juanita taught me essential Spanish, like the word cabron and took me to lunch at The Crusade for Justice. Gerri and I shared working class origins about which we could brood but also an inclination to make each other laugh.
Dolly Llama in March snow
Last weekend we learned our life-long Whittier neighborhood resident artist, Bob Ragland, was also gone. Years ago my neighbor bought Ragland’s found materials sculpture and named it Dolly Llama. Dolly commands the parking strip in front of our houses, delights many who see her.
Maybe such questions arise because I read the online notes from my Zoom meeting with my primary care physician:
Review Vitals & Labs in Synopsis
Objective: Patient is speaking full sentences.
Mood and behavior appropriate.
No signs of distress.
I’m able to talk in complete sentences. I suppose you have to expect this kind of thing as you age: medical attention to whether or not you’re losing your marbles. No signs of distress? I still know how to project the appearance of cheer and calm then, at least via Zoom.
Average life expectancy in the U.S. was 78.6. Not anymore. Covid dropped us to 77.8 in 2020. It may fall further in 2021. Our life expectancy is lower than Canada’s and the UK’s. But those people have national health plans.
It’s fun in a morbid kind of way to cruise through Social Security actuarial tables. Newborns in 2020 are optimistically given an 80-year life expectancy which declines steadily from there. Every year you live subtracts from your total. Sort of chilling, to think of it that way: at 20 you have 60 more years to live. At 60, 20 more years. On average.
Women live a little longer than men. Another chart says that if I’m a healthy 77-year-old woman, which I am so far as I know, I can expect 12 more years. Damn. I better get cracking.
Maybe such questions arise because April 16 is Healthcare Decisions Day, on which we are urged to start planning in advance for the end. Huh. They chose April 16. We all know what April 15 signifies. Get it? More info about having that conversation:
https://theconversationproject.org/nhdd/
Pew Research found less than half of us antiquities over 75 have thought about the end of our lives, and only 22% have written down or talked to someone about any of it. (I swiped this information from Laura Pritchett, The Colorado Sun, April 11, 2021.)
I feel smug, because years ago my husband and I got a will, and a living will and a medical power of attorney. Pritchett writes that none of that does any good if no one knows where those documents are. Now that she mentions it, I don’t know where those documents are. Smugness evaporated.
If I’m an average 77-year-old woman, I’ll die sometime around 2032, which right now seems fairly distant. I have noticed, though, particularly during this pandemic, how the days slide away, how often I am startled to find it is 4:30 p.m. and I should think about dinner.
Dolly in April 2021
Meanwhile, my aspirational planner reveals the intention to work on a blog post AND a translation project today. I forgot, as I regularly do, how long it takes to write if I mean to write well, how long it takes to select a subject and fumble through false starts before the vehicle gets on the road, and then even as it’s rolling, how long it takes to excise the dross, get the words to say what they need to say, put the sentences in proper order.
Time to make dinner and I am startled to recall that it’s Monday, that another week has trickled away into another month and 2032 will be here before I know it, certainly before I’m ready. If I am lucky. If the cancer that runs in the family doesn’t come first. If I don’t get run over by a truck.
Gerri was in home hospice care, had made her arrangements, had family with her at the hour of her death. The last several times I saw her, Gerri said she had no idea why God was keeping her around, because she was ready to go. She drew her last breath with her daughter and devoted husband beside her, stroking her face. A blessed exit. We don’t always get them.
Our neighborhood artist, a solitary person, died unexpectedly, alone. Neighbors noticed they hadn’t seen him for two days and called in a wellness check. The day that happened, we’d ordered pizza after having a yard sale and the woman who delivered it came to the door laughing, gesturing at Dolly Llama. “I love it,” she exclaimed. “Yes,” I agreed, “isn’t it wonderful?”
I love how your sentence about getting something written becomes a metaphor for the whole “life” thing. The same pattern, over years, to try to live well, trying to get my life to say what it needs to say. I’m still not sure I’ve gotten all my sentences in proper order.
Thanks, Pat.
Some people say that humans are unique in being aware of their lives’ inevitable ending. Maybe, maybe not. I understand cetaceans are pretty bright. But surely we are unique in being in denial about death. Those Pew research results are unbelievable. Over 75 and not considering dying? How is that possible?
I always assumed I’d die of cancer, especially because my parents died of cancer. My doctor sister says no, cancer is mostly not hereditary. Except certain kinds, like ovarian cancer, which has afflicted too many women in my family. I tested negative for the BRCAII gene, though, so that’s one thing my daughter will not have to worry about.
Too bad about Bob Ragland. We have a (smaller) sculpture of his on our front porch. A bird. Everybody loves it. So although his biological functions have ceased, he is not really gone.
How good to know you also have a Ragland sculpture, Gregg.
My sincere condolences.
Love your Dolly Lama!
Sounds like your Dolly Lama has some special mojo. So I have to tell you my Dalai Lama story. I was in Carmel CA with my mom, my sister and her dog. We parked the car on the street, it so happens, in front of a portrait photographer’s studio, because we wanted to go shopping but it was too warm a day to leave the leave the dog alone in the car. So we took turns. I stayed in the parked car with the dog, with the windows all rolled down. Hanging in the window of the portrait studio was a framed portrait of the Dalai Lama. And dang if every minute two or three people ambling up the sidewalk would not stop at the window of the studio and one of them would point at it and say, loudly, “It’s the Dalai Lama!” This happened over and over. By the fourth time it was getting eerie. By the seventh time it happened, I was really counting. When my mom returned to take her turn sitting in the car with the dog, I said, “You are going to get a parade of people stopping right here and saying, “It’s the Dolly Lama!” My mom looked at the portrait and she said, “Oh! It’s the Dalai Lama!” I said, “Yes indeed, it’s the Dalai Lama!” When I returned some 15 minutes later my mom said, “You weren’t kidding, EVERYBODY stopped right here and said, ‘It’s the Dalai Lama!'”
Healthcare Decisions Day is April 16?! That is hilarious.
What a splendid Dalai Lama story! Of course, my passersby have no idea that Dolly is the llama’s name. They do often take photos of her her though. Yes, April 16. You must click on the link and find out all about it.
Yikes, this one really hit home and put into words things I have been thinking of late. I’m 68 and spend a lot of time with my 81 year old sister. She is not only my idol and role model, but she’s always been my marker of what will happen to me 13 years down the line. It is sobering to think of the ending, frustrating to get to all the things I want to do. With no kids, I constantly consider the mess I have accumulated in my studio and home and wonder if it is time to let most of it go, but it brings me too much joy and stability. I ponder the beautiful plum tree blossoms on the tree next door and my tulips poking up in the yard. Spring is a reminder it will all go on without me, and that’s a big helper with doubts and fear.
Thanks for putting it all into words for us, Pat.
Deb, we’re in a very similar situation, Phil’s one daughter in San Francisco and me childless except for my stepkids from that long ago marriage. And books: no one wants them, no one has room for them and yet they are precious to us.
Pat, so sorry for your recent losses, never easy. I had read about Bob Ragland, and also appreciated the Laura Pritchett article, her request to her family to die outdoors or in view of outdoors needs to be added to my plan, whatever drawer that plan lives in now.
Your beautiful writing is a reminder to make things I love while I’m here. Thank you!
Ah, yes. None of those windowless hospital rooms for us!