When I’m Sixty-Four

Having only reached the age of 56, this old Beatles tune isn’t about me, but about Will, whose birthday we have been celebrating for the past several days. And yes, I still need him and I still feed him even though he is, indeed, 64. (Actually, he feeds ME most of the time, but that’s not in the song.)

It was a day that we once feared would never come. Honestly, it was a miracle that he made it to 63, so seeing him reach this new milestone was like, well, icing on the cake. Yes, he still has a terrible disease that will eventually win; that’s why we see each day as a gift. We don’t know how many birthdays he has left.

But that’s true for all of us. With my own family history of heart disease on one side and cancer on the other, I’m living on borrowed time as it is. But I don’t lose much sleep over it, because it would be my luck to die from something stupid, like stepping in front of a bus, that’ll put me beyond worrying about whether a heart attack or a brain tumor will take me out. (And no, it wouldn’t be on purpose.)

So the children and grandchildren gathered at the different homes and we spent parts of four days enjoying food, sharing laughs, and paying tribute to a man whom I don’t think we fully appreciated until he got sick. And I marvel at how great it is that we didn’t have to learn this lesson the hard way—that we came to realize what a magnificent human being he really is…..BEFORE it’s too late to tell him so.

Published by bpnurse

I'm a retired registered nurse and writer who also happens to be street-rat crazy, if the DSM-IV.....oops, 5---is to be believed. I was diagnosed with bipolar I disorder at the age of 55, and am still sorting through the ashes of the flaming garbage pile that my life had become. Here, I'll share the lumps and bumps of a late-life journey toward sanity.... along with some rants, gripes, sour grapes and good old-fashioned whining from time to time. It's not easy being bipolar in a unipolar world; let's figure it out together.

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