Brother, Where Art Thou?

On April thirteenth I got a cheery e-mail from sis-in-law Linda. The middle brother of my family, Pete Bogle, recently had three TIAs--mini-strokes, basically. Oh, brother! As it turns out, he is fine now. His body adjusted to its blocked artery. He's receiving all the appropriate care and pharmaceuticals. Nevertheless ... Since this handsome specimen of American manhood (see above) is two years six months my junior, I've been thinking too much about The End Of Things.

You'd think I would have been done with this already. Winter 1992, after rolling my pickup on I-80 on black ice at 65 mph, I fell into a prolonged Death Trip that stayed with me much of that following year. Once on the other side of the process of sorting things out I was glad, even smug, about what I thought of as my firm grasp on the reality of my own temporariness. This one is different, though. This is family; which in most ways is seriouser than if it were myself. Pete's doctor says he's perfectly healthy except for the 100% clogged carotid: heart fine, cholesterol fine, blood pressure under control. He's barely retired, too. Both my brothers have always been fit. Pete and Bob were both serious runners for a long time; Pete switched to swimming some years ago, and I believe he's regular and serious about it.

I, on the other hand, treat my gym membership as some Catholics and fundamentalists reckon up their baptisms: as if being a card-carrying member were enough to save you. I haven't had a real workout routine for years. I don't walk that eight miles a week they all say will stir up your brain. Truth is, I have always hated exercise, largely because I'm bad at all forms of it that I have tried so far. I have even temporarily given up my life long yo-yo dieting habit based on the (accurate) observation that it encourages my anxieties about body image.

The thing is, while any one of us might or might not be maimed or die in an accident, odds are that we won't. If we don't have a sudden death, though, the odds of deteriorating health and a long age of increasing limitations are about 100%. Chronic/recurring ailments become the most likely prospect for us well cared for boomers. While I've been calling myself a geezer since I began to get MediCare, I haven't truly felt old, just a bit creaky. Here's a piece of T.S. Eliot's "Four Quartets" on the subject of endings. Not cheerful verse, but thoughtful. Besides, he quotes Julian of Norwich's "All will be Well," which makes up for a lot of gloom.

from LITTLE GIDDING:

"Let me disclose the gifts reserved for age

To set a crown upon your lifetime's effort.

First, the cold friction of expiring sense

Without enchantment, offering no promise

But bitter tastelessness of shadow fruit

As body and soul begin to fall asunder. [...]

And last, the rending pain of re-enactment

Of all that you have done, and been; the shame

Of motives late revealed, and the awareness

Of things ill done and done to others' harm

Which once you took for exercise of virtue."

On a lighter note: to hear a bit of a really funny tune better known as, "Can I have all Your Stuff When You Die?" go to CD Baby, at this link,

http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/mgoj1

and play #1,"Last Words." Or go buy Marley's Ghost's CD, "Spooked."