This post will be a bit more personal than most anything else I’ve written here. I’m at an age at which there seems a sense of urgency to almost everything I do. No more mañanas, no more waiting to see if tomorrow or next month is a bit more propitious for whatever endeavors I have in mind.
My stockbroker has joked that I’m now in the “age of procedures,” i.e., I’m a little like a ’57 Chevy left in the garage and almost forgotten and now in need of overhaul in order to hit the road once again. Counting the number of operations I’ve had is a bit like listing all the cars I’ve owned: every time I try to do that, I forget one or another.
Encroaching age becomes something that needs to be planned in advance, but it must be lived moment by moment. Things change – just look in the mirror. There are new wrinkles and hollows almost every time I take this inventory, new breadth to the swaths of graying hair. And time slowly erodes possibilities. When you’re twenty-one you have a world of time and choices ahead. Everything is possible. At my age too many choices have been swept under the bridge. Life’s possibilities are limited, limiting.
And so today, after maybe a decade of nature’s insidious entropy, I’m to see a surgeon about the possibility of fixing a malfunctioning heart valve. We’ll see what that brings, but it goes without saying that I’m not looking forward to today’s encounter nor to the surgery itself. But there’s a carrot hung out there for me.
I have two books to be launched this year, and that will, if I do things the way I hope, mean traveling. Driving right now is a dicey proposition at the moment, due to the malfunctioning valve’s symptoms. My friends say, “Oh, it’s going to be like you’re thirty years younger when the valve begins to function properly again.”
I certainly hope so.