It's not the number.

When I think about having to say out loud that I’m 70, something inside me recoils. It doesn’t feel right. But what I’m learning is that the things that come with realizing I’m 70 are far worse for my mental health than the number itself.

Nothing really changed in my head when the birthdays before this one came and went. But then I started learning about all my health issues, and overnight my thoughts moved from I’m getting older to how much time do I really have left?

My calendar, once filled with workdays and ordinary life stuff, is now all blood draws and doctor's appointments. My determination to get to the gym every day has faded. The thought keeps showing up: I may only have a few years left, so what’s the use?

Today, a roofing guy was telling me the roof he could put on would last 25 years. The first thing I thought was, I may only have 5 or 10 years left. Why would I care how long the roof lasts?

That is what has changed.

The time frames of everyday life are no longer the same. The future that once had meaning now feels muted. I can actually look back on the same number of years I may have left and remember exactly what I was doing. That realization is hard to absorb.

I feel the downward pressure on my peace of mind every day now. I worked hard to rebuild some of that peace after Mom passed away, and now it feels under attack again. The bad days are worse, and even the decent days are crushed by the reality of my mortality. 

I’ve started watching videos of people trying to cope after being told they have only months, or maybe a year or so, left to live. My mind has started going there..

The silence from the few relatives who are left has become deafening. The idea that I may pass away alone without anyone knowing for a while has moved from a distant thought to something that feels very real.

This mental attack blindsided me.

When you can actually see the end, even if you don't know exactly where it is, has become a real thing. It sits on top of every other thought. I feel its weight when I think about going to the store, listening to music on my headset, going to the gym, sitting in the sun, or even just leaving the house.

I've watched many videos of people facing health hardships who somehow find something inside themselves that gets them through. I have not found my something yet. Most of my health issue findings are only a couple of months old, and I'm still trying to digest the various diagnoses. I am still in shock.

Is the motivation coming to keep fighting?

Will it get here in time?

Will all this worry make my conditions worse?

It is most certainly damaging the time I have left.

This blog is a conversation with my own mind. The questions I wonder about can only be asked and answered by the only person left in my life who is still here.

The author.

It's not the number. 

It isn’t 70. It's time.

 

who will feed the cats

And now the stress test result = Abnormal.

At this point, it doesn’t look like I’m getting better, only less worse. That is not the outcome I was hoping all the effort I've put in would buy me. More and more, these reports feel more like a look back at the cause of death on my autopsy report.

And the worst part;

What I had hoped for was just some small level of better. What I got was just less worse. After all the effort, that's a real bitch. Every new result looks like a footnote printed on a death certificate.

Wondering out loud now about how much more of this fight I can wage, and whether the fight itself is making these conditions worse. 

I can't stop this truth in my head; no one is coming to save you, my brother. No one.

In life as in death, you will face this alone. 

And who will feed the cats may be the oddest last concern I'll leave having. 

The Weight..

A weak moment, or is my mind finally bending under the weight of several life-threatening conditions? Is this a red flag that this may be more than I can handle? Where did the tough, determined guy go as I begin to question whether it's all even worth it? A diet I hate, exercise that isn't fun anymore, I realize the push that kept me going was the fun of the result, lower weight, more steps, more miles that week. The process is NOT fun, only the result. Same with Doctor visits and research, and printing off test results and repeating it all only to realize I'm battling things that aren't going to end up with the results I'm working toward. 

I keep looking for small rewards, a better number here or there, something enough to make me want to keep spending the energy this fight requires. But then just as fast, the reality of everything I'm looking at wipes it all away..

My visit to the hematologist was one of those moments. A few bright spots on bloodwork, and then all the rest.. I listened to her analysis, but didn’t quite have the strength to challenge any of it or even get a word in the way I normally do. I ended up like the old days of doctor visits, where you just sat and listened while your mind drifted toward some other place. Did she just say it could be a blood cancer? One life-threatening reality after another. My body is responding/attacking itself, with the cause still undetermined, and the possibilities are a jolt to the mind. Nine chronic conditions. Are you kidding me?

Last night, sitting with it all swirling around in my head, I found myself for the first time wondering how much of this I can keep up with.. How do you fight one thing when several other things are waiting to take its place? Fighting in the face of defeat can look admirable to some, but it can become an exercise in futility and be foolish. I wonder if one day I will look back and think that instead of spending all this time, energy, and stress researching and learning about my conditions, making and driving to doctor appointments, and all, maybe the time would have been better spent just putting it all away and going out and living whatever life I have left and letting God sort it out..  

Even sitting here writing about this is exhausting, and writing used to be a refuge for me, the only one I had.. 

Then came the night, and after that, the morning. I slept reasonably well, or well enough that I thought I might wake up with at least a little perspective type relief. But no, it's worse. The same heaviness is weighing me down.

So I checked again for bloodwork results, even though I know full well some of them may take up to two weeks. Still, I look several times a day. Just more waiting. More watching. More time for my mind to go where I don’t need it to be. All of this would sound like a pity party, a woe-is-me festival if I were to have this same conversation with an actual person, but again and again over the years, I've learned that people are only really interested in themselves, and there is nothing to be gained, not even comfort, in sharing anything personal with anyone. It's just a fact. Perceptions are hardened realities today, not facts, and no, I don't feel sorry for myself. This isn't a pity party. I am pissed off, worn out, and questioning where the tough, determined guy went. 

What's wearing me down is not only all the appointments, specialists, and tests, or even the unknowns. It is the feeling that all the work I’ve been putting in to get well, to be disciplined, to fight back, may still end up being just a futile attempt. That thought lands somewhere deeper than fear. It's frustrating and angers me. A wearing down. A quiet realization that the fight itself is beginning to take almost as much out of me as the things I am fighting..

Maybe this is just a weak stretch? Maybe a natural response to too much piling up at once? But it doesn't feel temporary this morning. It feels like the emotional cost of carrying too many serious possibilities for too long.

And that may be the heaviest weight to carry, not just wondering what happens next, when the next appointment is, what pill to take, jumping when the phone rings thinking it could be the results I'm waiting for, but wondering how long can I carry all of this and keep up the fight..