I never used to think much about mortality, at least mine. I had my whole life ahead of me. I still have my whole life ahead of me but, perversely, there are three quarters behind me.
It’s not like I hide from the Grim Reaper’s scythe every day; it’s that the bodily functions he used to take for granted start to mock me. And I am not referring to the expected ones: fine gray hair, swollen waist, etc., but other equally unwanted but unforeseen changes.
Toenails, for example, have become hard enough to repel an assassin’s bullet. Inexplicably, the ankles and knees swell and recede, swell and recede. My gazinta, who at one point I asked to fulfill only two functions, now struggles with both, despite the increased demands my bladder places on her. I am starting to get precancerous sun spots and need to see a dermatologist. How long before you need a podiatrist and undertaker?
When my daughter saw us one morning fixing our tablets at the breakfast table, she said, “Wow! You are like the old men right!
The most alarming thing is that I have become invisible.