Counting Days

There’s this thing I’ve been doing lately that I call counting days. I take my current age, add ten years or even fifteen, and try to imagine living to that age. It’s daunting to think about sometimes, but it seems like an inevitable thing to do at my age, especially since I have prosthetics in my arteries and like most manmade things they have a life span. And thanks to our new digital age most of the studies talking about that span are available to be read.

Now I’ve faced decades before but usually I knew there would most likely be others to follow. This is different in that one more decade might be a high hill to climb while two would certainly be a chore and mark me as a man to have lived a long life, although that appellation fits even now. I guess the choice I have is to decide if I should sit quietly and let the time pass slowly or stay engaged. Part of me really wants to disengage, drift away, drift along, go slow, stay to myself. But another part of me says I should keep on as I’ve always lived. Doing. Moving. Resting when needed, but always looking forward.

I imagine that a lot of this internal discussion was driven by my surgery. They’re constantly telling you all the things that could go wrong. And I, having a good imagination, am able to visualize those bad things. But I’m healing now, feeling better every day, and at some point, I’ll probably stop counting days because there will be things to do, places to go, people to see and I won’t have time to think about my end game. I’ll be living it and that’s probably how it should be. And it would certainly behoove me, if this is my final decade, to make it a good decade, one full of love, and laughter, and music. To go out on a high note. To be remembered, fondly.