Why I Don’t Want to Live Past 85
In 2014 at the age of 75, I reluctantly came to Asbury Methodist Village, a Continuing Care Retirement Community, to die. With the love of my life for 51 years.
It was that same year I read in the Atlantic Magazine by Dr. Ezekiel J. Emanuel 64, “Why I Hope to Die at 75.” I thought his piece was well thought out; and I agreed with it — except I was already 75. And so, feeling quite chipper and well adjusted, having retired at 72 and moved to Maryland from California to watch and play with my grandchildren who were now in elementary school, I changed my number to 85. Which I will be this May.
A few days ago, I reread the doctor’s article which was republished to ascertain if he still felt the same way now that he is 75. He does and so do I for most of the same reasons.
Like Dr Emanuel, I have no intention of hastening my death or bargaining with the gods for more life. When my family and friends celebrated my 80th birthday at my daughter’s house, my friend Jim, who is four years older than I, said to me: Rollie, its true the new 60 is 40 and the new 70 is 50. But when you’re eighty, you are eighty!
And I must say he was right. The last five years have seen some falls due to declining imbalance, a quad injury stopping my running regime which has slipped from competitive races to a slow jog, more difficulty in finding the right word or name when speaking, some unexpected and unwelcome aches and pains. And my spouse has suffered chronic arthritic pain that has extended my caregiver activities. And people are dying all around me — including on the streets and stupid wars
Yet I am quite happy to grow old with Bernie and other friends and colleagues and laugh with them about our aging foibles. I continue my avid reading and writing my reflections. Most important, I can maintain my vocation in working with and watching people organize themselves and their communities to achieve their dreams. I am living Cicero’s De Senectute advice while still interacting with our grandchildren as they depart to make their way through university and on to their new world.
I have had numerous jobs in community organization, urban planning, teaching, grass roots politics, directing nonprofit organizations while being a perpetual student. I never had a job I didn’t like; or left it as soon as I did not. Sometimes taking the risk of unemployment and search and relocating to many diverse places, never getting rich yet always having enough.
And this is the point of wanting to die at 85. Which age I will be starting May 23rd of 2023. In all my endeavors I recognized when I had “shot my wad.” I had done all I could do or learned all I could learn in the situation; and I needed to move on so someone new could step in. As a community organizer, I always searched for my replacement; and when found, I took the sign to retire for the next adventure. I’ve done this in my transition from religious life and belief to faith in others in the world, from proselytizing to co-inquiring, from personal achievement to interpersonal relationships. I abandoned my desire to be saint or savior or righteous or great. And I am ready to do this with time itself.
There is certainly much to do for this world and each other. The return of populist nationalism, the threat to democracy, the fear of aliens, the stark inequalities, the peril to our species as we endanger the very condition for human life. The pessimism and depression that stokes personal and collective suicide is here again. Its Midnight in America, the four horsemen ride.
I go on without regret, but I think it’s my time to move on. The way it all seems to be going (I’m pretty healthy for an 85 year old), I probably won’t get my wish and will live to be 95. But know, my dear loved ones, I’m not hanging on. Don’t you hang on to me. We’ve signed our living will long ago and renew it today. It’s time for you to shoot your wad. And, party.