Today marks the one-year anniversary of my dad’s quintuple bypass (or clock-resetting, as he calls it). He’s recovered pretty well, but he’s gotten kinda sedentary again, which led to piling on some weight. He also doesn’t seem to attach any psychological significance to the fact that he’s been compulsively buying “designer” watches off of Ebay.
Anyway, Dr. Praeger’s procedure has bought time for Dad, for which I’m thankful. Pop’s also finally booted his cardiologist, who had the charm (and appearance) of a used car dealer from 1982. I haven’t made enough time for Dad lately; not like the first few months after surgery, when I was over at his place after work, getting him on the treadmill, talking him through Jim Cramer’s stock advice.
Coincidentally, I read this article about Philip Roth’s new book, Everyman, today. It’s about old age and mortality:
“Old age isn’t a battle,” the protagonist thinks to himself after calling a former colleague who is dying in a hospice. “Old age is a massacre.”
“This book came out of what was all around me, which was something I never expected — that my friends would die,” Mr. Roth said. “If you’re lucky, your grandparents will die when you’re, say, in college. Mine died when I was a schoolboy. If you’re lucky, your parents will live until you’re somewhere in your 50’s; if you’re very lucky, into your 60’s. You won’t ever die, and your children, certainly, will never die before you. That’s the deal, that’s the contract. But in this contract nothing is written about your friends, so when they start dying, it’s a gigantic shock.”
Reminds me of that line from Fight Club: “On a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero.”
Dad, meanwhile, was giving himself milestones, in the “I just have to live until . . .” dates, like his grandkids’ visit last summer, or my wedding last March. Now that there are no big events to “live until,” he has to start living for each day.
If I have to tell the rest of you again to make the most of the time you have, I don’t know what I’m gonna do. . .
(More coincidentally, my iTunes just shuffled onto “O, Death,” by Ralph Stanley. You know I wouldn’t make up something so obvious.)