She is old by any definition of the word as applied to homo sapiens, having lived well beyond the life expectancy arrived at by insurance carriers on their little actuarial tables.
She was old already when I moved into the building that for decades had been her home, old but full of quirky energy. That was six years ago, and her light has dimmed. Now her most noteworthy quirk is marking of her mail “Return to Sender.” Where once she bopped up and down, now she hobbles. Almost every day I catch sight of her crossing Ocean Boulevard, unable to traverse the intersection within a single “Walk” cycle. I see her draw upon her reserves of strength simply to mount the curb, left hand pushing against the support of her metal cane, right hand gripping the crosswalk signal so as to hoist her frail bulk up the red-painted eight inches of concrete. Step. Rest. Step. Rest. Onward.
I see her in the lobby, I greet her in the elevator, and almost all I can think about is: why. To outward appearances she is merely marking time, playing out the string, drifting in a purgatory between a finished life and a propinquitous death.
A part of me looks forward to her death, both because in my imaginings escape from such an endgame is the best possible move left to her, and because I am terrorized by what her existence represents. Hers is a form of so-called life that I want not to be, because where it exists for one it might exist for any. The limbo she inhabits would be for me a hell, and I wish for the possibility banished from my sight.
I do not know whether she is in pain. Clearly her body is burdensome, but in itself this may not constitute physical suffering (though for me mental anguish from being consigned to such a reduced state would be guaranteed). What horrifies me is the thought of continuing to live a life that, for all intents and purposes—my intents and purposes—has ended, to outlive myself, my decrepit body continuing on after my substance has ground to a halt.
That’s the fear talking, I know. But catch me even in my calmest, most vigorous, most living-in-the-present moments and you won’t find me regarding that fear as irrational. No point in dwelling on it, of course, carpe diem and all that, but when you’re confronted with a corporeal reminder of a place you may be heading but would do anything to avoid, it can give you pause.
It may not be apparent how this relates to Long Beach. But life here is not all city government and art and shootings and charitable endeavors. Most of us are far more directly affected by the often unheralded ingredients of our collective life, such as the people we see every day and the personal demons they may evoke in us. Sometimes we catch sight of our potential future selves reflected in the plights of our friends and neighbors, and that vision—a broken marriage, homelessness, disease, decrepitude—may leave us cold.
I know I am not the only one to have such unhappy thoughts. But for me, at least, it helps talk about them.