From The Divine Sarah, talking about depression:
“Anyway, part of the black dog these days is telling me that I’m done. I’ve done what I could, and now it’s over, and it’s time to shuffle quietly into that good night.”
I think pretty much everyone reaches that stage — I know I have — and I have nothing but respect for people who continue to do serious stuff well into their eighth decade (e.g. the current POTUS).
My old friend Max, he of the Busker Chronicles, put it in his usual cynical fashion: “Now all we have to do is wait for death.”
I find it increasingly difficult to summon up the enthusiasm to write about much — yesterday’s post about the German car business was one of the few times I could be bothered, because I was actually interested in the phenomenon that is German stupidity.
Otherwise, it’s one big shrug after another.
The only thing that continues to interest me is going “once more into the breech*”, i.e. shooting.
And now, if you’ll excuse me…
*I know, it’s “unto the breach”, thank you Shakespeare’s Henry V.
Same here. Just running out the clock, waiting for the end.
You will never know, until the very last instant, whether fate has finished giving you new responsibilities. Stay fit, stay aware.
((Five years ago, when she was 87, my lady wife stumbled while pushing a wheelbarrow, fell, and bumped her head on a rock. …Hydrocephalus; …cranial shunt; …wheelchair. GSD her reasoning and memory have not left her; but she has to endure having me make every transition from bed to chair to potty to chair to table and back around again. And endure my cooking.))
Keep a taut watch.
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You pretty much described the last four years of my marriage to Connie, before the Big C finally stepped in to finish it.
Stay strong, old buddy.
Candidly I’m surprised you made it that long. My brother ran a blog for a bout 5 years, and basically abandoned it, because “After a certain time you run out of Goddamn things to talk about.”
You’ve made it considerably longer. Its your life. Live it the way you want.
But yours is the first thing I pull up in the morning. So for at least one nobody in the world, you’ve brought some enjoyment.
And if you’ve pissed off some punk lefties along the way, it was time well spent.
While I lack the eloquence and arguing skills of yourself and many others I continue to do what I can: stand up and be counted and support those who do have the skills.
I’m in my eighties and caring for both my wife and my sister who have dementia, and it’s hard to find time to do things I enjoy, and even then, those are diminished by a failing body that simply cancels the ability to do them well, or eliminates them entirely. For example, Kim has mentioned how much he enjoyed birding in England, but can no longer traipse those fields. Likewise I loved to walk beaches, feet in the water’s edge, and surf fish, for more than 60 years, but arthritis and failing legs make that no longer possible. Nowadays, my pleasures are few and small, and this site is one of them.
Kim, after the morning bathroom ritual, this is the first place I go, even before breakfast.
You and the commentary of your articulate, learned and world-wise followers give me something to look forward to, to brighten my day, a reason to get up and face the world, and you all supply me with plenty of ammo to stifle know-it-all assholes I may meet latter.
As preussenotto said, you bring enjoyment to many and piss off those who deserve it.
Rest assured you are very much needed and appreciated.
“… never give in, never give in, never, never, never, never-in nothing, great or small, large or petty — never give in except to convictions of honour and good sense.”
– Some guy named Churchill
I for one appreciated the pun.
At 75, I am the youngest of three life-companions who have been together since the mid-’60s. #1 is 80 and dealing with chemo dementia, brought on by a long battle with cancer. Take their poison and its effects or pass on it and die. Not much choice. #2 is 78, dealing with a variety of problems that visit a woman of her age including blindness from macular degeneration. I am #3, with a laundry list of diseases and debilitations that come from a life with no family to care about and what most folks would call a warped sense of responsibility. I have lived my way, mostly by my rules, and these days I’m paying the price.
I am homebound these days, too crippled up to safely wander around in public without a keeper, and needing a pretty constant and reliable supply of oxygen to keep from falling over in a parking lot somewhere. Yes, I know that there are portable oxygen systems out there ($$$) and I have some, and mobility devices to keep me moving ($$$$), but where do I go?
Where do I go? Aside from my housemates, most of my family and friends are gone. I have come to hate the crowds and noise of being in public. We three are self-supporting, I’m in daily contact with the few folks that still mean anything to me. Ours is a quiet street in a safe neighborhood. We are in a good place for us.
But we have all come to the decision that this is our Alamo. We wake up each morning thankful that God has given us another day. We can still get around for shopping and doctor’s appointments. But we enjoy the days when we have nowhere to go and nothing to do. Home is safe. We watch out for each other.
But there’s no denying reality. Our time is running out. I think we’re prepared for what’s coming, except the day when 3 becomes 2, then 2 becomes 1.
A bit late to the party here, but have been cogitating on this a bit. Apologies in advance for my Captain Obvious hat. It’s called burnout, and indeed you are not alone. Maybe just blog when the mood strikes you? Just hang a “Gone Shootin'” sign so we know your absence is by choice.
I shrug a lot these days too. I’m very fussy about which battles (if any) I choose to fight. Doesn’t mean I don’t keep my radar on so I’m at least aware.
As a young lad, I read DC comic books, mostly the WWII stuff like “Sgt. Rock” and “The Haunted Tank”. I recall a particular story that has stuck with me. It is actually two story lines brought together. An early panel tells of a young French officer leading his first infantry charge in some war or other. He is wounded in the throat, and his soldering days end right there. In the following panel, we see the young officer has returned to his small town home, sitting in a rocking chair gazing our an open window, and a rifle leaning against the far wall. In the story’s present, our hero’s in their tank continue their mission.
Their mission brings them to that same small French town, where the Germans have laid an ambush. At the appropriate moment, the now grey haired old officer rises from his rocker and takes up his rifle. He aims and fires a single shot out the window, hitting and ringing the bell in the church steeple a block away, and so warning the tank crew of the ambush.
The final panel relates that this is what he had been waiting for all this time. Just one more chance to make a difference. I am not implying that I could in any way measure up to that story, but something in it calls to me.