In the Irish writer Claire Keegan’s gorgeous short story Foster, a family on their way to a wake stop to speak to two farm hands walking by the road, and share where they are going.

“God rest him.  Didn’t he go quick in the end?” one man says.

“Aye,” says the other.  “But didn’t he reach his three score and ten?  What more can any of us hope for?”

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As I will reach my three score and ten before the end of July, this exchange has special resonance for me.  The second farm hand poses a fair question.

When I share the news of my upcoming birthday with acquaintances, I get two types of responses.  The first, usually from someone younger, is to compliment my appearance and fitness.  I have definitely been blessed—by genes, self-care, and providence—to arrive at this birthday with reasonably full command of my body and mind.  I thank modern medicine, too, as I dodged a near-fatal illness in adolescence and two incidences of cancer in middle age, as well as a hip replacement without which I would have much less mobility.  So I’m grateful to be here, such as I am, and if this gives my younger friends encouragement, so much the better.

The second, always from someone older, is “Such a youngster!”  The implication of this comment, as I see it, is that I’m just starting to glimpse what lies ahead in the deterioration of body and mind.  And it’s true.  Despite the health issues noted above, and increasing daily aches and pains, I’ve not endured chemo or heart procedures, nor been diagnosed with incurable cancer or a progressive or debilitating illness like Parkinson’s or ALS.  But close friends my age have, and I may well too.  My father lived with Parkinson’s for 17 years, the last five with progressive dementia.  I’ve long assumed that, if nothing else takes me first, this may be the path I follow.  In my head, at least, I’m OK with this.

What more can any of us who reach three score and ten hope for?  Of course, we can hope to live into our nineties, relatively free of disease and infirmities, and then pass peacefully in our sleep.  I have friends and family members who’ve gone down this path, too, and a beloved friend has arrived there and is ready to go any day.  But can I expect this, in the sense that anything less will be a denial of my entitlement?  To me, doing so feels like a setup for disappointment.

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Growing old becomes clear to you at a certain point.  I think it’s after the age of 70 you realize—you begin to actually be convinced—you’re growing older.

Leonard Cohen

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Perhaps this is what my older friends are referring to when they say “Such a youngster!”  They can see I’m not yet fully convinced, in the way they have become—that I lack the wisdom they have gained, that I haven’t lived it enough to fully own it.  They are right, but as I see it the only thing I can do is continue to live mindfully in this body of mine and see what comes my way.  The one thing I can count on is that something will, indeed, come my way.

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Seventy years is the span of our life,
eighty if our strength holds;

So make us know how few are our days,
that our minds may learn wisdom.

Psalm 90, vv. 10, 12

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What we can hope for, I think, is to learn wisdom.  For me, this is inseparable from embracing the knowledge that my days are few—far fewer than I have already enjoyed.  One of my reasons for pursuing and practicing chaplaincy is to get better at this embrace, so that I’m able to accept whatever fate comes my way—whenever it comes—with courage and grace.  Many of the patients, family members, and friends I have written about in Elder Chaplain posts have exhibited this wisdom, and they have taught me much and inspired me to no end.  For this, I am deeply thankful, and I look forward to learning more.

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There is a road, no simple highway
Between the dawn and the dark of night
And if you go, no one may follow
That path is for your steps alone

If I knew the way I would take you home

Ripple, The Grateful Dead

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For all I have learned from patients and friends, though, these are other people’s lives, and other people’s stories of grappling with the finiteness of their days.  My path is mine alone to walk, just as their’s is their’s alone.  We can’t walk in each other’s footsteps, but we can walk alongside each other, sharing with each other what we see, feel, and experience.  None of us knows the way, but I find comfort in having the company of others as we seek our way forward.

So as I reach seventy, I can hope that my strength holds to eighty or more, but more important to me is knowing I don’t have to do it alone.  To know I can share my hopes and my fears of the unknown with others, and listen to their hopes and fears.  It’s taken me most of my three score and ten to acquire this wisdom, and I still have much to learn.  But if I use whatever remaining days I’m granted to keep growing in this wisdom, I hope to have little to fear.