Anyone who knows me well knows I assumed I would not reach my seventy-fifth birthday, because I never wanted to court loneliness and health issues alone. My husband is nine years older. Should he pass away before me, there are no siblings to count on; no children who live nearby, no easy solutions.
The last five years – from 70 to 75 – have been filled with health challenges, travel challenges, relationship challenges, and more. They’ve probably been filled with wonderful memories too. But it’s the challenges that stand out. The cancer issues, the lack-of-energy issues, the contemporary society issues, the blah, blah, blah.
I’m definitely a twentieth century personality living in a twenty-first century world. I don’t like Facebook or Twitter and prefer to pick up an old fashioned landline to resolve a problem. I like to hold a book in my hands. A real book.
I don’t want to be staring at my phone in a restaurant while my husband stares at his. Nor do I want to navigate kiosks to order a cup of coffee at McDonald’s or sign in for my doctor’s appointment.
What I want is personal communication, preferably one on one. Meaningful experiences. Memories at the end of the day. And, truthfully, my birthday held all that. Perhaps the curmudgeon in me will be won over.