By Mara Lefebvre
In Rhode Island a nursing home adopts a kitten and names him Oskar. Oskar is better than the doctors in determining when a resident will die. He sniffs the air, cranes his neck and curls up next to the person. They always expire shortly thereafter. How is it possible that a cat knows when someone will die and we Homo sapiens, don’t know?
I think everyone should be given an expiration date, something they can plan for, like the opposite of their birthday. Wait, maybe it should be the same month and date they were born just 80 or 90 or 100 years later.
That’s the hardest thing, not knowing when. As I close in on my 70th birthday, I check the handy dandy actuary tables on the Social Security web site. That predicts I won’t last longer than 83. When my 4th husband, Channing, and I consult with our financial advisor, he merrily prints out colorful charts and Excel spreadsheets that end at age 90, with blank space in the columns where 91 + years should be.
I’m legitimately scared since I lost my first word last week. S.C.H.E.M.E. I just could not gather the letters. My brain refused to fire the neurons to make the word appear. It felt the same way when I came out of sedation after surgery, just a blank vastness with no horizon, no reference points, and no words.
I now diligently read every article in AARP, the senior magazine, adding to my heath, financial and memory worries.
I act like a deranged detective around the house secretly sniffing leather belts, Florida oranges, raw fish and peppermint candies. See, people who can’t identify those odors are twice as likely to develop dementia in the next five years, twice as likely.
I see all the potential aging catastrophes just narrowly avoided. I live now between desire and disaster, remembering the ultimate truth I heard on my last meditation retreat, “The cause of death is birth.”