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Emails to my Therapist

The Ultimate Adventure

My writing group is showing its age, as one of our number pointed out last week. The group has been meeting on Thursday afternoons for 26 years and we weren’t kids when we started.

Recently one of the gang said she would in the future be coming only very occasionally. She has a serious chronic ailment that limits her mobility. Another has a pacemaker and continuing heart trouble. One wears hearing aids. Yet another has some surgery scheduled for Monday and I had a round of that myself a few years ago.

We range in age now from 51 to 71, and have been lucky so far. No deaths. No malignancies unless you count a wee skin cancer, which I don’t (and it was mine, so I get to decide.) I’m 60 and have dodged all large bullets so far.

It’s a truism that “old age is not for sissies.” No kidding. Getting old is an adventure of the tallest sort. Much more dangerous than rock-climbing, for example. Harder to beat than any casino.

I don’t want to rush it, of course. I do have a sense of calling here on Earth, to tell particular stories. I know that’s grandiose, but it helps me plan my time. I’d like to get further along with my assignment before having to quit. I’d also like a bestseller or two, but that’s a different adventure.

The important thing about the aging adventure so far is that it’s a team sport, much better done with friends. My writing group, which BTW has produced quite a good pile of good books with more to come, is “in it for the long haul,” including any who have to come only occasionally. I’m proud of this bold set of pals.

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