Should I Have Died at 75?

    There is a lot of talk about an in the Atlantic titled ”Why I Hope to Die at 75."  At age 85 I disagree with much of what Ezekiel Emmanuel said. 

    Maybe I should have died at age 60.  I had breast cancer.  The surgeon came into my hospital room after the mastectomy and told me, “It has spread to the lymph nodes.”  I thought it was a death sentence.  The doctor sent me to a great oncologist.  Six months of chemo and six weeks of daily radiation.  I pulled up tumble weeds in my backyard in Albuquerque.  The result:  lymphadema in my right arm.  The swollen arm in its custom-made sleeve looks ugly but does not hurt.  And 24 years later I am still here. 

    At 75 I was felt good, did whatever I wanted, traveled.  Went to China, Thailand, and twice to Russia.  Went to Europe so many times I lost count.  Then at age 80 my kidneys quit filtering and I had to go on dialysis.  Now it is a big deal to go from Dallas to Fort Worth.  But I write this blog.  I just finished writing another book and sent it to the publisher this week.  I am glad to be alive. I enjoy every day. 

    Other old ladies tell me their children call every day to ask how Mom is doing.  I feel lucky if my children call me once a month.  All live far away.  I am in Dallas.  Martha is in Chicago.  David is in Southern California.  Both are overwhelmed by demanding careers, caring for spouses, and problems with their own children   Karl, in Arkansas, has his own problems.  I have always been independent.  They are accustomed to my taking care of myself.  I’ve been trying to convince them that, in spite of my active lifestyle, I am an old lady who can not do all the things I used to do. 

    Now my family is coming for Thanksgiving.  Martha and David are taking time off from their important jobs.  Martha is coming with husband Don and all three sons, big men, all over six feet tall.  Don, Doug, and Richard are electrical engineers. Joseph is still in college. David is bringing his son, 14-year-old Adam.  Karl called to say he was sorry he couldn’t come, too.

    I wonder:  What kind of parent am I to my adult children?

    One paragraph in Ezekiel Emanuel’s article stopped me cold.  The author (he is Ron’s brother) wrote about parents:

    “Whether estranged, disengaged, or deeply loving, they set expectations, render judgments, impose their opinions, interfere, and are generally a looming presence for even adult children.  This can be wonderful.  It can be annoying.  It can be destructive.  But it is inescapable as long as the parent is alive.  Examples abound in life and literature: Lear, the quintessential Jewish mother, the Tiger moms.  And while children can never fully escape this weight even after a parent dies, there is much less pressure to conform to parental expectations and demands after they are gone.”

    I am thrilled that my family is coming for Thanksgiving.  It will be wonderful to see them, but will they be glad when I die?