Not Yet 65

c 2016 LM Espey-Francis

In the 70s, I remember that 55 miles per hour was the optimum motor vehicle speed for maximum efficiency in fuel consumption. I am over 55 and not yet 65. I don’t know if 65 is old or sounds old. I remember when I was dating my husband-to-be, and I was 46 and he was 58 – in 1996, I thought he was a bit old, almost too much older. He doesn’t know or like my music: Simon and Garfunkel, Chicago, Steppenwolf, etc. I wasn’t thrilled with his either. I guess I gave something away when I started this with “I remember.”

I feel somewhat ambushed. Am I giving something away again? As I approached 65, I was hit with 10 years of caregiving for first Dad and then Mom, both ailing and fragile and constantly in and out of the emergency rooms of their world. I was trying not to get overwhelmed every time I rushed from work to the hospital or assisted living or nursing home or home. Then with Dad gone, Mom changed from the immovable rock of faith to shifting sands. She had to be recharged with reminders of her faith weekly and then, daily. She died six years later.

Whump, it was like I fell two stories and had the wind knocked out of me. I am not unhealthy, and was not too shabby as a litigator, negotiator, but I was a little bit behind in the digital world. I thought I was prepared for grieving. And I was supposed to go on staying healthy until at least 80. I had dreams and ambitions, and “cred.” My husband read “alone” on his wall and started telling me of another biological clock than the one of reproduction. He was thinking of the big biological clock: our time together before one of us dies. Thirty-five years of disability for him due to diabetes had reset his expectations. Dreaming of the great trip west to see it all – or at least a chunk of it all – was close to becoming real.

My ruthless “Fast Cash” Fred advertising representative sold me a great ad banner at $600 a month and tried to get me to change my telephone number. To change my telephone number of 25 years seemed like and attempt to disable and dismember my business, so I refused. I was going to get back on track, assured of his true respect for me for having cut back on my work to care for my parents. Then the only fast cash the ads got was for his company. And this was in the middle of the Great Recession.

I was ready to retire. When I told my close-as-family landlord of 25 years, who had never raised the rent, he suddenly looked at me in one of those forever moments that don’t show up on Hallmark cards. It was a look as if I suddenly had grown horns. He attacked: “You aren’t that different from us.”

“W—hat??” I stammered.

“You are a Democrat, right?” he replied. What was said after that didn’t matter. I was finished, finished with him and finished with full-time practice. Oh, he would forgive rent for six months if I wanted. I could find another office. But I was done.

No pre-planned cemetery is arranged for me, but as a veteran I can get in the ground at the national cemetery for free so long as there is room. Since my husband’s late wife is in the veteran’s cemetery in his spot, I can go in with her and maybe him if necessary, someday. I think strawberry fields suit me better.

I dodged cancer in 1997, since it was detected at Stage 1 and treated aggressively. I survived domestic violence in the 1980s, being molested as a child, and more surgeries and bad-tempered court cases, so my reward is that I didn’t die before 40 as my Dad predicted. His father and mother both died of epilepsy and leukemia, respectively. I am still dodging bullets. Oh, yes, a brother died of colon cancer in 1995.

I know I’ll be the best retiree ever. Wow was I suddenly popular – everybody had their hands out, baseball fields, dying church, worthy charity, etc. Everywhere there are old folks in Florida filling up their time with slowing down, naps, Lone Ranger (more about that later) and a loss of sense of purpose.

I painted doors at the local shelter, groomed my first horses at the equine rescue farm, pulled carrots for the first time in my life at the musician’s garden. I bought a new musical instrument, joined a book club, re-learned how to cook and clean. I found music I like – a luxury, in case you didn’t know it – and I fought for myself with adult step-children (in the context of how do they treat me in front of grandchildren), and fought for myself in the context of overbearing in-laws. I experienced spasms of the esophagus – a lot like a heart attack – after the stepchildren conflict. And I found I didn’t have to try so hard. Although that button is not easy to find.

On our quiet street of 20 homes, tops, I have had come to face mortality again. There are five people in these homes who died in 2015: Ed. Geraldine. Chris. David. And David’s wife, Edna, who was a widow for four days before she died. Plus my ex-husband. I put aside time for meditation and prayer and Bible study. I take care of my physical health. I fix up things around the house that my husband was no longer up to and that my failure to act upon had become unreasonable.

I had become active in a 12-step program thanks to my late alcoholic ex-husband and others. We are somehow joined in a sense of purpose: reclaiming a life worth living.

I met a cousin from a missing branch of the family. I finished a year of mourning of two parents and one dog and the loss of my daughter, granddaughter and son-in-law to conflict of who knows what? Atheism? Paganism? I am a Christian.

Now I watch a bit of television with my husband, like “Lone Ranger,” which started out as a Zane Gray novel. Ask me. Lots of trivia about the beautiful white horse, Silver.

Lining up for an early-bird special had been super annoying when my work schedule didn’t coincide with the hunger pangs of my husband’s pals. But now I look forward to having less than three meals to cook each day. Still, I have wearied of 75% if the restaurants around and I can enjoy cooking. What? This is all new to me.

I went to one summer book club discussion extremely prepared for a stimulating discussion only to find a brain-numbing lecturer and bored homebodies. (Me, a homebody?) I clean and cook as if it affects me personally. I fret over 25 years of house flaws accumulated due to neglect. These didn’t bother me in 2013. I finally GOT A NEW KITCHEN FAUCET AFTER 25 YEARS! Yes I still love it. And a new Mexican quality Whirlpool stove resides in all its gleaming black glory in the kitchen. Then I fume over black gummy substances on the floor. (What?)

It occurred to me that I am coming of age. I came of age in 1970, when I lived away from home for the first time. I came of age in 1979 with the birth of my daughter – and the end of my first marriage three years later. I came of age at 40, yielding to the destiny of private solo practice after every other path did not fit.

While juggling single parenthood and the practice of law, I lost my personal life. Then at long last I came to a crossroads when the man who was to become my one true husband came along.

Did I learn anything? I kept my head up and decorated my own garden and sought wisdom. I know my friends were caring for me as I grieved my losses in spite of me. I sampled my future as the length of it becomes more and more finite, at least on this planet. I have outrageous joys, like a Bugs Bunny pulling my very first carrot out of the ground. I have vague confusions about my work into which I poured so much love and determination. And I’m determined to let go – some.

We took a trip to find an olive tree 90 miles away. What a squandering of time under my former life’s schedule. It was an exquisite adventure!

I know I will die. I am fine with it. Insignificance and ordinariness, I am not fine with yet. I am still seeking, still sharing love, finding friends who no longer treat me like a commodity or a hired gun, but a real person.

Besides, I am not yet 65.

About the Author

Lucille Espey-Francis works from home in the area of wills, trusts and estates. Mostly she writes and raises chickens. And plans “Not Yet 70.”