I had a funny thought this afternoon. It went like this: ‘Forty more years. If I could live until 100, I think I might have enough time to realize my potential.’
It bites to be such a late bloomer when one has a terminal illness.
In reality, I am just hitting my stride. Sure, my physical self is declining in a way that has nothing to do with cancer (advancing age–who knew?). And there is no doubt that between lung cancer and treatment my body has been beat to shit. Once upon a time my oncologist told me that platinum chemo ages one on a cellular level by fifteen years. And in my case, that would be times three.
Then again, culturally I am far more a millennial than a boomer. All over the map, I am.
But back to those forty years. It would be so fucking cool to imagine that it was a possibility. The odds are not with me on this one. However, there is nothing to stop me from dreaming. I mean, my dad lived to 83 and my mom to 79 and they both had cancer. Of course, they weren’t diagnosed at the age of 45, as I was.
However, even though old age is a statistical improbability, I think I’m going to just take my time here. Continue hanging out and hanging on. Aim for 65, and then 70. Wrinkles and saggy triceps? Bring it. I’m going for the long haul.