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| Uncle Murray |
Weekend trip to the Los Angeles area, valley of my birth, which I gladly forsook nearly 30 years ago…our first stop was for lunch with friends; the thermometer registered almost 100 degrees outside when we took our seats, and was well over that when we made it back to our rented Mini Cooper. Ducking into a nearby supermarket to pick up a gift, we then headed to our next destination: my uncle’s 90th birthday party.
The guest of honor, my one and only uncle, could pass for 70
more easily than 90; he and his wife (age 85) are genetic marvels who owe
nothing to plastic surgery or high-caliber fitness regimens. They look and act
as I always remember them—active and engaged. They drive, travel, play
bridge—in short, they continue to enjoy life as few people in their age bracket
can.
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| Aunt Evy |
Is there a secret, other than good genes? Uncle Murray
continued working part time into his early 80s, and loved his vocation as a
post-doctoral professor. Aunt Evelyn,
while retired, had served for years as a mentor to new teachers, helping them
learn the ropes. Blessed with relatively good health, an active social life,
and happy, well-adjusted children and grandchildren, they have ample reason to
regard their lives with satisfaction.
Yet they seem not to spend an inordinate amount of time
either looking back or forward—but just enjoy their lives. When my uncle had to undergo a somewhat
complex medical procedure a while ago, his wife was nonchalant. “Oh, it’s
nothing, he’ll be fine.” Denial? Or maybe they've cultivated a serene form of
acceptance that’s helped sustain them as they gradually head toward their long
home.
There’s simply no comparison between their lives and the situation
my parents are in. Pure luck may be part of the story, but I’d be willing to
bet a good percentage of my retirement account that at least half the problems
my parents are dealing with are directly related to their stupid diet and poor
medical advice. It doesn’t help matters that they have an equally stupid
marriage, filled with simmering tension and disappointment.
My parents' life together, never especially interesting, has only
become more constricted and meaningless. If marriage is nothing else than having
a somewhat warm body nearby, at least they’ve achieved that, but at a huge
cost. I’m reminded of some of the miserable couples described in W. Somerset Maugham’s
stories; Maugham himself was an expert on the topic of unhappy marriage—but at
least he had the good sense to get a divorce and move on.
