From here to there
I recently visited my pickleball friends in New Hampshire. Reconnecting with old friends, playing pickleball under a crisp October sky, followed by laughing over pizza and homemade cookies renewed and reaffirmed my sense of being alive. Our group, made up mostly of octogenarians, seemed to celebrate not only our friendship but the privilege of growing older together.
Among us were friends who had beaten the odds and survived pancreatic cancer, a friend whose husband now lives in a memory care unit and a man who takes dozens of pills a day to keep himself going. Despite their challenges, each continues to find a way to keep life relatively in balance. We laughed, played, ate and enjoyed one another’s company. For those few hours, aging seemed less a burden than a shared adventure.
Since that visit, I have kept wondering: What makes us keep going when we slowly lose friends, sometimes week after week? During a weekend walk on a nearby trail, my friend Deb confided in me, “Death, being there, is not what I am scared of, but getting there is what I am afraid of.”
Her words have stayed with me. Am I afraid of death, dying, and aging, too? I have not given these subjects much deliberate thought, but I have received more than my share of sad news about friends who have left this world. Perhaps I have avoided examining my own fears because, until now, I have been fortunate enough to enjoy relatively good health, with no major illnesses and my body and mind still serving me well. I remain independent, with close family members living nearby. How easily I can take these blessings for granted.
What am I afraid of? What makes me anxious? When fear creeps in, my first instinct is to learn more about whatever frightens me. What do I know about it? What can I understand or prepare for? Yet some uncertainties cannot be researched away. The future remains unknown, no matter how many questions I ask.
Some people turn to the Serenity Prayer. Friends who are social workers have suggested that I remain curious about the future while allowing anxiety to be present rather than fighting it. I like the idea of curiosity, of wondering what lies around the next corner. Still, I sometimes feel my heart race and butterflies flutter in my stomach. Where does this anxiety come from? What am I supposed to do with it? More bluntly, how do I get rid of it?
My neighbor David offers one possible answer — not through advice, but through the life he has lived. Now in his 90s, he has lost two wives to cancer. He remembers moving through denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and, eventually, acceptance. He has made peace with the reality of loss, though it took him more than twenty years to reach this point. Today, he devotes himself to playing and practicing the piano every day, whether or not a public performance awaits him. He seems content with the work itself and the life he has made around it.
Perhaps acceptance does not mean that we stop feeling afraid or grieving. Perhaps it means learning to live alongside these feelings without allowing them to take over the lives we still have.
I find myself thinking about the time between here and there — the life I am living now and the unknown destination that awaits us all. How can I make the most of this time? What will continue to bring me joy, curiosity and vitality?
I do not yet have answers. For now, I want to keep writing, reflecting, playing, and appreciating the connections I have. I want to pay attention to the ordinary pleasures that make a life: a walk with a friend, a shared meal, laughter on a pickleball court, music filling a neighbor’s home.
I cannot know what lies around the next corner. But perhaps I do not have to know. Perhaps the task is to remain curious, to keep making connections, and to be present for the life that is still unfolding.
I am still here. For now, that is a good place to begin.
Shin Freedman is a retired academic who now writes about aging, solitude, technology and the quiet revolutions of modern life.