Hay Siempre Mañana

At a meeting the other day I mentioned that I was closing in on sixty years old. Later, I was approached by several folks who told me I did not look anywhere close to sixty; mid-forties tops.

It’s wonderful what estrogen has done for my skin. But there is a down side. It feeds into a notion I have that there is plenty of time before I “have” to get healthy. Sure, the body sends me little messages to the contrary; small aches and pains, bladder infections, a weird rash on my ankle and high blood pressure. But half a dozen prescriptions keep all that in check, feeding the illusion there is yet still time to get the life I really want and live into my eighties. “Hay siempre mañana,” there is always tomorrow.

But a fresh coat of paint doesn’t do jack if the wood underneath is rotting. At any moment, despite the best attempts at detection, my body could send me a new reminder of my lengthy abuse; a stroke, heart attack, diabetes, cancer or God knows what; a message beyond the reach of “take two and call me in the morning.”

I can imagine my despair; all those todays I pushed into mañana now unobtainable, the bridge between them having collapsed. I can’t see myself as the brave convalescent; dedicated to arduous and painful therapy to recapture a small fraction of mobility or speech or cognition. I would likely sit in my chair, sipping a drink, watching television and wondering what was for dinner.

Much like the life I have now.

Hay siempre mañana.

Take Care,
Billie