One Thing or Another: The Back of the Line Looks Better Every Day
One Thing or Another … a lighthearted look at life, aging, and the absurdities of it all.
By Mark McNease
Age has a strange effect on time: the more we have of one, the less we have of the other.
When my mother died twenty-four years ago I told someone that losing our parents meant we were moving closer to the turnstile. Then my father died, and the parents of everyone I knew who was my age or near it. The truth became inescapable that we were next: our siblings, our friends, people we looked up to and people we looked down upon. Everyone, it seems, is destined for the same fate, and it was quickening its pace. Each loss takes us nearer to our own jumping off place, and with the departure of every friend, peer and acquaintance comes the uncomfortable sensation that we really, truly, may be next.
It’s not maudlin to stare at the shortening line and see the rollercoaster coming round the tracks for us. There’s the sense it won’t be long now, and pretty soon—whether it’s a year from now, or ten years, or twenty—I’ll be fastened into the tiny car, have the bar pressed into me and locked for safety, and rocket off into the unknown. It’s a ride we all must take alone. There will be no one seated next to us screaming with delight as we plunge into … wherever it is we go, or don’t go. I’m not personally invested in the next ride, if there is one, or the next. Heaven can definitely wait for me, since I’ve never had any interest in going there. My hope, and belief, is to flicker out, having lived as bravely and as brightly as I could. Beyond that, just drop me back into the ocean, it’s fine with me.
One Thing or Another: The Back of the Line Looks Better Every Day
One Thing or Another … a lighthearted look at life, aging, and the absurdities of it all.
By Mark McNease
Age has a strange effect on time: the more we have of one, the less we have of the other.
When my mother died twenty-four years ago I told someone that losing our parents meant we were moving closer to the turnstile. Then my father died, and the parents of everyone I knew who was my age or near it. The truth became inescapable that we were next: our siblings, our friends, people we looked up to and people we looked down upon. Everyone, it seems, is destined for the same fate, and it was quickening its pace. Each loss takes us nearer to our own jumping off place, and with the departure of every friend, peer and acquaintance comes the uncomfortable sensation that we really, truly, may be next.
It’s not maudlin to stare at the shortening line and see the rollercoaster coming round the tracks for us. There’s the sense it won’t be long now, and pretty soon—whether it’s a year from now, or ten years, or twenty—I’ll be fastened into the tiny car, have the bar pressed into me and locked for safety, and rocket off into the unknown. It’s a ride we all must take alone. There will be no one seated next to us screaming with delight as we plunge into … wherever it is we go, or don’t go. I’m not personally invested in the next ride, if there is one, or the next. Heaven can definitely wait for me, since I’ve never had any interest in going there. My hope, and belief, is to flicker out, having lived as bravely and as brightly as I could. Beyond that, just drop me back into the ocean, it’s fine with me.
One Thing or Another: Pills for All Our Ills
One Thing or Another … a lighthearted look at life, aging, and the absurdities of it all.
Mark McNease
Too many episodes of heartburn after a meal? It must be GERD! Cholesterol numbers not what they should be? Here’s a statin!
I don’t know about your doctor—how could I?—but my primary care physician is one of those nice, softspoken, well-meaning doctors with a great office manner who reacts to every ill I present him with by prescribing some new medication. Most recently, it was something for Restless Leg Syndrome, which I dutifully took as prescribed for several weeks while I kept reading about its applications and side effects. Two things stood out: it can increase my risk of deadly melanoma, and it shouldn’t be stopped without first weaning off it for an extended period of time. Hmm, I thought, finger to lips while I processed this information. I’m not interested in making myself more vulnerable to skin cancer than I already am, as a fair-skinned older man of British and Irish descent. And I really don’t want to take something I can’t decide to stop taking without lowering the dose first over a period of weeks. I don’t have the patience for it, and I don’t like anything that can have its hooks that deeply into me.
Of course I stopped on my own, with just a day of real or imagined discomfort. The bigger issue for me is that my doctor, like too many others, made no attempt to determine if I do, in fact, have Restless Leg Syndrome. This kind of instant diagnosis happens all the time. Too many episodes of heartburn after a meal? It must be GERD! Cholesterol numbers not what they should be? Here’s a statin!
One Thing or Another: Cats, Kittens And Chaos
One Thing or Another: Life, Aging, and the Absurdities of it All
By Mark McNease
We recently lost another beloved cat, if you can refer to ending their lives as mercifully as possible that way. It’s both a euphemism and a truism: the space where Peanut had been for over five years is empty now. I left the soft orange runner on the floor by the kitchen sink where she ate, separately from our other girl Wilma. It reminds us of her, and it will always be where she had been. I’m also turning her litter box into a flower garden, with her name on a small marker. But she is gone, and it’s a sadness that will remain as long as we remember her.
We’ve said goodbye this way to five other cats over the past 17 years, and it never stops being one of the most difficult experiences we accept into our lives in exchange for sharing them with animals. The only thing more I’ll say about it is that it always feels like a betrayal of their unwavering trust, and yet we are entrusted too with making sure they don’t suffer more than dying inflicts on them already. It’s a terrible guessing game.
One Thing or Another: Perchance to Sleep
Narration provided by Wondervox.
By Mark McNease
A lighthearted look at life, aging, and the absurdities of it all.
I’m an early riser anyway. I’m at my most alert and creative in the mornings, and if I manage to sleep until 5:00 a.m., I consider it a good night’s rest and I’m ready to go.
Do we sleep less because we’re older, or are we older because we sleep less? It’s a mystery for the ages, pondered at 3:00 a.m. when we’re in bed staring at the ceiling or the wall, wondering if we will go back to sleep. It’s a toss-up: sometimes we do, and many times we don’t. Something trivial or significant catches our mind like a shimmering fishhook snapped up by a grouper, and soon we know we might as well get out of bed.