How Many Summers? The Arithmetic of Mortality

When I was about 10 years old it occurred to me I might live to see the 21st century. I did the arithmetic and it added up. Unless I died young, I would likely see the year 2000.

That realization did not change my approach to life much. It was an amusing curiosity.

When I started my rotation on the cancer ward, I interviewed the twenty patients on my service, and it was patently clear none of them would survive the year. It was August, a hot summer in New York City, and I was hoping to just get past that summer.  That summer was oppressive with heat and death.  With me was the question I could not shake: What if I were in the position all these people were in, people like me, just a little older, and some of them, those with leukemia, just my age?  

The Seventh Seal

It made life seem so much more urgent, that understanding that death is coming for us all.

Exeter, New Hampshire

Or, as the bard said, "Time is an ocean, but it ends at the shore."  I missed that line in "Oh, Sister" but my friend pointed it out to me. It was the one line in a song with a lot of interesting sentences, but she honed in on that line.  She has that capacity.

And now I've done another little calculation. I did not even need my calculator, which I now need for most any calculation now, but not for this one.

Obadiah Youngblood: North Hampton Salt Marshes 

I likely have only 10 more summers left. If I am really long lived, maybe 15. Notice, I did not say, "If I'm really lucky, maybe 15." To wish for long life is not to wish for eternal youth, as Merlin discovered, to his chagrin.

Ten more summers. 

This realization, like the one on the cancer ward, puts a certain pressure on the time I may have left. 

For one thing, if Trump is President, then 6 out of those 10 summers will be spent reading his tweets, fuming over his determined stupidity, getting aggravated by his obstinate ignorance and magical thinking. 

That would leave only 4 summers of peace of mind, assuming someone liberal replaces him.

Winslow Homer

So, I have resolved to not let him get to me. He just isn't that important, or shouldn't be in my own particular life. 

I cannot control his raging over baby infestation, over his invention of a horde of MS13 gangsters defiling our nation.

Trump cannot stop the apples from growing at Applecrest orchard; he cannot stop the ocean from rolling in at high tide at Plaice Cove. (Although, if he destroys the EPA, the beach may be closed for more days of the year because of E.coli contamination, as it was this week.)

The administrators at the clinic can push me to increase the number of patients I see by 3% every 6 months, but so what? If they think I'm "unproductive," I'll simply quit.

But what can I do with the precious time, the precious little time remaining? 

Incomparable Van Gogh

I'd love to write, produce and maybe even direct a wonderful TV series, like "The Wire."
I'd love to paint a picture every day, as Van Gogh did, and to paint as masterfully as he did.

Van Gogh

I'd love to play piano better.
I'd love to learn Icelandic and Swedish and German and French and Italian and Spanish.
I'd love to wake up tomorrow morning, 20 pounds lighter, beautiful and 20 years younger.

Klimt

But I'll count myself lucky if I can just learn something really astonishing each day: Like, did you know, mothers of sons have cells with XY chromosomes growing in their brains?  
How to explain this? 
Maybe the technology is wrong. But if it's correct, how did a male cell get into a female brain?  
We know fetal cells circulate in the mother's blood. (Don't ask me how we know that--the technology is beyond me.) So, most likely these are fetal cells which implanted downstream, crossed the blood/brain barrier and took root. Another possible explanation: It's possible these mothers had fraternal twins with whom they shared a womb, who died at an early stage before anyone knew their were two fetuses in that womb. 

VanGogh

There may be other possibilities I haven't yet thought of yet.

But that's mostly what I have left: wonder. I can still wonder about stuff. 
That will have to be enough.