I often wonder what being almost eighty means to my husband Peter. We can say that fifty is the new forty etc. but no one thinks eighty is not old.
Does he get up every day, grateful to be alive? Does he think about the possibility that he could die that day, and if he does, what does it mean to him? And to those of us who love him? I know, any of us could die any day, but still…
So I asked him. “Do you think about dying every day?”
His answer was a swift and unequivocal “no”. “Life is too interesting and there is too much going on.” he said.
And that was the end of that.