Is Marlo Thomas still alive? I wondered.

I’d been thinking about all the well-known beautiful women who’d lived into their aged years. She popped into my head along with one of my all-time favorites, Valerie Harper. But of course, she, I knew, was dead. But Marlo? How was it that I didn’t know? And man, can you imagine how she’d feel if she heard me asking such a thing? But I guess, at her age (yes, she’s still alive at 88 and, from what her Wikipedia page states, is still active in her philanthropic endeavors) she quite likely has a sense of humor about such a query. I believe I would. But still. We know that we are mortal, but just when does it actually hit home? Once, when I expressed my sense of urgency that we finalize mom’s will and estate plans with our attorney, she, at the age of 90, irritated, protested animatedly. “Why are you so hell-bent on getting this done? Do you think I’m going to die tomorrow?”. Well, yes. Yes you could, I thought. The answer seemed so obvious – to the point that many of you laughed upon reading it – but clearly, to my mother, it was not.

And so I ask again, just when do we get it?

I’d like to think I’m getting it these days. But I could be wrong. I’ve been told you never know until it’s right up in your face.

My mother had breast cancer for a second time in her late 80s. She chose to fight it, finally having her breast removed. I’d worried the anesthesia alone might do her in. That avoiding the risks of surgery might be reason enough to just accept her existential turn of fate and just medicate with palliative care to the end. I never said this aloud, however. And I’m glad I didn’t. As it turned out, she was as matter-of-fact about the choice to do away with it and move on as with any other event in her life. Lease the car, replace the roof, remove the breast. Next… Honestly, I was a bit miffed; my mother often mutters under her breath her grave disappointment that she’s still here, wishing aloud with her oft-used phrase that she could just “shuffle off this mortal coil” already. So I’d kinda thought she’d been presented with a tidy exit card here. But I think she’s deeply fearful of that final departure. That, and/or perhaps she wishes to remain to see what path her talented grandson ends up taking, or to continue to care for her son Andrew, who, without her, is destined for a precipitously dire future – or maybe it’s to watch the birds and feed the deer every day. Each is a viable reason. She, at present, is indeed the cotter pin holding it all together. So she is useful. And that, I believe, is a very important part of the reason one might choose to remain as long as possible.

A painter once told me that when she was in art school the most important lesson she ever learned was that not every piece of her work was precious. That everything had its time and place; no work was permanent. That idea behaves as sort of an ideological bedrock when I begin to take inventory and stock of my life. I like to think I’m pretty cool shit, but don’t we all like to think that? Ultimately, the universe holds me in no higher regard than any other human on this earth.

I hold my virtual breath these days as I fairly wait to be dealt the cancer card. It is so ubiquitous – to the point of being fairly ordinary. And, also beatable. But still, as a single person in the world with no close circle of friends, I dread that outcome. Being on Medicaid, I know very well the establishments where I would reside in my recovery. They are the understaffed, bottom-of-the-barrel places. Not a good outcome for anyone, but somehow, my bougie, insular world tells me that this is beneath me, and likely it would take a huge surge of emotional stamina to emerge safe and well on the other side. I’m not sure I’d have the will to survive. But who knows? My mother told me that you can never know for sure how you’ll feel until the choice is right in front of you. I’m still ambivalent.

I’m quick to say that if I die tomorrow, I’m good. In some ways, yes, I am. But actually, not quite. I think I need about two years (and if I’m honest, about $20K) to document my songs, get lead sheets and basic demos made and somehow pay my domain fees for a decade hence. I’ll let the kid and fate decide what happens after that. I’m just hoping for the illusion of a lasting digital footprint, and at least a fighting chance for my songs and essays to be discovered, re-animated and shared with a wider audience some day (I still harbor the hope that some of my expressions might help buoy another sinking soul somewhere). Also I don’t wish to leave my son too soon – that would be my main goal to hang around a few more years. As independent as he is, it would be a very hard hit for him if I left. But essentially, all things considered, I’m good. I’ve had a very rich life. So I think I’m ok with death. Personally – and I’ll elaborate more on this in future posts – I am not worried for one instant about my essence being annihilated. Our souls live on. We regroup and redesign after this iteration. That is what I believe. And maybe that’s what gives me what you might perceive as a certain nonchalance about dying. But like my mother said, you don’t really know until it’s facing you. And no matter my feelings about the permanence of soul energy, I do think I agree with her.

Today I took a bit of a risk, and a tiny hit to my ego. I posted a short video on Facebook, completely sans makeup and in unforgiving bright light, about my deep disappointment with the aging process. How I felt it had come upon me in relatively little time, how it felt somehow unjust. Of course, as I chose to post the material – even as I felt the words leaving my mouth – I knew that this was no new or compelling lament. And yet, it was. It’s new to me – and new to every one of my peers who is experiencing this disheartening condition. I felt that speaking this aloud was something I had to do. Trying to curate a younger-looking me was beginning to feel like a futile endeavor. I can’t, of course, control the photos people take and share of me. I perform, so that’s a given. Today it just felt like too much. Maybe, I thought, it would be emotionally less exhausting if I just somehow gave way, made peace, cited the elephant in the room…

I think it was the right decision. Doesn’t mean that I’m not gonna use a little foundation on my face when I get on stage, or that I still won’t hold my phone above my head when I take vids and selfies. But it does mean that I can breathe a little freer. Does this mean I’m more present now? That I’m at a place where I’m really at peace with myself? Not sure.

Now doesn’t feel like “when” yet. Wonder when it will….