“Are you going to work today?” my wife asked. 

Groaning, I opened my eyes. “What time is it?” 

“Eight o’clock.” I was due in the office in half an hour. 

“Fuck it,” I said. “I can’t face the office today.” 

“You all right?”  

“No,” I said, pulling the covers back over my head. 

I’d gone to bed at eleven and slept nine hours but felt like sleeping even more. Realizing I couldn’t just not show up for to work, however, I got up, went downstairs for some coffee, and then called my job to tell then I was taking a personal day and text my volunteers to cover the pantry. Responsible adult duties finished, I plopped down on the couch and just stared at the four walls. As I sipped java in my bathrobe, I remembered how my father would sit on his couch at home and stare at the four walls too, immobilized by Parkinson’s and dementia. Shaking the sad memory away, I realized it’s also been taking me more time to start my day.  

“You okay, honey?” my wife said as she opened the door to leave for work. 

“Hanging in there,” I replied. 

After I heard her car pull away, I sat the couch in the privacy of my quiet home and let my feelings wash over me. I had a very discouraging day at work a few days ago, frustrated by the bullshit coming in from some of the very people I was trying to help. Normally I can overcome that kind of stuff, but today, I just couldn’t deal with it. But I also knew I was more irritable than usual, angry, and very sad. On Tuesday, after losing my temper over something very minor, I just broke down and cried, which is unusual for me. Was it grief over my father’s passing? Or had the events of the past three years finally caught up with me – my illness, surgery, recovery, dealing with my parents, putting them in a nursing home, my dog dying, watching my dad die, his funeral, and the myriad of tasks that followed? 

“When I turned fifty,” I told a friend just yesterday, “I was very optimistic, but boy, have the fifties sucked.” Being the same age as me she replied, “Tough being in that sandwich generation.”

“I wished I’d enjoyed my forties more.” 

Grunting my friend said, “If I knew then what I know now, I’d’ve divorced my husband ten years before I did.” Then we talked about her concerns with her energy levels. After rounds of medical tests, her doctors couldn’t seem to find anything wrong with her. 

“Could be depression,” I said. “That could explain all your symptoms.” 

“I know. My next visit is with a psychiatrist.” 

Back home sipping my coffee, I realized the advice I gave my friend was probably me diagnosing myself. Small wonder I didn’t want to deal with other people’s problems, putting up a sign that said closed to all but me. “Back out of this now too much for us.” I said aloud. Deciding to kick myself out of my funk, I changed into my workout clothes and, not wanting to be seen jogging around my town, drove to a running path in a park I’d never been to ten miles away. Running alongside some train tracks, it was advertised as a flat two and a half miles each way. Wincing as my gimpy knee sparked in protest, I let myself warm up for an easy mile before picking up the pace. Then, as I was running behind some apartment buildings, I realized I’d been here before. 

I’d dated a girl who lived in one of those apartments back in ’95 and late one evening, after a round of festivities, we were in her kitchen drinking wine when a train rolled past the window, it’s horn wailing in the cool night air. I still remember watching the faces of the scattered passengers as they rattled by, wondering if they were only then getting back from a long day in the city. I also still remembered the moonlight playing on the girl’s naked skin, the taste of the wine, how the tip of her cigarette glowed in the darkness, and the delicious feeling of being young and desirable. Pausing my run, I looked up at that window and shook my head. That girl died five years ago – but I was still here. 

“Almost thirty years,” I said to myself. If we’d conceived a child that night, he or she would now be a full grown adult, possibly with kids of their own. Would we have gotten married if that happened? Maybe, but I’d have ended up a widower. Then again, the girl drank too much and, when I awkwardly ran into her four years later, she looked like she’d aged immensely. I probably dodged a bullet, but in my mind’s eye, she will forever remain that vision in moonlight. Jesus, I hope my wife doesn’t read this. 

Resuming my run, I thought about all the bullets I’ve dodged – that I made it out of the womb alive, getting caught in quicksand as a boy, almost drowning, a very bad car accident, relationships gone wrong, pneumonia, an emergency appendectomy, cancer, and a host of other misfortunes. I survived them all and, as I paced along the asphalt, I found myself journeying down that great chain of causality that took me from the cradle to where I was now. Life hasn’t always gone my way, but it had indeed gone on. That moonlit girl wasn’t so lucky.

After five miles, I took a cool down walk back to my car and noted with satisfaction that, although my pace didn’t break any records, my heart rate dropped back to normal very quickly. “You’re in the best shape of your life,” my cardiologist told me a few months ago. “Keep it up.” Despite his reassuring words, however, I still felt fragile and vulnerable sitting on that wax papered table. What did that comedian say? “If you die in your forties, everyone goes. ‘That’s too soon!’ but, if you die in your fifties they say, “Yeah, I can see how that could happen.” The older you get, the more your illusions fall. 

Now feeling famished, I stopped at a little restaurant to eat breakfast. Since it was such a nice morning, I took a table outside and polished off a plate of huevos rancheros with some coffee, lots of water and some fresh fruit. The late summer and early fall are my favorite time of year and, as the cool morning wind caressed my salty skin and rustled the still green leaves in the trees, I closed my eyes and let the temperate rays of our local star caress my face. It was a beautiful day, and I was alive to see it. During my father’s eulogy, I said, “Of course, beauty is just another word for love and, if in your pain, you’ve missed lovely moments in life, you needn’t worry, because there will always be more to come.” Was I preaching to myself? Probably.   

Paying the bill, I went home and noticed I was feeling lighter and beyond confusion. Perhaps backing out and hanging up that closed sign was a good idea – or it was the endorphins talking. No matter. 

Whatever works.