I have a friend, a good friend, who is twenty years my senior. Our lifestreams crossed when we both worked for Procter & Gamble in Cincinnati more than thirty years ago. Our common thread being amateur radio. He retired early, I think he was 56 when he bowed out of the workforce and he and his wife followed his muse to the mountains of western Colorado. He visited the area as a teenager and it had captured his imagination for life.

With the kids all grown and scattered to the wind, there was no good reason not to make the move. So they did, and enjoyed twenty years of additional wedded bliss in the majesty of the Great American West. He had a fantastic ham radio station with endless room for wire antennas, especially for 160 meters. After he moved we continued to meet on the air, and annually in Dayton for Hamvention where he would loiter for a week or two in order to catch up with family and friends. We often chatted the miles away on the air while he was on the way to and from his annual visits.

The years were good until they weren’t. Eventually his wife succumbed to the cruelty of Alzheimer’s and he was alone. In a big house, on a large tract of land. Far from family. A few weeks ago he fell and there was no one to help. Eventually he was found and taken to the hospital. He recovered quickly and went back home and fell again. This time his kids insisted this wasn’t safe and he needed to live with them or in some sort of assisted living facility where he could be looked after.

I haven’t spoken to him since this most recent event. The news I’m getting is second hand from a mutual friend. I’m certain my friend won’t be happy to give up his radio station and independent life but he can’t outrun Father Time. None of us can. If we live long enough the lives we enjoy now will eventually change, and rarely for the better. Having watched dozens of friends and relatives follow a similar journey, and being determined not to go down that path myself, I’ve always planned a quick trip behind the barn when I turn seventy-five to stop the clock as it were. It’s the best escape plan I can conjure from the multitude of indignities and loss of independence that attend old age.

But, sometimes I wonder if I’m not looking at it wrong. Perhaps advancing age is just another facet of life to be explored. A privilege, not necessarily a curse. I haven’t canceled my plan mind you, but I seem to wonder more frequently if there isn’t something that might be missed during an early departure. More heartbeats almost never equals more quality time, but maybe it’s not supposed to?

If I’ve learned anything in this life it’s that growing old requires a considerable measure of fortitude and bravery. It is NOT for the weak or cowardly…