D  e  s  e  r  t     E  x  p  o  s  u  r  e      january 2005

Making Time with Father Time

You're not getting older, you're--wait, yes you are! Just count the nose hairs.

When I was young, I was afraid of ghosts. Of course, I was much more afraid of unspeakable, hairy, fetid-breathed, multi-fanged gargoyles living under my bed, waiting to snack on my tender pre-pubescent bones. But ghosts were right up there in the supernatural pantheon of dreaded creatures, and I was always quick to pull the sheets up over my head at the slightest hint of errant ectoplasm.

Age took care of this particular fear, which was one of the first real detectable benefits of growing up. Of course, there were the small milestones, like later bed times and staying at home alone, but losing my fear of the darkness, while so gradual as to not be noticed, was a big step in my maturity. With this ever-increasing maturity, I somehow presumed an increasing invulnerability to mortal dangers. Like all oblivious young men, I feared little and knew even less, and regarded aging and disease as something that happened to those who let their guard down. I was impervious to my diet, which contained enough fats and carbohydrates to stun a large ox, I never suffered a hangover, and I got all the exercise I needed at work. I even went 10 years without health insurance, a family physician, or a 401(k) account. Ah, the halcyon days of youth!

Around the age of 30, I was startled to have a face-to-face confrontation with a wily nose hair. Problem was, this rebellious strand was curling out of my own nostril. Aghast at this development, I briefly clung to a desperate hope that it was simply an expatriated cat hair squatting in unfamiliar real estate. Alas, an exploratory tug confirmed its indigenous status, and I finally understood the meaning of the word "crestfallen." A few more increasingly angry provocations and the damnable hair was expelled, and I slunk away from the mirror with tears of pain--and shame--in my eyes. How could I have let this happen?

I adapted. I grew to accept that these unwelcome nasal tentacles would accompany me for the rest of my days. I am nothing if not tolerant. But not long afterward, I felt a discomforting click in my lower back while moving a small bucket of water. I froze, instantly recognizing this hitherto unknown symptom as something undesirable, silently calling on various nerve bundles to send a damage report to the bridge. The captain was understandably confused. A small weight shift let me know that we had lost air pressure on all decks, the warp drive was damaged, and life support systems were in jeopardy. Some physiologic misfire had allowed my back to go out, and I was forced to adopt the posture and gait of a B-movie zombie. I couldn't tie my own shoes, get out of a car quickly or, embarrassingly enough, put on my own underwear. It took weeks to regain use of my spine, which has become increasingly unreliable with the years.

Things are picking up steam now. My coif is thinning, and when I step out of the shower, I can clearly see the scars and imperfections on my scalp. It is obvious that my barber's job will become greatly simplified in the near future. A supreme example of the Maker's sense of humor is evident in the fact that the hair is apparently migrating from my scalp to my shoulders (with ever-larger tufts diverting to the aforementioned nasal vacationland). I have come to accept the fate of my pate, as I am happy to say my hairline has outlasted that of several of my friends, so I feel fairly smug.

In the last year, the writing has been clearly placed upon the wall. I have found several wiry feelers sprouting from my ears now, which are a part of my body I didn't imagine needing hair. I remember peering with fascination at the unruly forests sprouting from my grandfather's ears years ago, amazed at how this could happen. I now have an answer to that question: Just blink your eyes. Poof--there it is. I finally chose a family doctor and had the obligatory about-to-turn-40 physical, complete with blood work and overly familiar latex gloves. I am told I need to do this regularly from now until the doctor eventually discovers a disease that will kill me. Then, shortly after that, a dermatologist I was referred to found a sassy little skin cancer on my back with bad intent. This has since been unceremoniously escorted to a plastic-lined basket of medical waste, and I am told it will leave a scar as a biological reminder of the folly of seeking a golden tan in my carefree youth.

The ghosts visit more frequently now, and I'm far less afraid. In fact, some of these ghosts that steal into my syrupy dreams at night are comforting. I now have sufficient years that I know some ghosts first-hand, and although I might miss them in the physical world, I mingle with them in their spectral playground now. The ghosts help me relive memories of times long past, and teach me to accept inevitability. As Jim Morrison once said about the experience of life, "no one here gets out alive," a sentiment as true as it is depressing. Statistically, I have many years of life before me, and things are bound to get far worse, and I will look back on this age soon with fondness. For now, though, I appreciate the gifts I am given, and now understand that these gifts can be rescinded abruptly and without rancor. The ghosts explain this to me, and I have to believe them. Getting older may not be all biscuits and gravy, but it beats the alternatives. And the ghosts are patient.

Henry Lightcap spends his declining years in Las Cruces.

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