The Great Big Scheme of Things

One of the really crappy things about approaching the precipice of middle age is it seems like people die more often.

They don’t, really. It’s just that as nature takes its course and as the circles of life move inexorably forward, I’m at the point in the cosmic chronology when it seems like it happens more frequently.

Dying, I mean.

In my teens through my 40’s, I lost my paternal grandmother, both maternal grandparents,  the occasional former boss. 

But death and my life were rarely in the same time and space.  

A friend died over the weekend in Wichita. I didn’t know her well. We were part of a very loosely organized group of non-profit exec-types who would gather in Wichita on occasion to compare notes and commiserate about our boards of directors.

She was my age (ballpark).   

The father of a fellow blogger, a new friend, died yesterday at 85.

His daughter is my age (ballpark).

A good friend is suffering from ill effects associated with high blood pressure and hypertension.

He’s my age (ballpark).

There, but for the grace of God, go I.

I’m not afraid of dying. I’m not afraid of my parents dying. I get that it’s all part of the Great Big Scheme Of Things (my caps).

Of course I say that now. When it’s staring me in the face in a personal way, all bets are off.

So when I got home today, I called my parents.

Mom didn’t have much time to chat.

“Just got a bunch of little things fixed on my car.”

Drive safe, Mom. Buckle up and watch out for idiots.

My Pop had just climbed out of his backyard pool. The replacement hip’s still causing some minor discomfort.

“I suspect it’ll bother me a little the rest of my life.”

I hope it’s a long time.

I think I’ll call them more often.