The old running guys

This has been a week to think about growing old.  I'm not talking about myself, at present anyway, despite an aching knee and limited mobility.  Considering that I won't have a "real" job for about a year and a half, I feel young and ready to get started.  That aching knee will be healed in another few months, if I play my cards right now.  What I mean is that a series of coincidences in reading and observing have made really think about aging, both in terms of the future and in terms of how those thoughts might change my present actions. 

In my neigborhood there are a group of men -- old men -- who seem to be out running constantly.  One is so thin and his skin so slack that he is nearly cadaveric.  He runs every day, shirtless in the summer, wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt at other times.  I see him walking with his wife and dog at other times, and he seems to be enjoying himself although I've never seen him smile.  Another lives only a few houses down, not so thin, but is even more dedicated.  He shuffles, hunched over, for hours at a time.  He often runs with his son, who slows his pace to allow the father to keep up.  He's not so old, perhaps, but he runs like it, so in this context it counts.  There is a white-bearded man whom I see less frequently, because he lives in a different part of the neighborhood.  He seems really old, and although his gait is steadier and stronger than the other two, his muscles hang from the bones.  You can see traces of what must have been a strong frame.  There is the still-very-fit but aging man who runs bolt upright with a dog tag on.  His flesh is in no way slack, and  I would like to have him on my side in a fight, if the idea of me in a fight weren't so patently ridiculous.  Finally, there are dozens of other old men who run in and around my neighborhood, whom I don't know but I'm sure have running stories just the same.


I read a fantastic article in the New Yorker (the link is not to the article but to a poorly written "abstract" of it), an essay by the poet Donald Hall, as he considered his own aging from his armchair looking out of his window.  I also came across a great how-to-live-your-life-from-the-perspective-of-the-deathbed essay by way of a Facebook posting.  The subject is trite but I was touched.  It wasn't about aging, per se, but was about the regrets that people have before they die.  Aging is a bit of a foreign territory for me; although I am a physician and have helped people through the processes of aging and dying, the vast majority of my training and experience are with children.  I suppose as anyone's parents age this becomes a little more familiar, but for me it is only just starting to really seep into my everyday consciousness.

Where does this leave me?  Certainly not thinking about mortality yet, but thinking a little bit more acutely about how I want to live life.  As my faithful readers will know, creating and inhabiting a home has been at the forefront of my mind, especially as we (my wife and I) are still recovering from too many moves in too short a period, and as our children grow into personhood and develop their own sense of home.  I realized today in the car that up until now I have been framing this as a question of living in the present -- i.e. if I could only live in the present more fully, none of the moving around and uncertainty about the future would matter so much.  But perhaps I should frame it in the opposite way:  I am focusing so much about living in the present that I lose sight of thinking about the future in a meaningful way.  Watching the old men run brings the future back into focus, for a time.