Journal of a Living Lady #162

 

Nancy White Kelly

 

My “to do” list is in my pocket next to my heart. I have things to do and maybe not a lot of time to do it. Then again, what does it matter if I don’t repot the geranium today?  I plan to move north later and live forever. No more laundry. No more grocery shopping. No more sweaty days or cold nights. But, reality is that I apparently have a bit more work to do here.

 

I found out in April, 1997, that I had metastatic breast cancer. My original experience with the disease came in 1985. After an intensive battle, I passed the mythical five-year survival marker and thereafter gave cancer little thought. Twelve years after the initial diagnosis, the cancer returned, gradually working its way through my lymph system, both lung and bones. My prognosis in 1997 was 9-18 months at best. Surgery. Radiation. Chemotherapy. I have done it all several times now.

 

I just turned the calendar page to May, 2002. In a five-year time span, I have earned my merit badges in oxygen tank operation, walking cane maneuvers, wheel chair rolling, and wig styling. If you want to know nineteen ways to tie a scarf around a bald head, call me. 

 

I am a card-carrying hospice graduate. Well, maybe drop-out would be a more accurate term. My mortality deadline has been extended time and time again to the point that nobody ventures a guess anymore. I just celebrated my fifth year of official terminality. When I first got the news of the recurrence, I told my Sunday School class not to forget me. In these last sixty months, seven of those people have beaten me to the finish line of earthly existence.  I am not complaining, just noting that nobody really knows our expiration date except our Maker.

 

I read a surprising statistic today. The average life span of a medical doctor is only 58 years. That means physicians live 80% as long as the rest of us. That piqued my curiosity about life expectancy.

 

Using the Internet, I found that a male born in 1855 could expect a lifetime of 38.7 years. The life span for someone born today is theoretically 78 years.  Yet,  the most interesting fact I found was that professional baseball players live approximately ten years longer than the general population.

 

Instead of visiting my oncologist this week, maybe I should ask Buddy to get me a season ticket for 31 years to the ball park. Wouldn’t it be fantastic to end life like a baseball player,  by hitting a home run and sliding into home plate at the ripe ole age of 88? 

 

Keep praying. Miracles happen. Five years and still counting.

 

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nancyk@alltel.net