Fear of the known

I was out running errands today and was reminded (painfully) of the inevitable. I, like you, am not getting any younger. There was this frail, little old man at Discount Tire today. Thank God he hadn't driven himself. He was there with his son (who happened to be about my dad's age). I wasn't eavesdropping, but I couldn't help but overhear a few snippets of their conversation.


Son: Do you need any groceries or anything while we're out?


Father (shaking head slowly): No. No. I think I have enough food to last me for. . . a little while.


Son: Well, is there anything else you'd like to do while we're out?


I didn't catch the response, but that painted enough of a picture to scare the hell out of me. I realized sitting there at Discount Tire that I am completely and totally terrified of getting old. This little old man was wearing a WWII veteran's hat. I could tell that once upon a time, you didn't mess with this guy. Once upon a time, this little old man was probably a lot like my own husband. Once upon a time, this little old man had bright eyes, a warm smile, and a kind word. Now? Now he "gets" to run errands with his son and has to be told which way the door is when it's time to go. Now I'm the one with the bright eyes and the smile; the one saying a silent prayer for God to watch after this little old man. I didn't have a kind word today, but I hope my smile helped.


This five-minute snapshot of this man's life overwhelmed me with a dreadful fear. A fear that someday, I'll be wearing an old, tattered Dive Cozumel shirt. I'll be out with Daniel (who will be my dad's age) and some 30-something will look at me and realize that she's scared to death of becoming me. I'm not afraid of 40, 50, or even 70. I'm really not even afraid of 80. What I'm frightened of is what my shell will be like when I get there.