Forty-four
There once was a gal growing old,
Whose body felt terribly cold.
With each creaky wheeze,
She’d laugh with a tease,
“Forty-four is pure gold, I’m told!”
Her lungs may have lost their fine flair,
And solitude seemed quite the scare.
With each little cough,
She’d jokingly scoff,
“At least there’s still some life to spare!”
She’d say with a twinkle so bright,
"Though dark now, I once had some light.
Each breath that I take,
Is one less to make,
But living’s been quite the delight!"
Lately, death occupies my thoughts, influenced undoubtedly by my advancing age and worsening illness. I can clearly feel the progression of both. I’m at a stage where the wear of life becomes palpable, where the body’s decline is felt as a gradual depletion of its vigour. Yet, the particular sharpness of this experience, as I perceive it within myself, remains largely unshared.
My health has become unstable; my lungs are sore, raw, and prone to bleeding. I find myself in a constant pursuit of breath, with lungs that no longer support the promise of longevity. It’s not necessarily a frightening place to be, but is often shepherded by a profound solitude. Nonetheless I am deeply thankful to have lived beyond 40 – an age once uncertain for anyone with cystic fibrosis.
Still and all, this light we live in, live with, it’s great, it should be enough. And it’s there to be cherished. We are all dying all the time. We’re little universes running out of fuel. Each of us. Yet, the luminescence of rebirth and resilience lies in the present – in every moment we inhabit, in all that we are.
That’s how there is warmth out of the darkness.