Maybe Even 70

By
Connell F. Persico

"I'm increasing your Lipitor dosage," was the message on the voice mail. That began this conversation I have with myself. The one no one wants to have with me.

I need to talk out loud about a certain end at a certain time. I am okay with talking about it. I need to engage the mysteries of death if I am to continue to revel in the awe and wonderment of my life. There will be an end. It will be sooner rather than later. I know that now.

But the conversation never gets held. When I last raised the topic with a colleague, she said, "My father had a heart attack at 50 and lived to be 90. Why are you so pessimistic? Have you tried Chinese herbs?" The time before that, another friend said, "HMO doctors are prone to misdiagnosis. There is nothing wrong with you." Everyone wants to believe in forever. Everyone knows that no one knows with certainty when they will die.

I don't disagree. I want to believe I will live at least to 80 and maybe forever. But gnawing at me is the unexpected satisfaction of having made 61 and the humble hope I will make it to 65 – or maybe even 70. Both my dad and his mom made it to 58, my uncles died in their early sixties, and they are my blood line. Already I hold the longevity record, but only as a result of the medical profession. My first heart attack was at 40. My second, and first triple bypass surgery, were at 43. My second triple bypass was at 55.

I'm not a fatalist. Nor a complainer. But I need to speak about my condition and its implications. I rarely think about these matters. I'm more often thinking about my next road trip with my brother, or the 4th of July in Palm Springs or kissing Clay when he gets home. But when this recognition of mortality demands attention (as it will and does), I need to obey and acknowledge (albeit with sadness) its power and authority. Recognizing that each day brings me closer to my end keeps me focused and setting priorities. Obeying drives out depression and giving up.

I don't consider myself an advocate of Western medicine and its reliance on pills. My cat has a homeopathic veterinarian, for god's sake. But when logic, that thought process I depend on to sort out mysteries, leads me to inevitable conclusions, I follow. Blood pressure for example. If it is high it's bad for anyone. If it's high for me it could be fatal fast. Every half year since my second bypass, my cardiologist has increased my blood pressure medications so now I take the maximum effective doses of blockers and inhibitors. These meds say on the label "Don't stop taking these or you could die." For a time after each increase, I have to decide I haven't failed, I have to stop the tears, and I have to create another new plan for improvement.

The most drastic improvement was stepping down from a job I loved. During my two examinations since this change, my blood pressure was in the normal range. I am sure one of these visits my doc will begin to reduce my dosage.

So, this call from him about Lipitor, apart from sending my blood pressure soaring, triggered that sense of failure and that childish begging of god to be better to me. You know, there is still that part of me that believes if I do everything I am supposed to, I will be rewarded. I've been working so hard to do everything right (I lost weight, increased my exercise regimen, reduced all my bad stressors), I began to believe I might beat the odds. Then come these moments of fresh realization that I have a compromised heart and being good may just not be good enough. I have to struggle not to hate me.

For my cardiologist, it was simple and unrelated to my progress. A new study showed 70 as a "magic number" for bad cholesterol. Get below that number, the risk of a heart attack significantly reduces. I'm at 83. So even though I am down from 91 over the past six months, he wants to increase the Lipitor prescription to the maximum effective dose and retest. If that doesn't work, we add in another medication. Though I want to scream, I'll do what I am told. I don't want to take the risk. Besides there is evidence and I want some truths in my life.

It's reasonable that I hope for 65, and maybe even 70. I've begun to structure my life that way. The way we have set up our finances insures my partner and I can live quite comfortably until I am 70. Should I live longer, someone will have to provide for me. I'm not worried. That would happen.

There are still a lot of places I want to see and I have to go now if I am going to get to most of them. I spend as much time with friends as they can tolerate. I want no sadness wishing I had done more of the things I wanted to do.

I don't talk out loud about any of this. I'm the only one who wants to talk about it. All the taboos we carry, all the parts of us we are afraid of, all the self we dislike, once talked about, get integrated and lose their power to control. I need to talk about it.

Everyone else wants me to live forever. So do I. They know there is no certainty. So do I. The evidence suggests I've got 5 to 10 years to go. I have no need to argue. They do.

I hope for 65, and maybe even 70. But even more, I hope medical research continues to find new ways to prolong life. Especially my life. Please.