Time and Numbers

My dear friend and law partner Paul talk about death.  A lot.  Part of it is because of the nature of what we do -- representing families who've lost relatives -- too often children.  And we both are avid readers of the Herald obits -- we joke that we can't start each of our days before making sure we're not listed there.

The other day we met for breakfast in the Gables, after I saw my regular doc Mary for a chronic sore throat.  She thinks it's post nasal drip causing the irritation, and also an ear infection.  She gave me two rounds of antibiotics, and I still have the annoying symptom, so Tuesday I'm taking my throat in my own hands and seeing my neighbor Brian, an ENT.  Assuming nothing much is going on, I can continue the typical academic discussion about death with Paul.

Paul is 11 years older than I, and has 4 grandkids.  When we started our firm he was 44 and I was 33, so our death talks were morbid, but far off.  Now he's turning 67, and checked the Social Security tables the other day.  They say he has 16 years to go.  Crap getting real, now...

It's a funny thing about those actuarial tables.  I'm 11 years younger, so I should get 27 more years.  Not so fast!  My number is "only" 25, since the statistics show that the older we get, the more things that could have killed us are surpassed.  Even my mother in law, now 92, "gets" 4 more years, according to the tables.  Based on our visit with her yesterday, that seems about accurate -- old suegra don't seem close to leaving this mortal coil anytime soon.

Edna is in town, dealing with some nasty sister business (her sister is psychotic and now homeless in Hollywood), and she spent time dealing with that, to the extent her sister will accept help.  Friday night Wifey and I drove to her Hallandale condo, and Paul and Patricia met us there with a hefty bottle of Stoli, and some granola and chocolate.  We 5 had a nice happy hour, which steeled Edna and I for the next event -- a memorial service for Wifey's friend Linda's boyfriend Jamie -- he killed himself last month.  He was only 43, and his demons chased him off the planet even sooner.

Edna and I concluded that Wifey is making a crucial mistake by being a teetotaler -- she would enjoy life more if she drank with us.  Wifey says she'd rather waste her calories on chocolate.  Not me...

Edna was going to leave today, but we persuaded her to stay.  We have reservations to meet Eric and Dana at our local go-to Italian place -- Salvatore D's.  They're staying near MIA for an early am flight tomorrow to Cuba -- Eric is going with his photo group, wanting to see Cuba before it becomes Ft. Lauderdale.  I assume in many ways it already has.

Still, I plan to celebrate with my dear friends tonight.  Wifey will drive, so Edna and I can enjoy a few martinis before our pasta.  It will lighten the heaviness of our impending mortality -- those damn cold numbers getting more menacing with each year.  For now, though, I choose to focus on the life part of life tables.  I think I may order the osso buco tonight...