Editor’s Note: Marlow mined some marvelous territory the other day. It stirred hm to look through some recollective writings from not-so-long-ago in his series “Life and Island Times.” The thoughts he shares are common to those Boomers tipping over into unknown territory. It is a strange land, isn’t it?
– Vic

Author’s Note: Here is something I drafted back in 2014 but never shared beyond a few folks. After my last piece, I thought I’d share it again.
– Marlow

Life and Island Times

September 17, 2014

What If Men Knew

What if men knew they would likely live only until their 60s? Average life expectancy for Americans (77 years for males) seemingly reassures us that this is not something to worry about, since these numbers seem to say that is untrue that most men die before their 60s.

Life expectancy, however, does not mean “average age at death,” and the latter is where you see a startling difference. The average age at death for an American male is 68.

Perhaps averages are the wrong conceptual tool for this kind of question. But, what mortality data shows is that at almost all ages, men are more likely than women to die. That greater likelihood should interest us men. It is impossible to tell from the data when the difference steepens, but it is apparent that it increases as males age.

If men knew they would likely live only until their 60’s, would/should/could they save for retirement? Or go full-on carpe diem? Would they save their earnings, so in case they became unemployed they could use them? While none of us knows when they might die, it seemed prudent to me to save and invest money when and as much as I could.

When my fellow boomer males were in their 20’s, our generation’s motto seemed to be “Live fast, die young and leave a good-looking body.” I thought as far back as 16 years of age, that I would likely only make it to 30. Regardless, I hedged by saving and investing.

Well, I turned 65 awhile back — nonplused that I had made it this far but not so sure about the rainy-day emphasis in my life. Many things I had deferred if not outright foresworn: vacations, new cars, friendships, moments . . . Pity.

Now my friends had started to become feeble, disease ridden or die . . . one dear 67-year-old shipmate is in the end stages of a cancer that only flared up in the past twelve months. While grief stricken, this has made me reflect on growing old. While I always believed that youth ended in one’s mid to late 30s, I never succumbed to the melancholy and midlife crises that so many of my contemporaries fell victim to in their 40s and 50s.

By my 60s, I had begun to appreciate life more, cherish those around me, and begin to see who and what were good for me. And the not-so-good. Time and friends became as precious as they were long ago during my childhood.

For most of my previous life I had placed the highest value on knowing everything about everything and figuring out what was currently unknown. My rediscovered sense of what was truly important felt akin to saying goodbye to old restraints but came with being bound to savor every moment. Things no longer had to make sense. It just did not matter anymore if I died without figuring everything out.

It was now my responsibility to love life and those around me. When I walked down the street, it was an obligation to take pleasure in what he saw and help those in need. Living and giving.

So it was, so it became, and so it shall be.

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