I’m 55 – well, at the time of writing this post, I am – and it has occurred to me that I am now much closer to the end of my life than I am to my beginning. Those early memories, the vast majority of them, have faded. That memory of being a small child, perhaps two, and visiting my father at his home. Remembering his drum kit. Seeing the nearby church. I can remember it as a vague recollection. I can remember passing the 11+, so I would be sent to the local public school, and the disappointment I felt. I remember being bullied because I was common. I remember that. I remember my first girlfriend’s name, and a few others from that time at school. I remember drinking in a pub called the Victoria when I was perhaps 15. I remember a couple of fights, I remember stealing cars when I was a teenager. I remember incidents, but they are fragments of reality, embellished undoubtedly by my fertile imagination. I’m at the point where much of the stuff I did between the age of 20 to 30, I’ve forgotten. Oh sure, I remember my sons being born, holding them, thinking how wonderful it was to be part of something special. But again, fragments. I can recall some of the terrible stuff I’ve done previously, but not in the same way that I can remember the plot of Fight Club. What I’m trying to say is that everything from the age of perhaps 45 and below, I’m losing track of. I can’t remember. For shame, there are even a couple of women I slept with, a couple I dated, whose names I can’t remember. Before I was married for the second time, I went out on a few dates, but try as I might, I can’t remember where those first dates took place. It’s as though my memory was reset when I turned about 45.
And from then on, those memories I can recall in finer detail. Ten years of memories, more accessibly stored than the 45 years of memories before them.
I don’t want to be morbid, and I know that there are people out there struggling to come to terms with problems far more terrifying and final that a middle-aged man’s grasp of his own mortality, but I am on the way out. Sudden diseases could take a hold. I could drop down dead of a stroke or a heart attack. I could experience something far worse than either of those, things I don’t want to discuss, perhaps for fear of putting a curse on myself. But the thing is, I spent perhaps 30 years of my life just abusing my body with alcohol. I’m a type-1 diabetic, and my doctor tells me that someone who has had that particular disease for as long as I have (38 years) should have more life-threatening complications that I’m currently facing. But it’s all coming together, isn’t it? A closeness to the answer to the most unanswerable question of all.
Earlier this year, I began to write a journal, on each Friday of the week. This came about because I was constantly saying to my wife, “I can’t fucking believe it’s Friday again!” When I began the journal (and I confess that a missed a few weeks, and a lot of what I wrote was boring – “Saw Gary today – I’m more depressed than he is.”), I wrote the date and then “500 Fridays left until I die”. It’s down to 467 now. And it really showed how quickly the remainder of our life can run away from us. From that simple comment, “It’s not Friday again already, is it?” and the associated countdown, I could find myself becoming overwhelmingly depressed, or I could embrace life and enjoy every single day. I try to, but there are so many dreams that are unfulfilled, that will never be fulfilled. I won’t end up writing 50 novels. I haven’t got enough years left in me. Some of the books on my shelves, I haven’t got around to reading, and there’s going to come a point, in the future, where I might look at that shelf and think, “Christ, I’m not going to read all of those books before I die.” I have two sons, and I wish them well, but we’re estranged (let’s just call that my own fault). I’ll never meet any grandchildren, I won’t be able to hold them the same way I held them when they were babies. I won’t ever have a daughter (lots of guys want a daughter – someone to protect). I’m never going to write a fucking bestselling novel, so I’m always going to be a jobbing writer, until I finally cast away the dream and stop writing. And then there are the dreams that were never meant to be fulfilled. I wasn’t able to join the military and fly helicopters. I wasn’t able to get my pilot’s licence and fly my own plane. Diabetes took those dreams from me.
And sometimes depression is dark, and it descends upon me even when all of the bills have been paid, I’ve got petrol in my car, and I can afford to go out for a meal with the missus. And during those periods, I sometimes wish that I just had an off switch attached to my chest, and I could just press it and no longer exist. I can spend hours just mulling over that.
And then when the depression lifts, that’s when I realize. Shit, I’ve only got 467 Fridays left. Let’s have some fun in between each of those Fridays and live life to the fullest, and when Death places his bony finger on my shoulder, I can turn round and tell him, “I’ll be there in a minute, chap. I just need to finish walkin’ me dog.”
And here’s a puppy to make you feel happy.
Shaun Stafford's Putrid Underbelly 