My Latest Obsession? Numbers

I don’t buy lottery tickets or even have a lucky number. Yet I’m obsessed with numbers. What kind of numbers? The age which people die.

It’s morbid, I know.

Numbers. Numbers. Numbers

People back in Biblical times had it easy. The early chapters of Genesis mention people living for nearly 1,000 years. They didn’t have to start worrying about death till they hit 900. By Genesis 6:3, our lifespan was trimmed to a mere 120 years. But that’s still much higher than any of us can expect today.

So I find myself reading obituaries and carefully noting the age of the deceased. If they’re younger than me, I’m sad and wonder about the cause of death. I murmur about the inexplicable mystery of why some people die young.

If the person is older, I count the years they outlived me and cheer their longevity. I read their obituary avidly for insights, hints, and clues about how they made it to such a long life. Good for them! If they can do it, I reason, so can I.

Too Close for Comfort

But the deaths that completely seize my attention are the folks who pass at my exact age: 71. Yikes! That’s too close for comfort. Too personal.

What happened? Was it cancer? A heart attack?

These obits I read with laser focus, like a detective, seeking detailed forensic evidence about their demise.

This sudden numerical obsession is silly and ungracious. I hope it is a passing phase.

Obsession Number Two

It is only rivaled by a second, later-in-life obsession. I call it “Dead Musicians Mania.”

Although not listed in the American Psychiatric Association’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, I suspect that it afflicts many people around my age.

I describe it as both the prolonged mourning that occurs when beloved musicians of our youth die — and the grief felt each time we hear their music. This sensation is greater than nostalgia. It is acute, deep, and painful to the ear and heart.

It’s bad enough that the musicians we love wrinkle and sag. But the fact that they inevitably shed their mortal coil and leave us mourning anew each time a favorite song plays — well that’s just cruel. It’s a nonstop playlist of our own mortality. Who needs that?

Death Durge

The most recent whammies for me were Sly Stone of Sly and the Family Stone and Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys, who passed away within days of each other in June. Both were 82. And to think, I’m still missing Leonard Cohen, who died nine years ago, also at age 82, and Marvin Gaye, who died 41 years ago at age 44, much too young.

One day, I vow I will go through my music collection and weed out all the dead artists, but I’m guessing that would shrink my music collection by three-quarters.

I blame this musical mourning, at least partially, on my parents, may their memories be a blessing. It was their love of old-time Broadway show tunes that drags my music collection toward the Great Beyond, almost to the actual Great Depression.

Meanwhile, to prove that I am not a complete downer and that the eternal beat goes on, my musical tastes are evolving.

I’m a Rapper!

I can now truthfully brag that I listen to hip-hop and rap.

Thanks to the students I work with at the local university’s journalism school, I am decidedly au courant on the latest rappers, who are mercifully young and healthy. So I’ve found some “safe” musical ground! (They are also l-o-u-d, so my geriatric ears can actually hear the lyrics.)

As to the appropriateness of my recent oddball behaviors, I try not to judge myself too harshly. I recognize them for what they are — a way of coping with fear of aging and death.

I recognize I should handle these inevitabilities with greater grace. I know that I should thank God for each day of good health and equally that I should turn to religion, instead of rap, for comfort and solace. Yet for the moment, I’m content(ish) in embracing rhythm, rebellion, and actuarial charts.