What Cancer and Aging Taught Me About the Man in the Mirror
For the past few years, I have not particularly enjoyed the mirror.
Every morning there it was waiting for me while I shaved, offering an unrequested inventory.
Wrinkles.
Worry lines, aptly named.
Gray in the beard.
Less hair, although I have taken control of that particular situation by regularly polishing the dome.
For a while, the mirror felt less like glass and more like a witness for the prosecution.
Then came the cancer battle, the treatments, the changes, and all the little reminders that time had not only passed, it had left fingerprints.
I saw decay.
At least that is what I thought I saw.
Then something changed.
I stopped seeing disgrace in aging.
No, that is not quite right.
I stopped seeing aging as disgrace.
Privilege is not exactly the word either.
Witness may be closer.
I look at my face now and I do not see failure.
I see stories.
The old dogs that walked beside me and eventually decided their work was done.
The family that grew up, spread out, and started building lives of their own.
The choices I made.
Some good.
Some bad.
Some that would make a sailor blush.
The roads traveled.
The moments remembered.
The moments forgotten.
The worry lines earned their name because there really was worry.
The wrinkles came with laughter too.
The gray showed up while I was busy living.
I once thought the mirror was keeping score.
Now I think it was keeping records.
That changed everything.
Age is no longer a judge.
The mirror is no longer a betrayer.
They have become more like old companions who have been around long enough to know most of the story.
I do not have to embrace aging with both arms and write poetry about every creak.
I do not have to sit in the corner reliving what used to be.
Life is too short for that.
I can shave.
Polish the dome.
Check the beard.
Make sure I am still suitable for public consumption.
Then give the fellow in the mirror a little grin.
Old boy, you are coming along nicely.
Now put on your boots and go live the day.
