And, of course, before dying, most of us will become old, a process aptly described as not for sissies: wracking pain. Dementia so severe we can’t recognize our children. Cat food for dinner. Forced retirement. Colostomy bags. Muscles that no longer listen to our commands, organs that betray us, children who ignore us. Mostly that aching sense that just when we finally grow up and learn to like ourselves and to love and play, the shadows lengthen. There is so little time.
