I learned in my hospice work that in the end,  people see their lives as a story, perhaps a series of stories.

That’s what make our lives meaningful, I think, and we know of no other living thing that sees its life as a story.

A story has a beginning, a middle and an end, it is marked by highlights and important memories, the most important ups and downs. Mostly dying people wonder if their life had meaning.

In a story, things happen. We exist beyond ourselves, a very difficult life may be meaningful, a simple life may be shallow, even empty.

At the edge of life, people would often take my hand, or look at one of my dogs, and say “I had a good life, I was a good father,” or “my life was difficult, but I loved every moment of it,” or “nothing in my life compared to my years fighting in World War II. My life never  had more meaning.” They all had a story to tell about themselves, they all wanted to tell the story of their lives.

“Being mortal, “writes the author Atul Gawande, ” is about the struggle to cope with the constraints of our biology, with the limits set by genes and cells and flesh and bone.” It is also about a time when people stop wanting to hear your story. That has not happened to me.

It is generally not possible for the young to know what it means to be mortal, because they are  not yet struggling with the constraints of biology, or the siren lure of modern medicine, which often lulls the aging into believing they can live normally and in control for many years into the future. Medicine suggests it can do that, life has other ideas.

As people age, they lose  track of their stories, and the culture around them no longer sees them as having stories worth telling. Many live in a twilight state, caught between the cruel promise of modern medicine and the struggles of mortality. Hospice and medicine both teach that there is no simple or easy way to die. But there are good and bad deaths. Too many deaths take too long and have no purpose.

I am weary of hearing the horror stories of children who fight in every which way to keep their parents alive forever and then complain bitterly about the toll it takes on their own lives. More and more, I respect the people who take the trouble to think about how and when they will die and take control of it. It is not easy to do.

My struggle with biology is more dramatic than I once imagined, but  not especially severe.

I have two chronic diseases, diabetes and heart disease. I had open  heart surgery and my diabetes is very much under control.  During my surgery, I believe I left my body and was reborn, I saw it and remember it still. I have begun life anew.

Still, medications, doctors appointments and visits to the pharmacy are an integral part of my life now, I manage it all but it does not define me, and I hope it never will. I do not do old talk.

I am sorry to see people in line every time I go who can not afford the cost of the medicines they are told to take because politicians have lost the will or the decency to control pharmaceutical and insurance companies.

In our society, to be old and creative can be especially challenging, bit by bit, the elderly become invisible in popular culture, supplanted, as perhaps is just, by new voices and ideas.  They are happy to take money from old people, but otherwise make them as invisible as possible.

We have to stay sharp to survive, and our story is marked by rebirths and comebacks, that is a part of the American story as well. I’ve already had a few, and am planning another shortly.

it is difficult not to become cynical or angry when I see what happens to people who are mortal. Mortality is one thing, ageing is another.  I feel I am just now learning how to live, how to write, how to teach. In a very important sense, my life is just beginning, I finally know enough to begin to live it.

For me, mortality is not about dying, at least not yet, but accepting what it is I can do and what it is I can’t do with grace and strength. It’s still an  intellectual exercise for me I can do almost everything I need and want to do. Open heart surgery was very good for me it made me healthier perhaps than I have ever been. I am beginning to be old, but not yet there.

Today, I sat out on the red rocking chair out under the apple tree with Red and listen to Paul Simon’s new album “Stranger To Stranger” on my Iphone as the gentle wind blew through the pasture and over the corn fields. I loved sitting out there, watching the deer on the horizon and the baby rabbits chasing each other through the marsh. Paul Simon is an inspiration to me.

Paul Simon feels like an old friend, he is in his 70’s, I’ve been listening to him ever since I was a teenager. His new work is lovely, touching, funny, wise and lyrical. And experimental. Simon is always changing growing, learning new instruments, drawing from different cultures, taking chances. He could sit still or rest on his laurels, but he does not. I won’t either.

It was just beautiful so sit out there with Red, two old dogs, their fur getting ruffled by the Spring wind, listening to Simon’s beautiful music once again. He is no longer a great singer, but is very much a great musician and song writer. How wonderful, I thought, how lucky,  to be a writer, where your voice or hairline or iron muscles or what you wear just doesn’t matter much to anyone.

I loved Simon’s new music, especially, his “Insomnia Lullaby,” where he asks God to spare  him another long night with the moon. Being mortal is to understand what that song means without asking. Simon knows where he is in this album, but also just keeps on going, and going strong. His songs are full of feeling and empathy.

He has no intention of retiring and seems to just get smarter and more creative. That is his story, and I hope, my story. That is what I want, to do the best I can for as long as I can. That story has just begun.