Birthdays are bittersweet for me. I am fortunate to be alive and strong, and alert. But let’s be honest, the closer you get to the end of life, the more seriously you take it. I don’t dread dying. I dread living poorly.

I can’t help but remember the time after my divorce when I realized I had no insurance or other money to leave Maria. Over her objections (she said she didn’t want or need my money), I contacted a life insurance policy and tried to buy $50,000 in life insurance.

I grew up in a middle-class and virulently sexist family; men were expected to make provisions for their families when they died. Women were considered weak and helpless to care for themselves without their husbands. And they were given few opportunities to do so.

My father refused any insurance for his family, mostly out of pure spite, and my mother never forgave him for it. It was a measure of his contempt for her that he disregarded one of the sacred customs he otherwise followed. Middle-class Jewish men all had life insurance.

My father and mother had no love for one another, but I still thought his was a selfish and creepy decision.

The insurance company rejected my application. I tried once more with a different company, but they also declined. At the time, I was in denial,  not seeing medical doctors and getting no treatment for my heart or diabetes. I was lucky to be alive.

The actuaries said men my age with heart disease and diabetes were not generally expected to live past 75, so I was a lousy risk since I was getting no treatment.

As the time come for another birthday, I have accepted the fact – rejoiced in fact – that Maria can and will take care of herself when I die, but still, I feel guilty and uneasy about not leaving her a lot of money when I go. Doing good is not financially rewarding.

I do have two chronic diseases, yet I feel strong and healthy. Both are closely monitored and thoroughly.

Something will kill all of us, and I have no control over it. I do have control over how I live, and I love my life and will do whatever I can to keep it. I take stock on a birthday; it’s a natural place to stop and measure one’s life.

Tuesday is my 76th birthday, and I’ve already squeezed past the likely deadline for my passing. I’m not sure what to make of it. I never thought I’d get this far, yet I feel strong and vital and expect to be around for a while. My doctors say I am in good health. Take that, insurance people.

The truth is, I like being older.  Old age is something to accept with grace, not necessarily celebration.

I was awful at being young; I wasted almost all of it in drama, fear, anger, and endless mistakes. I didn’t learn much; my teachers and father thought I was hopeless, and so did I. As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to appreciate myself more and more. I am learning to listen and learn, not just talk and scramble.

I know I am smart, I am doing some good, and I know I am taking steps to be better all the time.

I am determined to leave the world in a better place than I found it, mostly in small ways. Raising money to get refugee children into college and change their lives is an excellent way to do that. I expect to do more.

Showing up at the Mansion to talk with and help the extreme elderly is another good way. Doing good feels good, and I do good often enough to feel good most of the time, even as my body slowly and gradually weakens.

I don’t wish to fear my death. I fear living badly. I hope to live my life right up to the last minute.

One thing I love about my aging is my lust for change and discovery. I love taking those flower pictures, and I love getting better at it all of the time. That, said a doctor friend, is how you know you are very much alive.

Maria often snaps me out of my occasionally melancholic music with direct Long Island wisdom: “I love your birthday,” she said, “because it marks your birth, and without your birth, you wouldn’t be  here to share your life with me and love me.”

Wow, I thought this woman knows how to love and get to the bottom of things. She is ever practical.

She said I seemed low tonight; time to figure out where I wanted to be taken out, either for breakfast, dinner, or lunch—no philosophizing or meandering there.

I have until morning to decide, not whether but where.

I have, at long last, found love and treasure it.

I am where I want to be; I want nothing more than what I have and need nothing more than I have.

I get to write what I want every time I want, every day I want. What bliss.  I’ve added photography to my list of loves. It’s a growing list.

In a world full of anger, grievance, division,  cruelty, and greed, I am not angry, have no complaints, and am never consciously cruel (except occasionally when provoked by rude strangers online). I never tell anyone else what to believe or do, and I have too little money to be greedy.

I am proud of all of those things.

That is a good birthday message for me. It feels solid, promising, and even moral.

No matter what happens in the future, over which I have no control, or the past, which has little meaning, I have gotten myself into a good and meaningful place.

That is perhaps one of the best birthday gifts I have ever had or could have.

Happy birthday, me.