Yesterday I accompanied George to a check up by his vascular surgeon. “You’re doing great!” the doctor said. When we got home, George looked at the printout of his CT scan and asked if I wanted to read the details of his body’s losing battle against the effects of age.
“No way!” I told him. Not that I don’t care. It’s just that I grew up believing I was living in the last days. If I avoided enough major transgressions to survive the Apocalypse, I was guaranteed a lifespan of 100 years after which I would be taken up to the Lord in the twinkling of an eye.
I no longer believe that the Rapture (Mormons never call it that) is an alternative to a painful death by stroke, heart failure or cancer. And I really don’t care to keep informed of the progress of death edging its way into my mortal body.
But George likes to know where he stands. According to his CT scan, he has calcification of arteries and degeneration of bones. I guess what his surgeon meant by his cheerful interpretation was, “You’re doing great considering your age and general condition.”