Ten More Times

I have made the decision to return to writing daily. Why, you ask? Because I’m uncertain how much longer I have the luxury of doing so. At the ripe age of 73, while in admirable health and among the few septuagenarians who remain blissfully free of prescription medications, I find myself pondering the passage of time. Just the other day, I found myself sitting before my computer, staring blankly at an Excel spreadsheet, feeling like a fool, unable to focus for what felt like an eternity.

In my earlier years, I carved out a distinct niche for myself in the business world as an underwriter. I took the bold step of assuming insurance risks by underwriting large groups of  people for healthcare coverage, as well as for other forms of insurance. I set myself apart by leveraging data in ways that others couldn’t fathom.

My affinity for games and technology has always been a defining part of me. I was an early adopter, purchasing one of the first home computers, the Commodore 64, and diving into business applications like VisiCalc, one of the pioneering spreadsheet programs. The hum of technology and the allure of data have always been my companions, guiding my journey through the world of business and beyond.

Long before many of my peers even realized these tools existed, I had not only discovered them but also mastered their programming. With their help, I could deftly select winning horses at the racetracks and confidently place bets on parlay cards with bookies in those earlier days. These tools weren’t just for gambling, though; they revolutionized my work in the insurance industry. They transformed countless tedious manual calculations, those endless sums we used to wrestle with on adding machines and calculators, into seamless automated processes.

Over the years, I had penned tens of thousands of formulas within spreadsheet cells, and yet, here I was, at an impasse. Sitting in front of my computer, I intended to craft a simple formula to assess just how drastically horse racing wagering revenue had declined over the past two decades. I had diligently copied and pasted all the necessary data from the Jockey Club’s publicly available records, but now I sat there, perplexed and uncertain. It was baffling that I couldn’t recall the initial command to inscribe a formula into a cell, especially when this was a task I had performed tens of thousands of times over the past 50 years. How could something so familiar suddenly feel so elusive?

Eventually, I threw in the towel on recalling that straightforward command and turned to Google AI for help, asking how to write the formula. Naturally, the AI reminded me to start with the (= sign). It was unnerving, to say the least. Part of me was relieved to have a solution, but another part of me felt uneasy relying on AI for something so basic. It was a strangely unsettling moment, trust me.

Epiphanies come in all forms, manifesting in unexpected ways and at surprising moments. Such was the case for me, living in the rolling hills of Kentucky at the age of 73. The landscape, with its lush green pastures and gentle, undulating terrain, seemed to whisper secrets of life’s truths. It was amidst this serene beauty that I found myself reflecting on the years gone by, the choices made, and the wisdom gleaned from a lifetime of experiences, and I started to wonder what I was going to forget next.

Recently, my old goat and racehorse companion, yes literally a goat, had passed away at age 16, leaving me with a mix of nostalgia and sadness. Then my best buddy and friend, a black lab named Prince, also died, nearly shattering my heart into pieces. As if that wasn’t enough, after living with us for a while my youngest daughter Sabrina, her husband, their 3-year-old, and their newborn baby decided to move back to Minnesota. I found myself torn between happiness for their new chapter and a horrible ache of missing them. Then old friends and Minnesota neighbors came to visit, and Bill shared his newly published book about his battle with cancer and belief in God, filling me with admiration yet reminding me of life’s fragility. Shortly thereafter, our oldest granddaughter Kali visited with her husband and close friends, bringing joy but also a reminder of how much time had passed since we had seen them. Lastly, we were blessed with the opportunity to watch two of our youngest grandchildren when daughter Brianna and her husband attended a wedding in Nashville, leaving me grateful yet overwhelmed by the constant ebb and flow of emotions.

These seemingly unrelated events all unfolded over the span of two months, yet they intertwined in a way that deeply challenged my usual mindset. On one hand, I found myself pondering whether I would see some of these people again or how many more opportunities I’d have to express my love for them. It seemed like a foolish notion for someone like me, who typically shunned emotional displays, but it lingered persistently in my thoughts. On the other hand, my emotional shortcomings always had me grappling with the realization that there were countless things I had neglected to give or say. The struggle between my usual detachment and these newfound introspections was a constant tug at my conscience.

In my typical fashion as the overly analytical data specialist I had evolved into, I couldn’t help but dive into calculations. At the ripe age of 73, I found myself defying the odds, aware that only about a third of my high school companions were still journeying through life. Meanwhile, our move to the rolling hills of Kentucky six years back had introduced a new chapter as our daughter Tara and her family were settled nearby, but the majority of our relatives and longtime friends remained scattered across the familiar, snow-dusted landscapes of Wisconsin and Minnesota, where memories were etched into the frozen ground.

With a typical life expectancy of 78, we likely had only 5 to 7 years remaining, a thought both grounding and unsettling. We are reasonably healthy now, though my wife narrowly escaped a severe cancer diagnosis just 2 years ago, courageously recovering from ovarian and abdominal cancer. Yet, as I calculated, I realized we might only see some of my cherished relatives and friends perhaps 10 more times, if we are fortunate. This realization is both sobering and oddly motivating, especially as I notice some of my memories and logic seem to be fading.

So, I may get 10 more face-to-face visits with the people I cherish most, but what do I really have to share with them that matters? It’s both amusing and troubling to think about all the things I’ve wanted to say, while I also struggle to remember the lessons I’ve tried to impart. I am torn between the urgency to convey my thoughts and the fear of forgetting them entirely.

I pondered these thoughts as I wandered to the basement and pulled out files, pictures and books I have stored there. As I sat there, lost in contemplation, a sudden wave of determination washed over me. I refused to let the weight of uncertainty and impending forgetfulness crush my spirit. If time was indeed slipping through my fingers like grains of sand, then I would make every moment count. With renewed vigor, I opened a new document on my computer and began to type “Ten More Times”.