Midlife Crisis Starts At 38.7

I'm currently 38.7 years old. If I'm average, I'll die when I'm 77.4, the new life expectancy. Even I can do that math -- I have 38.7 more years to live. Which means I am exactly at the middle of my life.

Time for a crisis.

I'm afraid to die. And I'm not alone. Most people fear the unknown, and death is the ultimate mystery.

The thing is, there's no desensitization program for this fear -- it's not like the fear of snakes or fear of flying. You can't pay an expert to help you adjust to the idea, although a Woody Allen marathon might be immersion treatment enough.

The more I'm exposed to death, the less I like it. And yet, what's the alternative? You've heard the saying nothing is certain in life but death and taxes. At least I can pay my taxes on an installment plan. Not so with death.

Or is it? My father inched toward death for months, and my in-laws have been inching toward it for years. They have suffered strokes, broken bones, breathing problems, and with each new ailment they lose a little more mobility, a little more freedom, a little more life. Until, eventually, it will all be gone.

And this is progress?

"People in the United States are living longer than ever," suggest new statistics from the National Center for Health Statistics. In 2002, "death rates decreased for heart disease, stroke, accidents and cancer," the Associated Press reports.

Great. I can last longer without a fully functioning heart, mind or body. Is that living?

Every time my knee pops or my husband coughs, it feels like a preview of arthritis and emphysema. I think about how much worse off we'll be when we're truly fragile. Like when I turn 40.

At dinner, I asked my son what he looks forward to about getting older. Colter, who is 7, said, "Getting a job and earning my own money." What does he fear? "Not having a wife or a little Colter." Translation: he fears loneliness.

And don't we all? Isn't that the worst part of aging? It's the slow peeling away of the Band-Aids we have stuck over the tiny cracks inside of us. It's the revelation of all our frailties and vulnerabilities. Wouldn't it be less painful and more merciful to just remove those bandages quickly, all at once?

I fear that in my old age whoever my son marries will hate me and convince my only child to have me committed somewhere that deprives me of all dignity and desire. I'm afraid I'll be left alone to die for years before my time comes.

Maybe it isn't death that scares me so; maybe it's aging.

Partly, it's because aging is irreversible. Which doesn't mean we can't try to turn back time and recapture what we've lost: our smooth skin, our early romances, our free spirits. Is this why people have midlife crises? It's a short road from buying bifocals to buying BMW roadsters.

I can control my purchases, even as I worry about losing control over my body, my mind, my life. I don't mind caring for Gary, but I hate what he may have to do for me. And I've yet to see a model of growing old gracefully.

Maybe 77.4 is a safe age to die, before the frequent falls, dementia, or terminal television, while there's still time to enjoy a grandchild (if I have one), read the classics -- or even write one, for that matter.

I'm comforted by the thought that I have grown wiser -- though not necessarily smarter -- as I've grown older, and perhaps will yet discover some other way to approach my inevitable decline.

Meanwhile, I know there's no easy or good way to die. But there are many good ways to live. And I plan to spend whatever time remains exploring them.

Julie Moos is a thirtysomething who lives with her husband and son. Her column appears every other Thursday. To read more of her thoughts, visit MomInTheMirror.com.