Fading

Today is Holocaust Remembrance Day, and I made this photograph of the Portland sky at dusk. It reminds me of the Mark Rothko paintings in the Rothko Chapel in Houston. (His paintings are actually much lighter in color than they appear in photographs, as they reflect the light coming through skylights in the ceiling. I went to that chapel numerous times when I lived in the Houston area.)

It was my day to meet Margie, but it was 36F/2C. We felt it was too cold to sit outdoors (and not safe to sit indoors), so we talked on the phone. I think of her as my mentor in aging, as she confides in me what it’s like to be 95, given that each of us ages differently according to our DNA and our life experience. Margie tells me she feels she is “fading.” 

“You know how you feel when you’re falling asleep?” she asked me this morning. “When you’re a little detached from it all, drifting toward another place, not in a dream yet, but not in the place we call reality?”

Yes, I said, I think I know what you mean.

“It’s actually a pleasant place to be. I think some people pay money for drugs that give them this feeling. I’m not fighting it, not afraid of it, but I notice that I spend more time in that in-between place than anywhere else these days. I can read or listen to the news or something, but five minutes later I don’t remember what I just read or heard, and I’m letting it go. I think some people fight to hold on, but I’m not doing that. I’m letting myself fade and drift like clouds in the sky. Do you think that’s age-appropriate behavior?”

I told her I don’t know. I haven’t been 95, so I’m depending on her to tell me. She laughed,

“Well then, I’m telling you. I’m fading out, gently and quietly, and I think it’s OK to fade when you’ve had a life this long, and you’re grateful for it all. Now tell me what you’re doing and reading. I won’t remember, but I like to hear about it.”