Celebrating Eighty-Four Years

As I approach my 84th birthday, I find myself reflecting on the 30,681 days that I’ve lived. It’s a substantial amount of time by any measure, and while I’m aware of its significance, I’m equally grateful for the active life I continue to lead.
I am fortunate to still be on my feet, walking around 56,000 steps each week (roughly 28 miles), managing our finances, and frequently going on trips. My latest health checkup, which included a blood test, EKG, and physical examination, returned positive results. My doctor confirmed that I am in good health, despite being fifteen pounds overweight, something that seems inevitable after 84 years of enjoying three meals a day.
Yet, despite this good news, I am acutely aware that 84 years is still 84 years. Anything used daily for that long inevitably begins to wear out, function less effectively, or even fails entirely. It’s essential for me to prepare both myself and my family for the day when one or more of my organs decide to “take a dirt nap.” While I aspire to reach one hundred, I realistically acknowledge the improbability of that goal, especially considering that I have already surpassed the average American male’s life expectancy.
Back in 1941, my expected lifespan was 63 years. If I were born this year (2025), I would likely be projected to live 79.4 years. So, yes, I am keenly aware that I am living on borrowed—or perhaps stolen—time.
As a Christian, I believe that God has predetermined the moment my “Mission Complete” journey will end. It is my responsibility, however, to make the most of the life He has granted me. My goal is to do as much good as possible and to enjoy my remaining days with friends, family, and traveling.
This introspection was prompted by an event a few weeks ago. Like many seasoned citizens, I woke up in the middle of the night and stumbled to the bathroom to expel the liquids I had consumed during the day. While attempting to rise from the “throne,” I found myself struggling to stand—a first for me. After several attempts, I finally managed to get up, only to crash to the floor, creating quite a commotion in the bathroom.
My wife, alerted by the noise, rushed to my aid. She bandaged the gash on the back of my head, caused by the shower stall, and helped me back to bed. It didn’t take long for me to realize that my old nemesis, Vertigo, had resurfaced, intent on causing me harm. By the next morning, the vertigo was gone, and I felt fine, but it left behind a lingering doubt about my longevity.
So here I am, contemplating my future, uncertain of how many days I have left but hopeful that there are many. I know I need to get things in order, prepare for the inevitable, and remain determined to enjoy whatever time remains. I have faced death before and am not afraid of it, although I am in no hurry for it to visit me again anytime soon.
This reflection brings to mind an inscription on a tombstone that reads, “I always knew that everyone died, but I thought I would be the exception.” Only one person made it out alive—Jesus—and the rest of us will have to wait until He returns.
If life were a football game and I were making my final drive to the goal line, I would now be on perhaps the fifteen-yard line with less than two minutes left. This is where I call “Timeout” and make plans for the final push into the endzone. This should include informing those I care about of their importance to me and helping as many people as possible on their journey.
There is a sign in my computer room that reads, “When we get to the end of our lives together, the house we had, the cars we drove, the things we possessed won’t matter. What will matter is that I had you and you had me.” That sign should have included friends and family because of the profound impact they have had on my life.
In closing, I want to echo a quote by John Lennon: “Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.” John got exactly right, but preparing for the endgame is an entirely different challenge.
So here I am, raising a glass, making a toast, hoping that I’m here this time next year ❤️🎂…Tommy