Timor mortis conturbat me

This past week, as my sister observed to me, was not fun.
It’s been good seeing her and my mum, mum’s partner and her kids (who are friends of mine) but too much work moving boxes, packing, unpacking, helping mum with other stuff to be relaxing or enjoyable (lifting boxes of books is Hard Work). And the stress of seeing Mum weary and tired and not in the best health (though she has improved a lot in the excellent assisted-living facility she now occupies).
It was productive, though: We got almost everything shipped, moved to her house or donated, and none of us have to feel we were sharper than a serpent’s tooth.
The week also touched upon both my past and my present. The past in the form of all the photos mum has of her younger self, my dad in his younger days, their friends, their parents. The letter from J. Edgar Hoover to my great grandmother on the FBI’s failure to find one of my great-uncles (we never knew what happened to him after he went to the US). My Grandad’s letter to Granny worrying she was getting cold feet about the wedding. Intellectually I know all my relatives were people with lives that weren’t defined by being my relatives, but it’s still a surprise to see the proof.
There’s also the odds and ends I brought back with me. A half-million-year-old rock. A 1931 book on household management that includes advice on letter-writing, calling cards (if you arrive at a house on a day other than the mistress’ “at home day,” it’s not a lie if the servants tell you she’s not at home), coping with smallpox and making sheep’s head soup (no, it’s not a metaphor).
And then there’s the future. Or the possible future, the unsettling thought that as our parents are now (I know from discussion I wasn’t the only one with this thought) so we will be in time.
It’s more complicated than that, of course. A lot of their health issues are not hereditary. And I know I do things such as eating healthy, exercising and not smoking that my mother did not.
But I don’t know how much that makes a difference and how much Mum (and her partner) suffer just from age and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to. And I could certainly come down with my own individual non-hereditary issues by the time I approach her age.
So maybe I’ll wind up with as heavy a regimen medicine and as limited a physical capacity. I’ve no way to tell, and I find the possibility a scary one.
On the plus side, it’s a lot less scary now that I have TYG. Life is so much more wonderful with her around, not only supporting me when I feel stressed or worried, but just being there. With her in my life, I can look at the future and feel confident that whatever happens, it’s going to be worth living.