Dead at 61

I TORE THE MINISCUS on my left knee in my sleep. Yeah, in my sleep. The ortho said that this was not uncommon for someone my age. Yeah, my age. I’m 61. People die at age 61.

Ernest Hemingway killed himself, as did Anthony Bourdain–at 61. Infamous mobster John Gotti died of throat cancer while Ma Barker died in a shoot-out. Benito Mussolini was also shot to death. At 61.

I turned 61 last March and I now wonder if the coronavirus might do me in. Or walking up the stairs. Or pizza. Now, it’s my stupid knee. I tried to tough it out, but it was way painful. I’m scheduled for surgery tomorrow. Will I live to see 62?

According to the Bible I’m worthless. Let me re-phrase that: I’m worth less. In the Old Testament, the worth of a man or woman dedicated to God was based on how much work could be expected from them. At age 59 my worth was 50 shekels, a full month’s wages. Alas, I’m now only valued at 15 shekels–for the second year in a row! I can sense feebleness starting to set in with senility not far behind, then, of course, my heart attack.

Am I going to slow down? No! Am I ready to retire? No! Retirement is not Biblical. My hope is to work as unto the Lord until, well, I can’t anymore, 15-shekel man or not.