The Matzo Chronicles: By the Numbers

By Karen Galatz

RENO, Nevada — I don’t buy lottery cards or even have a lucky number. Yet suddenly I’m obsessed with numbers of a particular kind.

What kind? The age people die.

It’s morbid, I know.

People in Biblical times lived a long time — a really long time! The early chapters of Genesis mention living for nearly 1,000 years. Presumably, people didn’t start worrying about death until they hit 900 or so!

But nowadays, we don’t last quite so long. So, I read obituaries “religiously” and carefully note the age of the deceased.

If they’re younger than me, I’m sad and wonder about the cause of death. I murmur about the inexplicable mystery of why some people die young.

If the person is older, I count the years they outlived me and cheer their longevity. I read their obituary avidly for insights, hints, and clues about how they made it to such a long life. Good for them! If they can do it, I “reason,” so can I!

But the deaths that completely seize my attention are the folks who pass at my exact age, 71. Yikes! It’s too close for comfort. Too personal. What happened? Did they have cancer? A heart attack? Those obits I read with laser focus, like a detective, seeking detailed forensic evidence about their demise. I demand precise information — or maybe I don’t. I’m never sure.

This sudden numerical obsession is silly and ungracious. I hope it is — pardon the phrase — a passing phase.

It is only rivaled by a second, late-in-life obsession. I call it “Dead Musicians Mania.” Although not listed in the American Psychiatric Association’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, I suspect it is a common condition afflicting many almost-oldsters.

I describe it as both the prolonged mourning period that occurs when a beloved musician from one’s youth dies, AND the pain felt each time his/her music plays. This sensation is greater than nostalgia. It is acute, deep, and painful to the ear and heart.

It’s bad enough that the musicians we love wrinkle and sag, but that they inevitably shed their mortal coil and leave us mourning them anew each time a favorite song plays … Well, that’s just cruel. It’s worse than running into a hated boyfriend on a bad hair or “fat” day. It’s a non-stop playlist of our own mortality. Who needs that?

One day, I vow I will winnow through my music collection and weed out all the dead artists, but doing so will shrink my music collection by three-quarters!

I blame this, at least partially, on my parents, may they rest in peace. It was their love of old-time Broadway show tunes that drags my music collection to the Great Beyond, almost to the actual Great Depression!

Meanwhile, to prove that I am not a complete Debbie Downer and that life and the eternal Beat goes on, my musical tastes have evolved.

Aurally, I’ve now listen to hip hop and rap.

Thanks to the students I work with at the local university journalism school, I’m decidedly au courant on the latest rappers. And those musicians are mercifully young and healthy. So, I’m on safe, non-mourning musical ground! (They’re also L.O.U.D., so my geriatric ears can hear the lyrics!)

Meanwhile, as to the appropriateness of my recent oddball behaviors, I try not to judge myself too harshly. I recognize them for what they are — a way of coping with fears about aging and death.

I recognize I should handle these inevitabilities with greater grace. I know I should thank Hashem for each day of good health, and equally that I should turn to religion (instead of rap) for comfort and solace. Yet, for the moment, I’m content(ish) embracing rhythm, rebellion, and actuarial charts. Let’s hope it’s a phase, like being an awkward teen rock rebel!

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You can read more of Karen’s work at Muddling through Middle Age or contact her at karen@muddling.me.