I don’t enjoy growing old but it beats the alternative

I have been alive for a little short of 25,000 days.

There have been many, many great days and a few bad ones. I always describe myself as lucky and my life, in the main, as charmed.

It’s great to have survived for so long bearing in mind a lymphoma diagnosis 21 years ago and a bone marrow transplant eleven years ago.

You will not be one bit surprised to hear that I like and admire doctors.

But do you know what?

Ageing is very hard.

It’s hard not to be able to do the things I want to. It’s harder still not to be able to do the things I used to do.

My lungs are pretty much bunched. So long walks are out of the question.

I climbed Croagh Patrick once and the Sugar Loaf often, occasionally at the end of a good night in summer, so we could watch the sun rise.

No chance of ever doing that again.

I love New York. But I’ll never get there again. Flying is out of the question.

My hair is gone. My skin is wrinkled.

I cough a lot. I sniffle.

I don’t yet have cocoa going to bed and I don’t yet need help going to the toilet.

And I still get to gigs even if it is, occasionally, a struggle.

In fact, I hope to see Inhaler, Divine Comedy, Mik Pyro, Two Door Cinema Club and Scouting for Girls before Christmas.

But it’s all very bloody hard.

The body is giving up slowly (that’s because it can’t do anything quickly anymore) but the mind keeps pushing on.

For the moment.

Ageing.

I hate it. It’s depressing.

And long may it continue.

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