I’ve been writing this post for almost 25 years. Sure, I’ve been known to procrastinate, but that isn’t the case this time. No, this post has been – just like me – a work in progress. You see, I’m turning 70 at the end of the month (please act surprised) and that’s a daunting milestone for most folks, but for me, 70 has been the Demogorgon shadowing me since my mother died in 2002 – at the age of… yes, 70.

I was 45 when I lost both of my parents. Correction – they weren’t lost – they were stolen by cancer. My father was 79 – not a bad run – but my mother was only 70. And I’ve carried around a chip – more like a cinderblock some days –  on my shoulder about it for a very long time. Even after all these years, it’s still an automatic equation I do in my head when I come across an obituary – how many years longer did that person live than my mother. Grief math is real and it’s even more painful than Algebra 2. It made me resentful for a very long time, but I’m grateful for some good friends whose own losses have helped mollify my perspective over the years. Like my friend Maryanne who was five years old when her mother died at 35 – unfathomable. And Jen who was only 21 when her mother died in a car accident when she was 53. By the way, both of these women grew up to be extraordinary mothers – which seems just right.

Look, I know I’m not special – well, maybe to a few people – lots of folks surpass the age at which a parent died. And for many, just like me, it is a landmark event that makes you scrutinize your own life more intensely. It’s a bit like taking a selfie from a low angle and it’s not always a pretty picture.

I thought that my overwhelming feeling about reaching the age at which my mother died would be relief – I made it. I wasn’t prepared for the existential dread of it all. It began the first of the year with sudden waves of sadness and anxiety. I could feel myself missing my mother more than usual – a physical longing to be in her presence again. And I started revisiting her illness and death in ways I had not done in a long time – vivid images of her beautiful face wincing from the hideous pain that was strangling her. I’ve been so lucky over the years that when I see my mother in my dreams she is never sick. I mean my dreams are not always the gauzy fluff Hallmark movies are made of – sometimes she’s cranky and we argue, but she is beautiful and well.

It took me a while to realize that part of my anxiety was the reality of facing my own mortality. In the haunting lyrics of the late great John Prine – I am an old woman. Me! Sweet suffering Jesus, how did that happen? And even with my superpower of denial, I couldn’t hide from my angst because it seems like every other person I know turned 70 this year. I guess that makes sense. I’m on a group text chain with about 10 women I went to high school with – including two I’ve known since elementary school. The group doesn’t overshare and usually just chimes in for birthdays, news of grandchildren, and more so in the past few years – illness and death. Two of the women in the chain have been widowed recently and more than a few have had some serious health issues. One of my closest friends from the group was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s a couple of years ago. That one shattered me. She’s no longer able to participate in the group chat, but her husband checks in with us now and again to give us updates – and a whole hell of a lot of perspective on living.

So there have been a lot of sweet and funny 70^th birthday wishes and memes being exchanged this year. I think I’m the last to go and I hope I can still find the messages amusing. It’s a diverse group of women – we certainly don’t all align politically and I’m the only gay in the village – but we share a unique history. We have known each other through braces and acne and weddings and funerals. And it is a great comfort to me to still be connected with people who knew my parents.

My mother was big on birthdays and everyone in our gang looked forward to my party every year. To be fair, I think their enthusiasm had more to do with my mother’s amazing crème puffs than me, but it was always a fun day. My last birthday with my mother was spent in the hospital at her bedside. She had been put on a course of steroids and was feeling downright perky – not gorked out on morphine as she was for so much of her last months. A friend brought a beautiful box of pastries to her room, and she was able to eat a bit. It wasn’t my best birthday, but I will always be thankful for the gift of her full and pain-free presence that day.

Even my esthetician, Chagit, turned 70 last month. I’ve known her for longer than either of us can remember, and I think of her foremost as a friend – not the person who gives me bitchin eyebrows every month. Fortunately for me, she’s great at both. Like my high school mates we have been through a lot together – like turning 50. We have laughed ourselves silly about how we totally freaked out all those years ago about what we thought was a milestone. If we make it to 80, I’m sure we’ll still be laughing about it. We’ve both gotten older, but oh, so much wiser. Just ask us.

As my birthday draws closer, I’ve been thinking a lot about my life – especially my regrets. I have plenty of them and for the record, I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t. A life without regret is one without reflection. I have a long list of minor ones – like not learning to play the piano and those tragic perms I got in the 80s – and a shorter one that often haunts me – the one that includes things I’ve done that hurt people I deeply loved.

Author Ann Patchett beautifully captures my relationship with regrets in her novel Tom Lake when she writes, “We remember the people we hurt so much more clearly than the people who hurt us.” I am grateful that I remember. Regrets are phantom scars that never quite fully fade away. I think that’s a good thing. They remind us of when we needed to be better – and I hope I have been.

And here’s a little inside elder wisdom for you – don’t fret too much about those people who hurt you. In my experience, karma has been stealth but highly efficient. Patience, Grasshopper – and stay on the high road.

Lately, I’ve also been thinking about legacy. My dear friend Sue who has been an “other” mother to me for a long time, turns 84 later this year and she asked me to help write her obituary. Sue is in good health for the most part, but she’s a lifelong educator and has her lesson plans in order in all phases of her life. She’s accomplished quite a lot in that life and it’s hard to condense it into the standard obit template. Working on this task has made me think about what I would want people to remember about me. Sue doesn’t know this, but she has helped me write my own obituary. She sent me a beautiful birthday card a few years ago that still sits on my desk. The front of the card features an image of poet Amanda Gorman above the words Be the Light. Inside the card, Sue wrote some lovely things to me, but one sentence stood me still and I revisit it like a touchstone on days when those regrets get the best of me.

“I doubt that you have seldom met a person or cause that you did not embrace in one form or another.”

That’s it. That’s my obit. And it’s enough, but I do hope you don’t see it anytime soon.

My mother’s mother lived to be 90. Go figure – no Fitbit and steeping vegetables in bacon fat served my grandmother well. I can’t recall her ever talking about being old, but I do remember being at her house and watching Neil Armstrong  walk on the moon. That was in July of 1969 – a few months before she turned 70. My family were all upstairs asleep – Grandma and I were the only ones who had stayed up late. We sat on the couch together in the dark watching the grainy coverage and when Armstrong took his one giant leap for mankind, my grandmother shook her head and softly said, “I never thought I’d see the day.” I think that’s how I’ve felt about turning 70 for a very long time. I’m not a fatalist at all – I just couldn’t imagine what living longer than my mother would look like. I’ve never been great with maps or directions, and I will soon be entering unchartered territory. I guess I’m lucky I have so many good folks a wee bit ahead of me on the trail. I hope they drop a few Werther’s from their pockets along the way to guide me.

I thought long and hard about how I wanted to celebrate this biggie birthday. The last thing I wanted was a party – too loud, too much. I knew I wanted to be near water – close to nature and far away from the madding crowd. It’s a bit tricky because my birthday falls at the end of summer when it is still beastly hot where I live. And to know me, is to know that if I’m hot, ain’t nobody happy. So, if all goes well, I’ll be on the rugged coast of northern California on a deck that hangs over the Pacific – wearing a hoodie and holding an Olivia Pope sized glass of red wine. I’ll be with my dear wife, my beloved sister and my best friend from college – who, of course, also turned 70 this year. Her brother – her best friend – died last year. He was 72. I can do the math, but I detest it.

The consistently wise Anne Lamott wrote an essay for The Washington Post a few years ago on the occasion of her 70^th birthday and said, “I think I am only 57, but the paperwork does not back this up.” I would say neither do the knees, but here we are. And I’ll take it with abundant gratitude – and maybe if I’m lucky, a crème puff or two.