About two years ago, I was hired into a new job with a Very Large Corporation. I knew my work well; I was simply moving from employer to employer more or less laterally -- but for better pay, QOL (quality-of-life), and in order to return to my home city. Lucky me!
Although much of my work is outside the office setting, I was assigned to a desk in a cellblock ... er, cubicle ... with coworkers. One of these colleagues was a 78-year old, frail-looking man with silver hair, kind eyes, and a speech impediment. Let's call him Johnny.
Johnny became a great friend and mentor to me, as I learned the internecine ways of Very Large Corporation. We became neighbors when I rented a house near his. We talked about my kid, his kids, our dogs -- and we talked an awful lot about politics, though sotto voce, adjacent cellblocks being full of dittoheads and Randians.
I felt I had come to know Johnny well, though I never got a straight answer to this simple question: "Why don't you just retire, Johnny?"
None of my other coworkers -- who had known Johnny for much longer than I -- seemed to have an answer to this mystery, either.
I figured it out on my own finally, just a few days ago -- when I met Johnny's widow for the first time.
Jump over the orange whifferdill and I will explain.
You see, Johnny actually had retired once, almost twenty years ago. He had been a professional in a once prestigious and remunerative occupation, but one that had a mandatory retirement age of 60. (I'll leave you to guess the profession.) Johnny, though, was a youngish and vigorous 60, and he loved his profession. He found a way to continue in his industry by working for a training organization, and eventually for the training department of Very Large Corporation.
It was a good fit -- the job for him, and he for the job. His clients and colleagues were fond of him. The pay was fair, the benefits were generous. And best of all for Johnny, there would be no mandatory retirement age; he could continue working as long as he wanted, or for as long as he was able.
And then, about ten years ago, Johnny noticed a lump at the back of his mouth. At first, it didn't bother him much, but there came a day when he realized he was having trouble swallowing. From the doctors came the devastating diagnosis: cancer. Then came the devastating treatments.
Johnny told me that there was a time he wasn't sure he wanted to survive his treatment for cancer, but survive it he did -- though diminished. He had lost much tissue and bone to surgery and radiation. He had lost the ability to eat solid food. He had lost the ability to speak clearly or loudly. He had lost weight and vigor. None of these things would ever be restored to him.
What was left to Johnny? A wife whom he adored, who was his strength and comfort. Children. A sense of humor and a curious intellect. His financial health. His good job and great benefits. He was going to be living on borrowed time, but he and his wife believed each new day was a bonus.
In the short time I knew Johnny, I watched him grow more frail month by month. He couldn't gain, or even maintain, weight on the liquid diet. Recently, he had to resume using a feeding tube (much against his wishes!). His beautiful straight posture began to sag. He grew winded more often, had more trouble making himself understood. If I was at my desk, he sometimes handed me his phone so I could be his voice. It was clear to all of us that he would soon be unable to work.
We didn't ask him, but we all wondered: "Why don't you just retire?"
Wasn't it time for him to enjoy his beautiful home and gentle wife, and good friends, and his books, and his email correspondences, and the concerts he might still attend, and the letters to the editor he might still write, and the politics he enjoyed following, and the museum he loved so much, and all the other things outside of work that made his life rich and pleasurable?
Last Monday, Johnny and I were at our desks all day. He had a computer issue that was frustrating him, and ended up on the phone with the IT Help Desk. This meant I ended up on the phone with the Help Desk, speaking for Johnny. By the end of the day, I could see Johnny was exhausted. We were both vexed by our unproductive day. We left the building separately, he to pick up his wife somewhere, a prospect which seemed to cheer him up.
At 9AM the following morning, Johnny died of a pulmonary embolism.
As his wife said, "He died with his boots on!" Maybe a better death for him than lingering at home or in hospice; maybe this was indeed the death he wanted. Maybe this is why he never retired.
Or maybe he wanted to retire, and spend his time watching the sun set over the lake and the mountains, with his wife and his dog by his side -- instead of sitting at a gray steel desk in a gray steel cubicle, relying on someone else to do the simplest, stupidest things for him, like talking on the phone.
I met Johnny's widow a few days ago, for the first time. A lovely lady. And twenty years younger than Johnny; which is to say: not yet old enough for Medicare.
So yeah. I think I figured it out.
My friend Johnny couldn't retire.
I share this story with you because Johnny was fiercely liberal in all things, and he wouldn't mind. And he'd join me in saying: Fuck you, Paul Ryan -- and that other stiff on the ticket with you.
9:46 AM PT: Kossacks, I am stunned to find my diary at the top of the Rec List this morning. While this is immensely gratifying to me, it means even more to know how many of you send your good wishes to Johnny and to his widow. Thank you so much.
For my part, I'll be thinking of all of you -- and your relatives, friends, and colleagues -- who are hitting the work-retirement-healthcare wall yourselves. (And, until things change, we are ALL facing this predicament.)
You've written astute and thoughtful comments below, and I'll try to respond.
8:59 PM PT: A final update to thank you all again for reading my little elegy for Johnny.
So many of you below shared your own stories of struggling with -- or being buried by -- health care needs and costs. The conversation here only confirms for me that health care REMAINS the biggest social and economic problem of our American era.
I wish you all good health until we fix things for our children and grandchildren.