CELEBRATE

[schlomo]

Celebrate

Whenever I go to the ER because of too much buildup of ammonia, I become delirious—at least that’s what my wife tells me, I however, don’t remember anything either about the calamitous onset at home or the continued havoc at the ER. My inability to recall unpleasant events since childhood occurs quite frequently. For years, my relatives like to talk about how I repeatedly ran away when my mother tried to discipline me—it took a long time for her to catch me. Another whopping example supposedly involved my grandmother. Every time my parents visited her, I greeted her with kicks to her shins. I guess it’s only human nature to blot out traumatic experiences, according to many psychological studies. But it is frustrating at times to accept other people’s version of events, especially when it sheds an unflattering light or bleak scenario. Nonetheless, I am grateful that I can remember as much as I do—the good, the bad and the ugly—at the age of 81. Being elderly can be a curse or a blessing. We octogenarians can choose to make our lives a heaven or a hell. Although it is tempting to complain about my illnesses, my default is a gracious smile, not a catastrophic scowl. Give me melons, not melancholia.