When I am old, will I have nothing but the accomplishments of my children to keep me distracted as the end approaches? Will I get lost in fierce competition, playing the deeds of separate personalities with my last name against the claims other parents make of their spawn? Or will I have my own interests, be able to adjust to declining abilities, and carry on professionally until I cannot? Will I die working, like Altman, or Thompson, or, well, Charles Whitman?
How strange it must be for a 90-year old to pay bills, make a grocery list, plan Christmas presents in October.
To wake up in the morning.
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