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It occurred to me recently that, nicely embarked upon my ninth decade, I am a man of all my parts. I have been mercifully spared the need for implants, transplants, bypasses, or replacements. In fact, almost nothing has been added to the original package. It’s true that I have endured two or three removals of bits and pieces over those years, but everything still inside or attached to me is my own.

Friends sometimes tell me how fortunate I am to have my hair, how lucky to have my own teeth, how blessed to have retained the hips and knees I was born with, and all my fingers and toes. And I always assure them that I do not take any of it lightly.

Although I need occasional assistance from a walking stick now, and do require eyeglasses for reading and writing, I have no need of hearing aids. My ears function well enough still to allow me to hear everything I choose to hear.

If I were a manufactured product, my label would probably read: Proudly made in 1943! No substitute parts. Mind you, there might also be a Best Before date, but never mind.

There can be no doubt, however, that my original parts have suffered a goodly amount of wear and tear over the intervening years.

My memory remains tip-top, both long-term and short-term. But admittedly, things that happened a good while ago are not recalled as sharply or as accurately as they might be; nevertheless, they are not forgotten. I may be guilty in the eyes of some for having a selective memory, but not a sloppy one.

Brain function, as best I can self-determine by using that brain, has not eroded to any significant degree. Reaction time—the ability to respond in a timely manner to stimuli, especially of the unexpected type—is somewhat less than it once was, but I have so far eluded onrushing juggernauts of whatever sort.

The supple muscles that always allowed me to cavort with abandon on so many fields of play have now stiffened, and they respond to my frequent stretching endeavours with painful protest. Alas, the skin that covers them has not contracted to the same degree, and now seems to hang loosely in places where once it was tight.

Gravity wins, apparently.

And speaking of skin, I find mine is now dotted all over my body with blotches, blemishes, and scaly eruptions my annoying dermatologist likes to call barnacles or carbuncles. My skin even bleeds occasionally for no apparent reason, and when I look at my hands, I see my father’s.

The strong bones I’ve ever taken for granted, which have never broken despite numerous tumbles and collisions on those same playing fields, are more brittle now, according to my physician, who has prescribed medication to offset mild osteoporosis. I no longer choose to jump down from a footstool; in fact, I rarely ever step up on a footstool now. Discretion has always been the better part of valor, after all.

I still walk a fair bit, but more slowly now. When accompanied by my wife, I often feel like the late Queen’s prince consort, doggedly trailing a few steps behind. When I speed up to catch up, momentum takes over, making me fear I’m about to pitch forward into a face-plant.

My face certainly has no need for that! I reckon it has received a hundred stitches or more during my lifetime, most from sporting endeavours, some from a head-on vehicle collision I was involved in. The earliest of these were the old, black thread type, worn almost as badges of honour, like dueling scars; the more recent were the dissolving type. And once or twice, I’ve had facial cuts glued back together.

On one long-ago occasion, I was bemoaning the ravages of the latest sewing job, and a teammate said, “Don’t sweat it, Ace! With that face, you’re not going anywhere, anyway!”

At least there was no visible scarring left behind, although the same can’t be said for my torso, where those removals I referred to earlier took place. I was opened on two different occasions—‘from stem to gudgeon’, as my mother phrased it—and I bear shiny, white scars in a capital I shape, running from just below my breastbone to just above…well, you know. Those scars don’t really bother me, not now, although I rarely take off my shirt in public.

Which is just as well, I suppose, because there was never a great demand for me to do so, even before the surgeries.

To my chagrin, the seventy-one inches of height I enjoyed during my all-too-brief prime have shrunk; either that, or I stand with a slight stoop now. Still and all, even with the depredations of aging, virtually nothing has been added to my body—save, perhaps, for a few pounds which I try to carry well. Not for me the ‘chest at rest’ my father used to joke about in his later years.

In Ecclesiastes, we are cautioned: …vanity of vanities; all is vanity. And there is some truth to that, I suppose. It is the rare person among us who can pass a mirror without at least a sidelong glance—and I am not that person. But it has come as quite a shock to see, when I do sneak a peek, an old man staring back at me.

“Are you really me?” I murmured silently on a recent occasion.

And the old man replied, “Yes I am! But don’t despair, because all of this is you. And despite what you think, a great deal has been added to your original package.”

“Only the years,” I sighed resignedly, “and the number of yesterdays.”

“And tomorrows,” the old man declared. “Don’t forget the tomorrows that are yet to be added! And don’t discount the experiences you’ve already accumulated. You are a part of all you have met!”

As I gazed reflectively at the old man, listening to his buoyant assurances, I realized there was indeed something else he was adding: an unshakable conviction that the best is yet to come.

And for that, and for however long it lasts, I’m grateful.