I received word today that a friend died after a month-long fight with a virulent form of pneumonia. When someone has been so seriously ill, death sometimes arrives as a blessed relief. But along with the sad news, I found myself forced to face a reality.

I am soon to celebrate my 70th birthday, the same age as my friend, who was taken by a disease that should have been easy to treat. A girlhood companion, also my age, died a month ago after a hellish number of years living with Alzheimer's disease.

Suddenly my birthday looms with dread, rather than the joy of previous birthdays. I've always looked forward to marking another year, as the occasion brought cards, phone calls, and gifts from friends and family. I considered it my own special day, a time to celebrate life—but now it seems less welcome.

Now, instead of being thankful, I find myself fearful. How many years are left to me? Will my mind stay whole, or will it crumble bit by bit until nothing worthwhile is left? What lies ahead in this decade? Will I face heart problems, a hip replacement, or a fatal disease? Those thoughts come occasionally, only to flee and then return.

"Age is only a number." "You're as young as you feel."

Those clichés sound good when you have decades ahead. Some days I believe them. Other times I find myself shaking my head and muttering sarcastically, Some 30-year-old must have coined those phrases.

I'm aware of aging signs every time I stand before a mirror. I see gray hair and deep wrinkles etched from my mouth onto my chin, as well as under my eyes. Visible veins and more wrinkles cover the backs of both hands. Sometimes I hide them in my lap. I watch the hands of my bridge pals as they deal, shuffle, and play the cards. Most resemble my own, but that doesn't always console me. We make jokes about our changing appearance. Laughter lights our faces and brings that youthful sparkle back to our eyes. I resolve to laugh often.

My metabolism seems to delight in slowing itself further each year. My mouth takes in the same amount of food, allowing the pounds to stretch my clothes to the max. Where's the magic pill that will speed my metabolic rate to that of a youth?

I tire more easily. Climbing stairs sometimes leaves me breathless. My muscle tone is not what it once was, so you'll find no sleeveless fashions in my wardrobe. Cellulite and spider veins cover my thighs. Bathing-suit days should be a thing of the past, but a cool pool on a hot day still calls out to me.

My memory isn't too bad, but sometimes I need to concentrate a little more when trying to recall things. Names escape me, but eventually they light up like neon signs in my brain, bringing a sense of relief. "Did it!" becomes my personal but silent mantra with each memory success.

I read magazines that give tips on improving memory and I try the exercises they suggest. My morning crossword puzzle challenges my mind just as the experts who write the articles suggest. I wonder how old those writers are. Are they my age or young enough to be my grandchildren?

Because I'm a writer, I worry that my work may not be taken seriously once I hit 70. Will my essays be passé? I sincerely hope not, but the thought sprints to the front of my mind now and then. Will the younger people in my writers group consider me an old lady? No, I tell myself. They're my friends and they know the real me, the one that hides under all the signs of my years.

Several years ago, some friends were traveling in England. A host of the B&B where they stayed spoke about the vacationers who come in the winter.

"Ah," he said. "In winter we get the Wrinklies and the Crumblies."

When my friends asked for an explanation, he answered, "Wrinklies are pensioners in their 70s and Crumblies are those in their 80s."

And now here I am, almost a Wrinkly. But hey, I've got a whole 10 years of living to do before I'm a Crumbly. So maybe I'll have a joyous celebration of my 70th, after all. Inside, I'm still that slim redhead with a bundle of energy. I still have the desire and stamina to travel and live to the fullest.

Besides that, I have a lot more stories to write. If I follow the maxim to "write what you know," I've lived long enough to know a great deal, which means plenty of stories ahead. This new age is going to be just fine.

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