Josh, I had great Uncle who was diagnosed with it in his late 60's. He died at 96 of a stroke. He and his brother raised hogs, had their own little smokehouse. Every breakfast we all ate least a half pound of bacon before heading out. (The plain white bread and bacon sandwich is the true breakfast of champions.) The other brother had a massive stroke at 63, was given no chance to live. He walked out of the hospital three weeks later, was doing light farm after a couple of months and died in his orchard at the age of 83, ornery as the Devil until the end.
In fact, I knew a man whose first name was Bacon. Same epic lifespan as my great-Uncle's and he had a live arm well into his 80's. You didn't want to ride your bike by his house on a hot summer day and make fun of him sitting on his porch in his drawers, he'd bop you with whatever he had handy. He had a sister who could grow a beard. She lived next to him and was the brains of the outfit.
I exaggerate in some of my tales here, but Bacon and his sister scared the living Hell out every kid who had to go past their houses. You never knew what would set them off, and you sure as heck didn't know what Bacon was throwing that day.