I lay on the table in the radiology department, awaiting a scan, and idly chatting with the technician.
“Seems like, since I turned 50, it’s one thing after another,” I remarked.
I was being a bit dramatic. I’d had a few curious symptoms, and this was just part of the diagnostic process.
“Oh, it all started for me when I turned 40,” the technician replied.
Well, that shut me up.
Now that I’m older than 65, I often think back to that moment, when I first connected age to physical decline. Luckily, it has not been all downhill since then. It only feels like that sometimes.
When I went to see my primary care provider recently, I had not one, but three complaints: a blocked ear, a rash on my leg and a sore wrist. This visit closely followed an emergency trip to the optometrist, after I suddenly saw flashing lights dancing outside my right eye.
None of these complaints was life-threatening. The rash is gone, I can hear again and the vitreous detachment causing the light show has safely healed up. I’m still waiting to see a wrist specialist, but here I am typing away.
Still, I find it hard to avoid the thought that this old machine is just wearing out.
I do firmly believe in the mind-body connection, so I’m sure this kind of negative musing is counterproductive — i.e., it’s aging me.
I have tried to cheer myself up by acknowledging that I only have two prescriptions — and those are for dry-eye drops and a dental rinse. That is not bad for an old gal.
Also, though I definitely did wear out my knees, there are two new ones in place. I’m coming up to the one-year anniversary on the right one, which is now nearly perfect. I’m still a bit stiff in the early morning on the left knee, which was replaced six months ago. I’m not complaining. I am thrilled to be walking normally again and grateful there was a solution for my problem.
But the greatest attitude adjustment I have found is in the distant past. I remind myself that health issues are nothing new for me.
I picture myself at age 8, at the nurse’s “office” at the Village School in Somerset, Massachusetts. It was really just a space at the back of the stage. I am sitting on a cot with my head back, a cloth pressed to my bleeding nose. This would be a curse that would follow me into young adulthood. Once, in college, I had to squirm my way out of a crowded lecture hall to get to a bathroom, no easy feat.
As a teen, I had cystic acne so severe it required me to see a dermatologist, which, believe me, was a big deal back then.
In college, I developed allergies to acidic foods, such as oranges and tomatoes. I would break out in horrible hives that might swell my eyes and/or mouth.
For years, I suffered from premenstrual syndrome, or PMS, and accompanying migraines, which caused me to miss work. I celebrated when Advil became available over the counter. I could live again. Sort of.
In my 50s, I had to have carpal tunnel surgery on both wrists (not at the same time), and at exactly 59, a bunionectomy. Oh, and somewhere in that decade I developed a nodule on my thyroid that required a biopsy (negative) and regular visits to the endocrinologist for a while.
Despite this litany of complaints, I did — do — consider myself a relatively healthy person. For one thing, I’m an optimist. Also, I’ve had no cancer. My blood pressure and cholesterol levels are low. I don’t have heart disease or diabetes. I still have my tonsils, adenoids and appendix.
Plus, I try to be healthy. I have followed the advice of Dr. Andrew Weil, the guru of mind-body medicine, for years. Olive oil, fish and broccoli became regular parts of my diet. I did yoga and meditated. I walked daily.
There is something that happens when an American turns 65, though. You have to register for Medicare. I didn’t feel aged on my birthday. I went to the Coastal Maine Botanical Gardens in Boothbay and trotted among the blooms all day to celebrate the event. But signing up for Medicare — even though I didn’t have to use it because I was still working — made me growl. It made me feel old.
I’m determined not to interpret every minor health issue as a sign of impending decrepitude.
Not that I’m sticking my head in the sand. I’m going to worry more about a chest cold now than I did at 35. It could turn into pneumonia.
But then I think about the eve of my wedding. My hairstylist lifted my tresses and said, “Ooh, look at that gray underneath there.” I was 29.
It soothes me to think I was never a perfect specimen.
Sometimes I imagine myself standing in front of a mall map that says, “You are here.”
I’m not sure, at 65-plus, exactly what that means, but it’s a good thing.
After all, I might be a little creaky in the early morning, but when I go to the mirror, there’s not a pimple in sight.
Liz Soares welcomes email at lizzie621@icloud.com.
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