There comes a time in everyone’s life when you hit a certain age and are immediately declared a walking state of emergency by the medical industry. Doesn’t matter how perfectly you eat, how often you exercise, or how good you really feel, you tell your doctor that particular age and he’ll automatically assume you’re about to fall apart at the seams that particular second. While statistics may have some influence on the doctor’s thinking, I have never in my entire life registered on the normal part of the bell curve, so I don’t see any reason to start now. One size doesn’t always fit all. Least of all me.
Now here’s where I’m going to commit social media suicide – I just had my 54th birthday. That’s right, one year away from being able to use the senior menu at Denny’s. I’m sure some of you out there have just had a heart attack. Especially my mother, who’s convinced I’m only 46 because for me to be any older would mean she is, too, and we just can’t have that. Sorry, Mom, but as long as I’m fighting mental health stigmas, fat shaming, and bad writing, I might as well take on ageism, too.
Of course, this may well mean I’ll NEVER get anywhere further than this here blog because an OLD person can’t possibly write anything entertaining or meaningful, let alone sellable, amiright? America is so obsessed with youth, we’re willing to throw away decades of experience, insight, knowledge, and wisdom just because of a number.
As my friends in the UK say: Bugger off, ya wankers!
Seriously, it’s really just a number. No more meaningful than how many politicians claim they’re telling us the truth. As a society, we have rules we all must follow just so we can function. Some of those rules include age requirements because of what the statistics have shown us: must be at least 16 to get a driver’s license, 18 to vote, or 21 to drink. On the average, I understand why we have those kinds of rules. But we all know at least one person who should never be allowed behind the wheel of a car, or in the ballet box or anywhere near alcohol, and their age has nothing to do with it. And then there’s the disconnect of 18-year-olds risking their lives for us in the military, but we can’t buy them a beer to thank them until they’re nearly old enough to retire. Sometimes that broad brush just doesn’t work.
When I turned 30 my friends gave me a surprise party. It included black balloons, sympathy cards, and a headstone on the cake. Everybody kept telling me I didn’t look 30, and I wondered what 30 was supposed to look like.
My 40th birthday was just days after 9/11 so the atmosphere was somewhat somber. But it’s still my best birthday because my husband proposed that day. If you stop living your life normally, the terrorists win.
When my 50th birthday came around, my doctor handed me about four pages worth of tests he wanted me to do. Yup, that’s the age, folks. The big 5 – 0. Your warranty is up, and it’s now time to feed the medical machine. Of course, being female, I had already experienced a variety of embarrassing indignities for the sake of my health. Nothing like being a fat woman with your legs up in the stirrups and a doctor telling you to say “Ahhh” as he turns on the bright light. Not funny, dude. Seriously.
But I quickly found out that there is something in life even worse than comedic gynecologists. It’s called intestinal prep and you get to chug it before a colonoscopy. Saying it tastes like warm phlegm would be a compliment. And there’s a gallon of it. Don’t believe them when they tell you it will taste better chilled – they lie. Every fifteen minutes you have to down a cup of the stuff until it’s gone. Within about thirty minutes, your toilet will be your best friend for the night. Forget the book, take a pillow – you won’t be able to concentrate well enough to recite your name, let alone read. The stuff does what it’s meant to do with great enthusiasm. After three days of modified diet, clear liquids, and the prep, you’ll be looking forward to the test just for the sedatives. And it is definitely a case of the prep being far worst than the test.
But, when the time comes, GO TAKE THE FUCKING TEST! My husband had to have a colonoscopy as part of finding out why he was so anemic. Besides the source of his blood loss, they also found polyps – the type that would have become cancerous in a few more years. A day of prep – miserable. An hour under sedation – whatever, duuuude… A life without cancer – priceless! And I hear the prep solution is getting better. My husband was at least able to add about a pound of Crystal Light Lemonade to each cup of solution to help it go down. I guess he’s cuter than me, because the nurses never gave me that option. Bitches…
So I spent Monday in medical facilities getting my annual tests done and some pre-op stuff for the cataract surgery next month. I proved I’m not really a full vampire because I didn’t burst into flames under sunlight and the EKG actually showed a perfectly functioning heart. Also, the vampires at the lab got some very nice red blood out of my arm. Then my “vast tracks of land” were smooshed into pancakes and irradiated just to prove no aliens were in development. I may be a silver-haired obese depressive, but there are people half my age that would kill for my test results.
Still not on the bell curve. Take that, ya wankers!