Let's begin with some eternal truths. We experience ageing as we age because we never would have coped with the realities of ageing when we are young. Ageing is all about developing unpleasant maladies we'd rather passed us by. I never considered, in my wildest dreams, discussing my bowels openly. Plus, I fart just like Mum. Who knew that farting could be hereditary? We check ourselves for skin cancers, most of which turn out to be "senile" spots. Beautiful. Upon waking pain-free, I assume I have carked it during the night.
Even worse is the horrifying fact that we are turning into our parents in other ways. Remember shuddering at their conversations that revolved around medical appointments or their latest health issues? Becoming obsessed with thoughts of the next meal? Or wandering into a room holding a particular item, with no idea of purpose. Leaving in disgust and then remembering. The irksome task of thinking when putting down keys, or purse, or phone or list.
I am caught by the curse of the bloody list. I need lists for shopping, errands, prescriptions and important dates. Even if I'm just venturing up the main drag. And woe betides if I lose the current list...
Take the last couple of weeks for example. I dislike discomfort of any sort. The presence of pain definitely cramps my style. And slows me down. Both of which are not part of my plan. So when I began to experience tiredness beyond the call of duty and weirdly placed sharpness in my chest and upper right tummy, I was not amused. Initially, I justified my symptoms as part of being old, fat and probably post-menopausal. Blood tests all came back normal(ish), even my long-suffering liver. A trip to Beverley Hospital last week was damned inconvenient as we were in the middle of reorganising the Gallery. Sent off for a date with a CAT scan, I waited with bated breath for the conclusions.
Monday afternoon, I visited the local GP for the results, who I had previously seen whilst beset with chest pain. I figured that if I was having a heart attack, driving seventy kilometres to our usual doctor was not a great idea. Which is how I ended up in Beverley Hospital for an afternoon, boobs on display, machines that went "ping" and a cannula in my elbow. Ouch.
The CAT scan revealed that I am in rude health, at least within my entire abdomen. I even have a "grossly normal uterus", (uber-boring) but at least I have been given another delicious phrase that I shall have to tuck away for future reference. And that I am, astoundingly, in pretty good shape for an old bag of fifty-nine.
The closest guess that the GP should summon was that I had suffered a particularly nasty bout of reflux. Joy. He suggested Gaviscon if this occurred again. Fabulous, more bloody medication.
So then I turned my thoughts to other possible causes for fatigue. Duh. Take our sleeping arrangements, for example. We sleep with two dogs between us for starters. Stella is proud of her chief guard dog status and lets us know with both barrels if a flea is moving outside. However, she is also responsible for removing those who would stop for a fag on our bench seat outside, so we are loath to quieten her enthusiasm. Pip is the main purveyor of nocturnal noise, through his snoring, reverse sneezing, hacking or general grunting. Due to his advanced years, he has redeveloped appalling breath in spite of our best efforts to feed him vet-supplied "dental" kibble. So, if his cacophony doesn't drive us mad, then the awful smell being emitted from his mouth will surely cause our poisoning in due course.
Michael is not the heaviest of sleepers at the best of times and both his reflux and his somewhat bizarre and active mind cause wakefulness during the wee small hour. Due to my extremely efficient central heating system, I can also spend long periods throwing off or pulling up the bedclothes. No wonder we often suffer from Failure to Launch come daylight hours.
On top of all this, I think of us as the living epitome of a three-ringed circus. Drama is never far away. Apart from my sojourns to medical establishments, Michael has been given the rounds of the kitchen by Stephanie, our straight-shooting GP. The good news is that Michael's liver hasn't konked out yet. The bad news is that he has been told that this organ of his has been releasing copious amounts of enzymes to illustrate its unhappiness.
Michael should quit drinking altogether, however that is not likely to happen. Ordered to cut down, not guzzle and not drink after I've gone to bed has definitely slowed his consumption. After distorted thinking on and off for years, Michael has decided he would really like to stick around and has finally discarded with his death wish intentions. And his hand is definitely allowing him to work again, so his good humour is more on display.
Our Autistic Superstar Alex has just been diagnosed with a nasty condition called bronchiectasis to add further excitement in his life. This means his airways may have permanently widened, leading to chronic productive cough, shortness of breath and chest pain. Oh goody.
On top of this, his lovely GP mistakenly referred him to a respiratory specialist who we believe nearly killed Michael back in 2014. Alex has had his fair share of specialists who can't relate to him at all, and this geezer was going to be another disaster. Plus, I could never trust this quack to be involved enough with Alex's care.
After another disturbed night, I rang Alex and his GP and the situation was swiftly resolved. Alex has a new referral to Scott Claxton - who we know well and trust. The bad news is that Scott is in such demand that Alex's appointment with him isn't until May. The good news is that I have never told Scott to piss off, or words to that effect, a phrase I aimed with furious intent at that other ineffectual doctor nearly seven years ago.
The usual suspect of financial insecurity also adds to our stress. I try not to worry, as anxiety about monetary matters is pointless as we can't change our circumstances. Mostly, I succeed at banishing those midnight mental conniptions, but every now and again, I can't help myself and sacrifice a decent sleep to mull over our current cash crisis.
Enough gloom and doom. Surely, there are positives to ageing. Absolutely. There is no way I'd like to return to a fifteen-year-old body or twenty-five-year-old energy. Or a perpetually boring and anxious thirty-five-year-old. Even forty-five was not that crash hot as I was embroiled in a disastrous love affair with the Sicilian sociopath. As I approach sixty, I am endlessly grateful for the experience of ageing. My sense of humour continues to broaden. My curiosity has grown and my appetite for knowledge has ballooned. I am much more confident in myself and my opinions. I am definitely not tolerant of fools or bullies. I choose to believe the best of all those I meet unless proven otherwise. And, as Front-of-House in the East End Gallery, I enjoy giving a warm greeting, a smile or a compliment to our guests.
When my parents aged, there were times I found their existence stupefyingly dull. Misery was often my mother's greatest companion. As a Difficult Woman, her friendships could be fleeting and she thrived on the chaos within the family. She ended up being very lonely, mostly due to her own actions. For me, family and friends are vital to remaining engaged and curious and tolerant. Relationships remind me to listen to everybody's stories. In order to be interesting, we all need to strive to be interested.
I am hopeful I still have relevance to the kids and they don't consider us to be too ancient yet. Michael and I know we still surprise each other, often with hilarious results. Brilliant.
So eat the cake. Have the glass of vino. Enjoy a cappuccino. Spend the day in jarmies. Wear a frock or favourite shirt for the hell of it. Find passion. Search for a tribe. Be open to different beliefs and values. Seek out joy.
I happen to be really lucky. I am married to my best friend. That doesn't mean we don't annoy or upset each other sometimes. However, we both genuinely want each other to be happy. Doesn't get much better than that, does it?
Here are a few of those I care about -
No comments:
Post a Comment