My darling Dad was a wordsmith. He was a master of alliteration, of exaggeration, of pronunciation, of the obscure and the amusing. He loved to refer to himself as "your ag-ed father" with the emphasis on the "ed". His knowledge and adoration of language kept him keen as mustard, even as his body failed him. Right up until the final year of his life, he would read the broadsheet newspaper "The Australian" from cover to cover each day, though his recollection of important events might have become a trifle hazy.
Dad taught me about the joy and brilliance of language. I also have begun to refer to myself as "ag-ed", to honour him and also acknowledge some surprising and not always welcome changes in the second half of my life. I do plan to get my telegram from whichever figurehead is the fearless leader of Australia when I turn a hundred.
Anyway, I digressed. My brain is seriously leading me into unfamiliar territory. Take embarrassment, for example. I have always had difficulty spelling that word, and now I find myself occasionally suffering from it. A first for me. This morning, I was watering the outside pots in my passion killer and ugg boots, as is my practice and I was suddenly overcome by the urge not to display my polka-dotted dressing gown and woolly slippers in full view of the populace. Why? I have opened the Gallery in the same attire and not felt any disquiet about the outfit. Hell, I even made a sale...
So what was my problem? I couldn't fathom this weirdness of my logic until I started thinking about the last couple of weeks. I have been poked, prodded, stabbed and examined. I am still sporting what appear to be small crop circles around my boobs and torso, courtesy of the sticky discs required for recording ECGs. I have been reminded that hospitals are not places of rest and that boredom and fear are everpresent in equal amounts.
The bad news is that I have been referred to as "obese", which is a word I truly dislike. What's wrong with cuddly, round or just fat? Plus, having to stand, repeatedly, on the scales is not my idea of fun. I have also become aware of bits of me that cause pain. Back, neck, knee, wrist, chest, head all take turns to give me the irrits. So far, all the tests and imaging I've had only suggest an overweight and stressed woman with reflux. Bollocks.
I have been told to exercise without causing injury (!) and to lose some of my kilograms.
I suppose I should be grateful for advances in modern medicine. Over the last eighteen months, I have been shown that I do, in fact, have a brain of sorts, an abdomen full of extremely functional organs, and a heart age of fifty-two with no suspect anomalies at all.
A very long time ago, the suggestion was made that I may have "Munchausen's by Proxy" disorder while we were on our voyage of discovery towards Alex's autism diagnosis. So, I am rather sensitive at the merest sniff I may be a hypochondriac. Hence, some vague annoyance as to the causes of a fluttering-bird-in-my-chest sensation and occasional breathlessness. Yesterday, in a fit of pique, I chose to ignore any twinges and accompany Michael on a late afternoon walk with our canine fatheads. Which I very much enjoyed.
Maybe stress is the answer. During another entertaining appointment with our GP, the excellent Doctor Stephanie, she suggested that there may be some correlation between my breathlessness and the stresses I am currently experiencing.
"But why?" I protested, "I've been stressed for my entire adult life!"
"Aah", responded Stephanie, "but you're fifty-nine now...!" Plus she suggested a trial of Somac for reflux and spirometry sometime in the near future.
I rest my case.
PS does anybody else get annoyed with stiff witchy-pooh hairs that cling stubbornly to one's chin?!
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