What's My Age Again?

This “getting older” stuff is the pits.  I’ve reached the age where when I see someone take a tumble on TV, I immediately think of how much that would hurt before I realize how funny it is to see someone fall.  And I should clarify that seeing actors fall is funny because it’s staged and it’s fake...seeing people in real life fall is not...real people actually do get hurt.  Chris Farley falling through a table used to have me in stitches, but I see it now and I think to myself, “he could have gotten a chunk of wood right in his eye!  Or his liver!!”  But then the sense of humor kicks in and it’s funny and I’m no longer thinking about chunks of wood in his eye...or his liver.  I notice aches and pains more and my first response is that there’s something wrong.  I never used to have aches or pains so it must mean I need to go to the doctor to be checked out.  I asked Simon the other day if he ever has random, unexplained aches and pain, and he looked at me like I was crazy and said, “Yeah...all the time.”  So it’s not just me.  It’s normal to have aches and pains because I’m getting older.  I get that part.  But then of course my mind just can’t let it go and I have to obsess over what is a “normal” ache and pain and what is an “abnormal” ache and pain.  And there’s really no answer to that because everyone is different.  So I sit here with my aches and my pains, trying to trace them back to a specific injury or incident.  Sometimes I can, sometimes I can’t.  Sometimes I’ll ache for a few days and then it’ll be gone all together...sometimes replaced by a new one, sometimes not.  Frequently I don’t even realize that the first ache has disappeared until the new one shows up.  And part of this whole obsession with aches and pains is my irrational fear of cancer.  I guess this day and age it’s not really an irrational fear, but thinking that every ache and pain is somehow connected to some underlying cancer is somewhat irrational.  I just don’t want to be one of those people that ignores the signs, you know?  Like the person who had the stomach pain for three months and never went to the doctor, or the person who finds a lump or a bump and just thinks it’s a mosquito bite, or the mole that wasn’t there before.  I try not to think about those things too much because it’ll drive me crazy, but I also want to be proactive.  If there’s something big and ugly going on, I want to catch it when it’s little.  But...I can’t spend my life trying to prevent something that might not even happen in the first place.  

It doesn’t help that all this breast cancer awareness stuff has got me constantly thinking about how awful it would be to get it.  Every time I see one of those pink ribbons on something I try to remember the last time I did an exam, and did I actually take the time to do it right.  It makes me paranoid.  Maybe I should just have an elective bilateral mastectomy and be done with it.  But then I would be paranoid about something else so it’s best just to keep them around for time being.  When I was younger, I remember hearing that my grandma had had breast cancer and that she had to have one of her breasts removed.  I found that to be really confusing because Grandma always had two boobs.  There must have been some mistake.  This was of course when I was too young to know about implants or prosthetics. Then came the day when I stopped in to visit her unannounced and she was still in her nightgown, and the missing boob on her frail little frame was so very evident of her struggle with cancer that it brings tears to my eyes just to think about it.  To think about getting the diagnosis in the first place, to weighing her options for treatment, to knowing that she was losing part of what it is to be a woman.  Thinking about how she always wore that little prosthesis makes me sad.  Did she wear it for herself or did she wear it for everyone else?  Maybe it was a little of both.  When I start spiraling out of control with all this cancer stuff, I try to take a step back and think about something else.  Like shopping...or how much I hate picking up dog poop...or how I would love to eat chocolate chip cookies every day (oh wait, I already do that)...or how badly I’m going to beat Ellen in our next bike race...or getting another tattoo...or being in my best friend’s wedding.  There are so many things to think about that I shouldn’t waste my time with cancer.      

Back in the day, November 2nd, to be exact, I was born with a bum hip.  It was remedied and I remember going to see an orthopedic doctor here and there when I was a kid.  I honestly don’t even remember which hip is the bad one because I don’t remember having issues with either one.  My last orthopedic visit was when I was around 9 years old, and about the only thing I remember from the visit was the doctor saying that there was a good possibility that I would need to have my hip replaced by the time I turned 40 because the joint was going to be more vulnerable to arthritis.  I remember that 40 wasn’t even a real age to me at that point.  My parents weren’t even 40 then.  40 was so OLD.  40 is 8 years away for me.  40 is not old.  To this day I still don’t know which hip is the bad one.  My parents don’t even remember.  I like to think that it’s the right one because if either hip ever gives me any trouble, it’s usually that one.  But it’s so infrequent and so minor that I don’t really think about it.  I don’t like taking care of hip surgery patients in the hospital because it makes me think about how that’s going to be me someday (well, that and you move them the wrong way and the new hip joint pops out and they have to go back to surgery to get it put back in).  Well, it’s going to be a lot of people someday, but I know that it’ll for sure be me.  But then I think about my Grandpa and how well he motored around after having both of his hips replaced...he was like a new man.  When I think about him and what he went through with his hips, it makes me hopeful that I’ll be able to have the same positive result.  

I’m also sad to report that the dietary changes with age are starting to catch up to me.  I used to be able to pound 2 pint glasses of milk back-to-back with no issues.  I love milk.  My family loves milk.  When my brothers and I were still living at home, our family easily went through 6 gallons of milk a week.  We were a milk drinking family.  Simon has always been disturbed by the amount of milk I can drink, and you can about imagine his reaction when my whole family sits down together with our giant glasses of milk in front of us.  He would sit there and watch me with a look of disgust on his face as I would drink two full glasses of milk in a row.  And it’s not that he doesn’t like milk, but the thought of drinking that much milk makes him ill.  His sister is probably gagging right now as she reads this...she doesn’t like milk at all.  Simon’s mom is lactose intolerant, so when I hang out with the Webers, I usually have to bring my own milk along...hahaha!  And then I gross them out as I drink glass after glass of it.  But lately things have started to change.  I can’t drink 2 glasses back to back anymore.  Believe me, I’ve tried.  I get about halfway through that second glass and I start feeling really sick to my stomach.  I know it’s not a volume issue, it’s a milk issue, and that makes me sad (side note: the reason you can’t drink a gallon of milk in an hour is not because of the volume, it’s because the lactose makes you sick).  There have been a few times when I’ve made an error in judgement and have gone back for a refill, Simon calmly watching me and saying softly, “you’re going to get sick.”  And I defiantly fill that glass almost to the top with that wonderful white goodness, just to show him.  The last time it happened I didn’t want him to know I was getting sick, and since we were both eating chocolate cake, I offered to share my (second) glass of milk with him because I know that he likes to drink milk when he’s eating chocolately baked goods.  He was on me like white on rice (or milk, I guess you could say).  “You’re sick from the milk, aren’t you?”  Dammit.  So now I only drink one glass.  Bummer.  

I’ve also noticed that I’ve lost my tolerance for alcohol, and have almost completely lost my taste for beer.  It’s sad, really.  I used to love nothing more than a nice cold beer to enjoy out in the sun, out on the water, or with a good burger.  I don’t even know when I last had a beer.  It just doesn’t taste good anymore.  I’m disappointed in me.  And alcohol in almost any form just plain makes me sick.  I can usually have one to two glasses of wine, but it has to be red and it can’t be dry.  White wine tears me up.  Margaritas and mojitos thus far are safe as well.  Everything else...well, that’s a recipe for gastric disaster.  Unfortunately my decreased tolerance for alcohol has also decreased my tolerance for drunk people, not that I had much of a tolerance for them to begin with.  I now try to avoid places and situations that will put me in the company of large quantities of drunk people.  I feel like such an old fuddy duddy.        

I’ve had boobs on the brain lately.  That’s a weird thing to say, isn’t it?  But I have.  Boobs are weird.  My boobs and I have a love/hate relationship that is currently hovering somewhere around indifference.  I could take them or leave them, to be honest.  My boobs came in late, they came in fast, and they came in big...I was completely unprepared.  For years I struggled with my hatred of them while my smaller chested friends all told me how lucky I was.  Had there been such a thing as a breast transplant from one person to another, I would have gladly been a donor.  And really, boobs are such a hassle.  Try finding the perfect sports bra.  It doesn’t exist.  Sleeping on one’s stomach doesn’t occur until all the appropriate adjustments have been made.  Men suddenly forget that your eyes on your face and not hovering somewhere on your chest.  Most women’s clothes aren’t made for small women with big chests, and too frequently the clothes that are aren’t very tasteful.  Or maybe it’s just that the clothes aren’t tasteful to me...in the past I’d had negative feelings towards my boobs so I tried to cover them up. They were such an embarrassment, and I hated catching guys looking at them...I still don’t like that, but am sometimes able to find the humor in it.  They’re just boobs for crying out loud, get over it.  Maybe what’s coming out of my mouth is so unpleasant that the boobs become the only positive part of associating with me?  Truth be told, I buy all my t-shirts in the men’s section at Express.  And I love them.  They might not be the most feminine shirts in the world, but they’re comfortable and they cover up what needs to be covered.  It’s a shame men don’t routinely like wearing more girly colors.  :)  They do shrink in the wash though, which is kind of a bummer...wish the boobs would shrink in the wash...hahaha!  Ask around though, and you’ll find all sorts of dismay with boobs.  Little boobs, big boobs, saggy boobs, perky boobs, lopsided boobs, boobs that have been made bigger, boobs that have been made smaller.  Are any of us truly happy with our boobs?  And what is the root cause of the unhappiness?  Have our boobs become (or have they always been) a measure of our self-worth?  Are there types of boobs that are more preferable than others?  Who’s the defining judge of that?  Maybe I’m thinking about it too much.  Maybe it’s as simple as preferring one hairstyle to another, one type of car to another, apples to oranges.  Things make us happy and things make us unhappy, and boobs are no exception.  Aside from the dismay associated with boobs in general, there’s also the aging bit (even better!).  The ol’ fun bags are very slowly attempting to personally say hello to my belly button.  They remind me a little bit of glaciers...on this slow quest to move southward.  When does it stop?  At the waistline?  Sign me up.  Really, please do.  I’d love nothing more than to be like my 80+ year-old patients whose boobs hang so low they are in real danger of catching them in the zipper of their pants.  A few coworkers and I were talking about that the other day.  I have no idea how the topic of boobs came up, but there it was anyway.  I was lamenting the inevitable gravitational pull when one of the women said, “I’m so glad I don’t have to worry about that.”  I looked at her and wondered why.  She pointed at her chest and lo and behold, no boobs.  I had never noticed, and I had been in her company many times before.  She said that she had been diagnosed with breast cancer years ago and that she elected to have both boobs removed to decrease the chance of reoccurrence.  So now she doesn’t have to be afraid of the dangers the zipper on her pants may someday pose to her boobs.  I found myself feeling jealous of her lack of boobs.  I was going on about how a few of my old lady patients throughout the years had wished that they could just have their boobs removed since they were no longer of use for feeding children or attracting men.  When you really think about it from an evolutionary standpoint, that’s all boobs are really for, right?  I don’t plan on ever having kids so my boobs are a waste of a nutritional supplement, but I suppose I ought to keep them around in the off-chance that Simon leaves me and I need their help to lure in another unsuspecting victim.  That and I have a lot of bras that would go to waste.  I suppose I could make beanies out of them or something...complete with chin straps.   

As you may or may not know, I recently started exercising regularly.  Yes, the girl who hates exercise is exercising.  It was all very surprising, especially to me.  And now that I exercise regularly, I find myself actually enjoying it.  How weird is that?  I go to the gym about 3-4 days a week, and then paddle board or go for long walks in between.  It’s working out pretty well and I hope that I continue to keep it up.  I haven’t actually lost any weight yet, but that wasn’t really my goal anyway.  I look different and my clothes fit different, and I feel like that’s a better indicator of what I’m trying to accomplish.  In truth though, I’m really not trying to accomplish anything specific, I’m just trying to be healthy.  I guess I figured that I’m not getting any younger, and it’s about time that I start getting into the habit of being more physically fit, because the longer I wait, the harder it’s going to get.  Obviously I’ve known all this for years, but just never had the motivation to do anything about it.  Living in Florida where it’s nice everyday leaves me no excuse to not exercise (and really, it shouldn’t matter where one lives...there’s always time to devote to exercising).  That and living with Simon and Ellen has really helped.  Simon has always been into exercising, but I’m kind of intimidated exercising with him because he’s so much more fit than I am and I feel like I’m holding him back when we exercise together.  He exercises a lot because he gets stiff and sore if he doesn’t...I unfortunately don’t have that problem.  I could probably lay on the couch for a week and not have any problems at all.  Ellen is more on my level, even though she’s already competed in a triathlon and runs competitively a couple times each year...so I guess maybe you could say that I’m really not at her level...but she’s closer to me than Simon.  I feel like Ellen and I exercise more because we want to, not because we have to.  We take mutual lazy days together, but then we’ll go to spin class and race to see who gets the farthest.  It’s usually me, but I know she’s going to catch me one of these days.  That and she usually has more resistance on her bike than I do...I’m kind of a wimp.  Simon likes to make fun of the fact that we race on stationary bikes.  Ellen and I have decided that we’re going to up the ante and get bike jerseys to wear to class.  We also thought it would be funny to wear helmets, but that might be going a bit far.

Unfortunately exercising may or may not have brought about its own new set of aches of pains.  About a month after really starting my exercise regimen, I was diagnosed with a Ganglion cyst in my left wrist.  They’re not usually a big deal, and there’s really no evidence that it was brought about by the exercising, but I didn’t have it when I started exercising.  So I’m blaming the exercise.  It doesn’t bother me too much, it’s about the size of a pea, and as long as I don’t hyperextend my wrist (which I do all the time...my joints are kinda bendy) or put too much weight on it, it hasn’t been a big deal.  I do have to sleep with a wrist brace on though because I bend my wrists pretty weird when I sleep.  So now I clunk around in the bed with that thing on.  Ganglion cysts were more commonly known as “bible cysts,” and treatment for them included banging on and rupturing the offending cyst with a large book...a bible, if you will, since most households contained large bibles.  Maybe in my house it should be called a “Stephen King cyst,” since his books are the biggest books I own.  Fortunately my nurse practitioner has been much more passive in her treatment.  In fact, there’s really no treatment at the moment.  I can have the cyst drained if it starts affecting my feeling or mobility, but eventually the cyst would come back.  Otherwise if it’s too bothersome I can have surgery to remove it all together.  I’m not a fan of elective surgery, so until I reach the point of being an almost-cripple, I guess I get to have a little bump on my wrist.  Yay me.

On to more positive things.  I’ve had the pleasure recently of being in the company of some really inspirational women who have really made an impact on me.  The first woman moved here from China over 30 years ago when she was just 10 years old.  She told me a little bit about what it was like growing up in America, learning English, and adjusting to living in a country full of free will while still having to adhere to a strict Chinese way of life at home.  She told me the story of how her father passed away at 59 years old, and he told her that he was dying with his own worst enemy at his side, meaning himself.  What he meant by that was that he didn’t take good care of himself when he had the chance, he didn’t put himself first, and he didn’t listen to his body when it was trying to tell him to slow down, to stop, to take a moment to rest.  He told her that when she dies someday, he hopes she’s her own best friend.  And what she took from it was this: take care of yourself, because at the end of the day, you can’t count on someone else to do it for you.  Friends, spouses, parents, siblings...you can’t count on them to pick up your pieces.  Listen to yourself, take time for yourself.  That really struck a chord with me.  How often do we put others first, do we put work first, do we put laundry first?  How often do we endure that low-back pain and go to the grocery store rather than the massage parlor?  How often do we not eat the cookie?  How often do we bounce from one thing to next without really thinking about why we’re doing it in the first place?

The second woman is one whose husband recently passed away and who is considering a big career change.  She’s nervous about her options but she’s also really excited to start a new chapter in her life.  I told her that she should go for it, and if it doesn’t work out, she can always come back.  She just looked at me and smiled and said, “I won’t come back.  I’ve always believed that life is about moving forward, never back.”  It was interesting to hear that perspective, mostly because since starting this whole traveling job, I’ve been operating under the mantra of “If it doesn’t work out, I can always go back home.”  It’s comforting for me to think that I can always go back home if the going gets tough.  But someday my parents won’t be there anymore, and then where will home be?  Maybe when you reach a certain age, home is wherever you are.  I think that’s where this woman is.  It takes a really strong person to say that they always move forward and never back.  To really go for it.  It’s daunting, really, but it’s also very inspirational.  It’s making the most of where you go and what you do, and putting yourself out there to go after what you want.  It’s about not giving up, and approaching the next chapter with an open mind.  I’m really grateful to have had the opportunity to visit with these two women.  I feel like too often I get stuck in my own little rut and just keep plugging along, following it wherever it might lead, never considering pulling myself up to see what else is out there.  Of course, that’s all relative coming from someone who moves across the country a few times a year...but you know what I mean.

So that’s me.  Definitely getting older, hopefully getting wiser.  :)