Another Candle

It's hard not to be a little ambivalent about birthdays when you've already celebrated six decades worth of them. While I certainly want them to keep on coming, I can't help feeling a twinge of anxiety every time one of them rolls around. Since I'm prone to introspection (bet you figured that out already) I tend to use the arrival of another birthday to inspect, analyze, and critique my behavior over the last three hundred sixty-five days. Not always a pretty sight but hey, somebody's got to do it.

Did I learn anything new? (Princess Charlotte's nanny's name unfortunately doesn't count). Did I advance my spiritual growth? (Watching five minutes of Joel Osteen's Sunday service also does not make the cut). Did I love more? (This year? Undoubtedly. I have that new grand-baby, remember?) Was I kinder? (That crazy woman in the library yesterday probably doesn't think so). More thoughtful? (I try on this one but it's pretty tough when thoughts stay in my consciousness for under thirty seconds.) Less petty? (Again, sorry crazy library lady). More joyful? (Other than the time I spend with my grandson who makes it pretty darn hard to be anything but). Did I sweat the small stuff less? (Does not getting upset at my hubby's picking up the wrong peanut butter count?) Did I value the important stuff more? (It's getting a little late if I haven't). Did I finally finish editing that damn book that I keep talking about? (What do you think?)

All I know is that another June 24th has presented itself and I'm doing the best I can. (Wait. That's a lie. I could exercise more and it wouldn't hurt to stop eating those dark chocolate sea-salt caramels every night. Damn you, Costco).  I do try to spend as much time as possible with the wonderful family and amazing friends that God has blessed me with (I sure hope that means another trip to Mexico this winter with the best friends anyone could ask for) and try to spend as little time as possible with toxic, negative people who's goal in life is to sap all the joy out of anyone within a five-mile radius (that's you, library lady).

It feels odd to be eligible for Social Security and AARP discounts. That's for old people and I have a hard time thinking of myself that way (unless I'm trying to get my creaky knees and plantar fascitis inflicted feet out of bed in the morning). But every time I feel sorry for myself or wish I didn't have to go through the decidedly negative aspects of getting older, I think of my friend Karyn who was stricken with Stage 4 cancer and died at fifty-four. I know she would have given anything to be here with her kids and grandkids; birthdays, achy joints and all.

She would feel lucky and blessed. And so do I.

Play Misty For Me

There's a certain inevitability that comes with getting older. You know that physical activity is going to get a bit tougher, you figure you're going to get a little more forgetful, and you suspect that you're going to spend more of your waking hours waiting to be seen by some doctor. Oh, you can try hard to eat right, exercise and do any brainteaser puzzle that comes your way but every once in awhile, you're hit with a reminder of what's really ahead of you. I had one of those moments this week, sitting in a urologist's office.

When you are forced to pick up that phone and make an appointment with someone whose clientele clips Depends coupons, it's a sobering moment. Not that it was that much of a surprise to anyone who knows me. I've had to scope out the location of the nearest rest room since I was potty trained. But this was different; this was needing to find the next bathroom before I left the one I was in.

I didn't make that phone call right away. I thought it was the least I could do to give my primary doctor a shot at solving the problem but, after a couple of weeks of, shall we say, "intense discomfort", I had to face the music. It was time to see a specialist. So, there I was, the only non-Medicare patient in the waiting room, wondering what delights were waiting for me on the other side of that door, when a young nurse called my name.

She led me into the exam room, took the usual vitals and informed me that 'Misty' would be right with me. 'Misty? What kind of name was that for a urologist? How in God's name was I going to have any confidence in a doctor named Misty?' (Okay, she was a physician's assistant but still. New parents, take note. Do not give your child a name that will always sound like she should be off somewhere playing with her American Girl doll.)

A few minutes later, the bubbliest urologist on the planet got good and familiar with my netherlands as I stared at the ceiling. She chattered amiably through the exam, cheerily answered all my questions and gave me an intake/output diary to be filled out over two of the next fourteen days. Great. I thought there would be a nice, easy solution - like a little, pink pill that would save the day but no such luck. Now I have to go back in two weeks.

I wonder if Dr. Misty will be waiting for me.