Column: I'm not a perfect specimen, but far from decrepit

I lay on the table in the radiology department, awaiting a scan, and idly chatting with the technician. “Seems like, since I turned 50, it’s one thing after another,” I remarked.

I was being a bit dramatic. I’d had a few curious symptoms, and this was just part of the diagnostic process.

“Oh, it all started for me when I turned 40,” the technician replied.

Well, that shut me up.

Now that I’m over 65, I often think back to that moment, when I first connected age to physical decline. Luckily, it has not been all downhill since then. It only feels like that sometimes.

When I went to see my primary care provider recently, I had not one, but three complaints: a blocked ear, a rash on my leg and a sore wrist. This visit closely followed an emergency trip to the optometrist, after I suddenly saw flashing lights dancing outside my right eye.

None of these complaints were life-threatening. The rash is gone, I can hear again, and the vitreous detachment causing the light show has safely healed up. I’m still waiting to see a wrist specialist, but here I am typing away.

Still, I find it hard to avoid the thought that this old machine is just wearing out.

I do firmly believe in the mind-body connection, so I’m sure this kind of negative musing is counterproductive; i.e., it’s aging me.

I have tried to cheer myself up by acknowledging that I only have two prescriptions—and those are for dry-eye drops and a dental rinse. That is not bad for an old gal.

Also, though I definitely did wear out my knees, there are two new ones in place. I’m coming up to the one-year anniversary on the right one, which is now nearly perfect. I’m still a bit stiff in the early morning on the left, which was replaced six months ago. I’m not complaining. I am thrilled to be walking normally again and grateful there was a solution for my problem.

But the greatest attitude adjustment I have found is in the distant past. I remind myself that health issues are nothing new for me.

I picture myself at age 8, in the nurse’s “office” at the Village School in Somerset, Mass. It was really just a space at the back of the stage. I am sitting on a cot with my head back, a cloth pressed to my bleeding nose. This would be a curse that would follow me into young adulthood. Once, in  college, I had to squirm my way out of a crowded lecture hall to get to a bathroom, no easy feat.

As a teen I had cystic acne so severe it required me to see a dermatologist which, believe me, was a big deal back then.

In college, I developed allergies to acidic foods like oranges and tomatoes. I would break out in horrible hives that might swell my eyes and/or mouth.

For years, I suffered from PMS and accompanying migraines, which caused me to miss work. I celebrated when Advil became available over the counter. I could live again. Sort of.

In my fifties, I had to have carpal tunnel surgery on both wrists (not at the same time), and at exactly 59, a bunionectomy. Oh, and somewhere in that decade I developed a nodule on my thyroid which required a biopsy (negative) and regular visits to the endocrinologist for awhile.

Despite this litany of complaints, I did—do— consider myself a relatively healthy person. For one thing, I’m an optimist. I’ve had no cancer. My blood pressure and cholesterol levels are low. I don’t have heart disease or diabetes. I still have my tonsils, adenoids and appendix.

Plus, I try to be healthy. I have followed the advice of Dr. Andrew Weil, the guru of mind-body medicine, for years. Olive oil, fish and broccoli became a regular part of my diet. I did yoga and meditated. I walked daily.

There is something that happens when an American turns 65, though. You have to register for Medicare. I didn’t feel aged on my birthday; I went to the Coastal Maine Botanical Gardens and trotted among the blooms all day to celebrate the event. But signing up for Medicare—even though I didn’t have to use it because I was still working—made me growl. It made me feel old.

I’m determined not to interpret every minor health issue as a sign of impending decrepitude.

Not that I’m sticking my head in the sand.  I’m going to worry more about a chest cold now than I did at 35. It could turn into pneumonia.

But then I think about the eve of my wedding. My hairstylist lifted my tresses and said, “Ooh, look at that gray underneath there.” I was 29.

It soothes me to think I was never a perfect specimen.

Sometimes I imagine myself standing in front of a mall map that says, “You are here.” 

I’m not sure, at 65-plus, exactly what that means, but it’s a good thing.

After all, I might be a little creaky in the early morning, but when I go to the mirror, there’s not a pimple in sight.