Even my fifteen-year-old Saab is in better shape than I seem to be these days. It only needs a visit to the repair shop once a year, when lately I seem to be constantly in need of one.
Who knew there was such a thing as a calcium score? I certainly didn’t, but my doctor said I had to have one, explaining that it would show how much plaque I’d accumulated in my coronary arteries, since the recent blood tests I’d had showed a relatively high cholesterol reading, something I’d never had prior to now.
Foolish woman, I believed that my long low readings, healthy meat-free diet, consistent exercise, and generally good health would obviate any need for statins and keep plaque at bay.
“Aging can raise cholesterol,” my doctor said, insisting I go for the above test.
As it turned out, I am fine, within normal range for my age. Maybe the blood test result was a mistake? But I had to take half a day and $100 to find out (no Medicare coverage for this test).
This week I have a bone density test on Monday, an eye exam on Thursday, an appointment with a neurosurgeon nearly two hours away on Friday. Last week I had a nerve ablation to ease my severe back pain--it didn’t. And then there was the root canal in late December. The trip back to UConn, also last week, to find out why I still was having pain in the tooth, even though it had lost its nerve.
My life, this part of which I’d hope to devote to writing, is continually encumbered by journeys to what I’ve laughingly taken to calling “the repair shop.” And in between mine are my husband’s--dermatology, neurology, cardiac rehab, and PT. Our shared calendar is awash in a plethora of these listings.
Two days a week, I’m at a yoga class; every day I suit up in long underwear and double mittens to walk 4-5 miles. After my back surgery in 2008, I know I must engage in these activities to maintain my agility--it’s not really a choice. Now, I worry that my chronic unalleviated back torment will require another surgical intervention; last week, my pain management MD puzzled over the positioning of my L4-L5 hardware thinking it could be twisted(?).
Hopefully I misunderstood him. But I am trying to imagine there could be a more permanent fix than the thrice-yearly epidural cortisone injections I get for the compressed nerve in my left leg.
But, as they say in Ireland, it could be worse.
Of course, it could be worse! I don’t have cancer or the dreaded Alzheimer’s as many friends do. I don’t wear hearing aids and my eyes are fine, no cataract surgery on the horizon. My mammogram of a few weeks ago was normal. I haven’t broken anything, nor have I had body parts replaced. Despite my mottled and fragile skin, I’ve had no serious lesions. The multitude of CBD/THC creams I use for pain and restless legs seem to work much of the time.
And I’m not complaining, even though I sound like I am. I’m so fortunate to have insurance coverage for all these issues, a car with which to drive to these appointments, a supportive husband, and genetic good luck (mother who lived to be a hundred, father close to it).
I’m still healthy, active, and vital.
But I never suspected what large chunks of time and energy excursions to these various repair shop trips would dominate. Even that so much of our social life is taken up with what some friends laughingly call “organ recital.”
And that funerals and memorial services would comprise much of said social life.
As a young, even middle-aged person, I had little idea of what aging would bring.
And having such physically healthy parents gave me the illusion that I would remain so until--when?
The when is now. The body keeps the score, as the excellent book with that title (Bessel Van der Kolk) reminds us, stating A constant sense of danger and helplessness promotes the continuous secretion of stress hormones, which wreaks havoc with the immune system and the functioning of the body’s organs.
Hmm. I definitely don’t want that to happen.
So, what to do, faced with my almost 82 years, my inevitable aging, the body’s inevitable decline?
Be grouchy and regretful that my youth is behind me, maintain some delusion that I’ll be spared any of a number of ailments, accidents, needs for patching up, that will bring me to even more repair shops? Grasp onto the many comments I receive registering surprise that I’m the age I say I am? Allowing those stress hormones to hijack what remains of my life?
Or embrace uncertainty, fragility, reality.
It’s a delicate dance. I suddenly remember the mantra I’ve long espoused--“Live every day like it’s your last. Live every day like you will live forever.” As usual, paradox is what makes the most sense. There is the inescapable reality of my almost 82 years, maybe a decade, hopefully more, left to live--but also the facing of the bumpy road of inevitability, of surprise.
I could trip over a curb, slip on an icy patch, be in the path of an oncoming car, get another blood test that, this time, shows serious illness--tomorrow--or any day in the future. My commitment to healthy living gives no insurance I will be spared.
So, I will continue my trips to these various repair shops, offering my body the mending it needs, no matter the travel or frustration, no matter my wish for it to be otherwise. I will try to embrace, even to love, the aging me, the surprising new iteration of Sharon--and even try to experience some enjoyment exploring this virgin terrain.
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I’ll be offering a writing/exploring workshop at Wisdom House in Litchfield, CT on March 13, “Isn’t It Weird to Be the Same Age As Old People,”https://www.wisdomhouse.org/program-calendar/isnt/it/weird!
I leave at the end of January for a month’s residency at my beloved Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, where I’ll be working on new poems--most likely, about aging, since I’m developing such expertise on this subject
And PS: Bone density showed I have osteoporosis of the hip, which means an hour and a half Reclast infusion when I return from my residency. Bones look like swiss cheese in the readout I saw.
But I’m thrilled to have signed a contract for my third full-length poetry collection, “What’s After Making Love,” with Fernwood Press-- I’ll be 83 when it comes out---it’s pretty much the story of my life in poems.