Cheers, Mom.

Cheers, Mom.

One morning before sun-up, I stand in the shower shampoo threatening to drip in my eyes, my heart sinks, my gut clenches and cold sweat breaks out all over my body, only to be mercifully washed away. The thought, ‘Oh, my god! I have to do this 35 more years’, paralyzes me with fear, loathing and despair. I, a virtual princess, should not have to suffer through thirty-five years of indentured servitude. I had, to my surprise, allowed myself to be swept up in the idea of a professional education, never fully understanding that I’d actually have to go to work and make a living.

Right then and there, head still full of lather, I resolve to turn that negative into motivator and make sure I can retire as soon as possible. I curb all excess spending, get a divorce, and buckle down.

My frugality pays off, I manage to put aside a generous enough nest egg so that at 57 I can thumb my nose at all the working stiffs and retire. I am now free to take a couple of trips, indulge in some exotic knitting yarns, get my sewing machine out and teach myself to quilt. Every once in a while I place my tiara on my head, return to my former place of enslavement just to smile at the pale, sleep deprived faces of my former colleagues. There is not a moment I regret my decision.

Yes. Life’s good.

Everything is great, exactly as it should be, isn’t it? Well, almost everything. Since I’m not running around keeping patients and students in line and safe, I realize I’m no longer a perfect size 10. The slacks I used to wear feel a tad snug, but I don’t worry about it, I shrug it off and resolve to “just stop buying Cadbury, for a while.” And next time I go shopping for clothes, I gravitate to anything with a high percentage of Lycra. I tell myself that XL means 10 Luxury. Besides, it’s only a number. I’m a big girl, I don’t let numbers rule my life.

What’s that? I rub my chin and feel something, something that doesn’t wipe away, like a crumb would. What the …! Where is my magnifying mirror? Oh horrors! Where are the tweezers? And I pluck my first chin hair. Oh, pu-leeze! Don’t call it a beard. It’s just one hair. Yes, it’s dark, like the ones on the top of my head and people who don’t need readers yet will notice. From now on, I try to remember to add beard and moustache elimination to my weekly routine. And then I smile ruefully it’s not as if anyone will come close enough to scrutinize my chin.

One day, I go out to dinner with a former colleague. Yes, she’s a good bit younger, but surely not that much younger. When I come back from having washed my hands and sit down to peruse the menu, my friend laughs “The waiter wanted to know if my mother wanted a drink.”

I’m flabbergasted, aghast, dumbstruck, but I, almost graciously, acknowledge that middle age has dropped off the keys and I can no longer ignore the fact that old age is ringing the doorbell. I had hoped nobody would notice, but obviously, I need to answer the door. I’m old. I look old enough to be a thirty-something’s mother.

In the privacy of my bedroom. And let’s face it, it has been very private for decades, I stand in front of my mirror and take stock. If I brush my hair this way, the grey won’t show as much. Maybe I ought to switch to a lotion with retinol, just in case that stuff works. I wonder if wearing oversized tops will compensate for my spreading bottom. Or if wearing leggings, will control the jiggle of my thighs. Of course, the idea of going to a gym, or even taking a walk, never occurs to me. Why would it? I’ve been accused of being too skinny all my life. Working on my figure is just not something this princess ever had to think about.

I sigh, fleetingly think about getting a dog, then turn the mirror to the wall and go in search of a Klondike bar. With the exception of a few minor wake-up calls, getting older has been smooth, has made me believe that I got this. But that’s about to change.

One morning I wake up and can’t get out of bed. Not that I have to go anywhere, of course not, I’m retired. Or that anyone is waiting for me, or that I’m avoiding something, like I did all through third grade. No, my bladder is the only one asking for attention. It’s just that I can’t. For some reason my back is screaming at me.

DON’T MOVE!

As I lie there, I think back to the day before. But I can’t remember doing anything stupid or strenuous. While I’m waiting for my back to give a reluctant green light, I idly wonder, how long I can lie here before I wet the bed. Hmph. Do I really want to find out? And just out of curiosity, I ponder who would be the first to realize that I haven’t been seen in a while. And I can’t think of anyone other than the mail carrier.

So, I grit my teeth, carefully roll out of bed and crawl to the toilet. At the stroke of nine I call the doctor’s office and secure their last open slot for the day. The gods are smiling wryly on me.

A ruptured disk? Me? How? Why? Now what?

Now what? Now I am officially classified as a pain patient. Not that anyone will ever admit to having squeezed me in that slot, but there I am. From here on all my complaints will be shrugged off as either being back-related or med-seeking.

Time marches on. Finally, I am Medicare eligible. I am delighted to not have to pay $500+ per month for the privilege of having minimal coverage. I’m a little slow on the uptake but finally I realize that the pretty card with the blue and red stripes now makes me someone’s grandmother.

Trust me gramma, I know what I’m talking about.

Don’t you worry about that, grandma.

You wouldn’t understand, grandmother.

Well, I think this is what we should do, granny. But … Arms crossed, accompanied by a meaningful, warning look. The implied threat is clear, if you want me to treat you, then you need to do as I say.

The fact that I have slogged through college and graduate school, have decades of experience working in health care, have managed my own affairs my whole adult life, am at least thirty years older than the one dictating my actions is totally irrelevant. I’m on Medicare, therefore I am cognitively impaired. Plus, I have the added label of being a drug-addled pain patient.

Slowly I learn which hoops I have to jump through. Like showing up every month, being subjected to random drug tests just to get a minimum of marginally effective pain medication. And the annual meaningless check-up with bloodletting, whether I want to or not.  

I think this is it. I think my next big event will be when that right hip gives out and I will spend a day crawling to where I think I might have left my phone so I can call 911. But no, there is at least one more surprise. My mother has moved in. Granted, it could be worse, it could have been my father.

First mom is just hanging around in the morning and evening, making sure I brush your teeth, shaking her head ‘are you really going to wear that, today?’ But now she’s everywhere, reminding me to ‘eat my greens’, my least favorite color, tapping on my shoulder, ‘did I remember to take my pills?’ And tut-tutting about wasteful spending. Which is when I tell her hush. ‘It’s my money, mom.’

Fed up with healthcare’s indifference, I now suck up my aches and pains, avoid any and all doctors as much as possible and finally take my mother’s advice. I open another bottle of wine and turn to the mirror. “Cheers, Mom.”