Stress U Five O

Impending menopause or a wake-up call?  Those are pretty much the search terms I googled--now the world knows my dirty little secret.  That is to say, if anyone or anything is tracking my (and everyone else's) every internet search, as is apparently the case.   At this point I probably have read too much about my symptoms and what they might mean.  I've got a bad case of TMI:  too much information.  Well, at least I can write about it.

When I informed my friend (actually my best friend) that I would be doing some writing about my heart palpitations, she quite reasonably asked, "But who would care?"

"It doesn't matter.  I don't give a flying f&*%. Remember?  F. U. Five-Oh."

"Oh.

"Why are you doing this again?"

I took that as a rhetorical question.  This medium for better or worse is my message.  See--I can mix my cliches with the best of them.  

Now sitting in the doctor's office waiting to be summoned to discuss the results of a battery of tests that the FU50 set--at least the ones with racing hearts--should know all too well.  Blood tests necessitating multiple vials.  ECG.  Holter monitor.  This testing process at the lab was last week’s fun, and I recall it with mixed feelings (like maybe mixed revulsion and anxiety):

Thanks to my always teeny-tiny veins and extra arm-fat as I say goodbye to my fortified forties, it took about six tries for the unfortunate lab tech guy (a charming middle-aged Slavic fellow--ok, he’s my age or maybe a bit younger)  to find a good spot. I giggle inappropriately when he slaps my forearm in a vain attempt to find the vein. No luck on the left.  He finally sighs. I can see the bruises coming up already.  “Sorry I had to dig around there,” he apologizes.  “No problem,” I gush, feeling guilty about my inaccessible blood.  He tries the right, success at last, and the vials start to fill up one by one as I try desperately to look somewhere else.  Why are there no cartoons on the walls in this office?  I could use a good Herman right now--like the one where the barber with the straight razor says to his client, “My bus leaves in two minutes and I intend to be on it.”  I want to smile crazily at my tormentor and say just that:  “My bus leaves in two minutes and I intend to be on it.”

No such luck.  Now I have to get an ECG in the next room.  Same guy. “You will take off your top please.”  Great.  Well of course. I was more or less expecting that.  “And roll up your pants to the knee.”  F&*%.  Right, the electrodes have to be connected to each calf.  But honestly, honestly I would have f’ing shaved my legs.  They are densely covered with long, straggling hairs of an indefinite colour.  I’m not going to call it grey.  I don’t usually look that far down below my stomach, plus I always wear dark tights or leggings--or pants, when I can find any that fit.  I reluctantly roll up my grey corduroys try to go to my spiritual happy place. It ain’t happenin’.

Finally, getting hooked up to the Holter monitor.  Now I truly feel like the Bride of Frankenstein (and coincidentally it is the day before Halloween).  After having my entire torso wired for sound, I have a little box nestled between my breasts.  It has a little screen and some buttons on it, one of which says EVENT in block caps.  I’m hoping it does NOT light up at some point.  Also I have to keep a diary of what I do and how I feel for the next twenty-four hours, including going to the bathroom.  Charming.

But that’s all in the past--today I find out my test results.  Holter monitor results not back yet.  Hmph.  

ECG reveals a sluggish heart rate but no real cause for concern.  That’s okay then.

Blood tests reveal slightly elevated cholesterol but no diabetes; liver function fine; nothing requiring chemical intervention.  Based on my weight/ body mass index (BMI=TMI), somewhat high blood pressure, and elevated cholesterol, I have a “heart age” of 55.  “Let’s talk family history,” the doctor says.

My Dad died suddenly in his sixties of an asymptomatic condition that resulted in blockage of all major arteries to the heart.  He was really healthy though.  Shortly before his death he told me his doctor assured him he had a “heart age” of 33!

Long and short of it, I now have a referral to a cardiologist.  With Holter results still pending, I might as well get in line.  Next step:  stress test.

There is a Season

Countdown to the big five oh, Deb.  Two months to go.  Oh no!

      Amidst the tranquil setting of an island haven this Thanksgiving weekend recently passed, I gathered some of my thoughts. The only resolution I came to was that I should write something down, and still I procrastinated... but here I am at last, spurred by the impending meeting deadline for my writers' group (not to say that previous such deadlines haven't come and gone before).  I think as Canadians in the wake of our federal election we should all feel empowered to at least and at last consider radical change.

      I tried all summer (May through August, when my work schedule is lighter) to make some meaningful changes in my life, without much more than a superficial kind of progress.  I was going for tangible change, which I hoped to achieve by selecting one Action Item per week (god help me, I even labelled them as Action Items on the calendar) but I got superficial change instead, probably because the things I put on the calendar--though at the time they seemed absolutely essential--were essentially, well, non-essential.  I can't even remember what they were now.  I just have this general feeling that they were trivial pursuits.  I'll have to look.

      OK.  Weeks 1 through 4 were as follows:  TEETH, HAIR, EYES, FEET.

      Hmm.  Maybe a bit of a rethink then.  I will have to admit that these things don't sound non-essential: the long-delayed dental check-up and teeth cleaning (blessedly no cavities, thanks to the modern miracle of electronic teeth brushing); the biannual haircut (and don't ask, because I can recall neither whether that means twice a year or once every two years, nor how long it had actually been); the optometrist appointment where I ordered my new progressive lenses; and the promised land of orthotics to save my fallen arches.  But I think as time goes by we get more trivial. Let's see:

     DIET, EXERCISE, HYDRATION (?!), WEIGHT, and TIME MANAGEMENT.

     Well, those are just too broad to be achievable--with the possible exception of hydration--I believe I embarked on an ambitious course of drinking eight glasses of water per day, an ambitious process I discontinued after reading that according to many learned folks, really there is no need for all that nonsense.  Let's check in with July, when I believe I got back to brass tacks.

      Good god!  LINENS.  It actually says "LINENS."  Come to think of it I did go out and get new sheets and a lovely duvet.  GROOMING.  This is where it gets personal.  Well, no one wants to put "trim pubic hair and stock up on Summer's Eve" on a calendar.  I could say more (since my impending fiftieth birthday is meant to come with a newfound freedom of speech) about the miracle of what a dear friend calls "lady-garden" products, but I won't. Redacted. 

     DOCUMENTS. If that refers to passport documents--oops--still haven't gotten around to it.  Where am I gonna go anyway? I need to get my financial affairs in order first--wait, maybe those were the DOCUMENTS. Oh yeah. Now we're down to August and I guess I gave up after the first week. ENVIRONMENT.  Did I plan to save the environment that week?  Who knows?  So much for my summer of self care.

     Now a new season is upon us, and where do we go from here? Half a century has come and gone. My cousin who already turned fifty told me it's great because you just don't give a crap anymore about what everyone thinks of you. You just live your life.  That's why it's called "F*&% You 50."  Several women in my life are coming to the same crossroads and making big changes:  going back to school; starting a new job, getting a divorce; writing a novel--to name a few.  You just live your life. As for me ... I'm not sure.  I can't even get it together to save the environment.  Maybe I'll just take a deep breath and intone my new mantra:  "....F....U....Five....Oooooohhhhhh....."