by Mona Finston (Thu Jan 28, 2010)
When I turned 40, I clearly remember
thinking that those four decades seemed a very long span of time, taking me all
the way from birth to peri-menopause. I surmised that if I had the luck to last
another forty years - I would be able to do absolutely everything I wanted,
plus many things I hadn't even considered yet. Plenty of time I thought. But
what I didn't understand then, and what no one had the guts to tell me, is that
time accelerates as we age. Or so it seems.
I guess that's because the journey
down hill is much quicker than the trip up. Plus gravity and a series of
slippery slopes help speed the way. Also during that post-40 phase
appears what I call the ‘menu of minor mid-life humiliations.' This ever-growing
list includes the myriad tests, probes and intrusions we have to endure
annually as we begin our inevitable decay. In other words, after 40, the crap
begins.
Now at 55, I'm doing fairly well (knock
on wood) but do have to take care of a fickle thyroid, slowly decaying
hip-bones and the delightful malady known as acid reflux, with each issue
requiring medications that come with side-effects that create the need for more
medications. My doctor also instructed me two weeks ago to purchase a device to
keep track of my blood pressure. But each morning when I press the button that
automatically inflates the cuff - it gets so tight that I'm afraid my arm will
explode at any moment. As a result, my heart starts racing and my blood
pressure goes through the roof. Not exactly what the doctor had in mind, I
suspect.
Then yesterday afternoon, an envelope
arrived from his office. I expected it to be a bill or a reminder, but instead,
it contained a one page letter that began ‘Dear Mona: Did you know that 1
in 3 women over the age of 45 suffer from stress incontinence, where a big
sneeze, a cough or a case of the giggles is enough to cause urine leakage?' The
letter went on to ask if I found myself leaking while sleeping, standing still,
jumping up and down or ‘performing other movements.'
I read the letter
over a number of times and wondered if this was possibly the next humiliation
for my list. Did the doctor know something I did not? And was this missive
really necessary? This serious matter couched in a frothy, friendly (yet still
impersonal) tone seemed extremely strange to me. And couldn't my doctor have
simply mentioned this topic when I saw him just weeks ago?
I recognize that the occasional sprinkle
on oneself is yet another of mid-life's minor humiliations, along with
surprise flatulence and nipple hair. I've spoken to several women friends who
deal with this issue from time to time - as do I. And although, thank goodness,
I don't require adult diapers or any of the minimally invasive procedures described
in the letter, it can still be a bit disconcerting on those occasions when the
only thing preventing a case of damp pants is the speed of my nimble fingers
undoing a stubborn zipper.
I plan to keep the doctor's letter, place
it in a tasteful frame and hang it in my office. My friends and I will look it
over, comment on the wonderfully absurd way it's presented, and have a little
laugh about the humiliations of mid-life. It'll have to be a very little laugh,
however, so we can be sure not to pee on ourselves.
