This has been a week of doctor’s appointments: three for me, two for the new puppy and one for my youngest son. I was supposed to have another tomorrow and then on Monday both boys see the dentist. I am canceling tomorrow’s appointment. It’s way too many doctors in one week. And even though I got to keep my clothes on for several (they were consults with specialists) I am still feeling vulnerable. And defensive.
If one more medical professional refers to me and says in the same breath, ‘older’, ‘declining’, and ‘at your age’, I will kick him. I may not be twenty, but I am not older, declining, or at your age. And for the doctor on Monday and Tuesday who made me feel like an old horse with nothing ahead of her but the glue factory—watch it, buster. I might not be able to kick my leg as high as I once did, but I can still kick hard. I was a dancer once upon a time. And I lift weights.
Hmph. Old Bess, indeed.
My legal name is Elizabeth Jane so I could become Betsy Jane, or…Bess…but not Old Bess. The eye doctor today modified by contact prescription but said I don’t need reading glasses (yet). The doctor on Tuesday was greatly surprised by the excellent test results of some blood work. Cholesterol’s good. Blood pressure’s low. Everything’s wonderful. Except for my mood.
I am not old. Forty is not old. And I’m not even forty anyway. I’m…younger. Well, in my own universe I am and that’s what matters. Get rid of all the chronological age crap and base your true age on how you feel and what you’re able to do.
And I’m able to kick a lot of doctors butts. So there. Take that. And can you move that box so I don’t fall and break a hip.
Thank you, sonny. I appreciate that.
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