Category: Health & Wellness

I keep thinking it’s my birthday. You know, singing it twice to get the full 20 seconds when you wash your hands. Interestingly, Dale had never heard the version with you look like a monkey, and you act like one, too.

Crazy. Just to mess with me, he used to say he was in the witness protection program, and sometimes I wonder. Where did he really grow up? Who were his parents? Why doesn’t he know the monkey lyric?

The golf courses have closed here, so I’ve been taking long walks instead. Keeping my distance, certainly. There are a fair number of people walking, running and bicycling, but it’s easy to stay spread out. The college girls are home, jogging in their incredibly short shorts.

I saw one girl from afar, and I just kept staring. I’m sure she thought I was some sort of perv. I was convinced she was wearing support hose or something over her legs, because they were so damned perfect. When I got close, I could see it was just bare skin. Unblemished, undimpled. What a concept.

As for golf, there was a day when a closed golf course didn’t stop me. When we lived in South Carolina, it was common for a few people to show up at closed golf courses on a holiday and just walk the course alone. But when we moved to Texas, that was not allowed. Probably wasn’t in South Carolina, either, now that I think about it.

My favorite course locked the gate on holidays, but I played anyway. I parked on the side of the road and managed to climb over the gate with my pushcart and clubs. No one came to get me. I had a security clearance at the time and lived in fear of getting arrested and having my clearance pulled.

I thought about doing it now, but it’s illegal with the current order to stay home and just not smart. Plus, the restrooms are closed. That’s not a problem for men. The world is their toilet. I’ve actually seen men urinating on the fairway. Another reason not to play, wondering where your ball has been and all that.

Wii Golf is one of my favorite hunker down diversions. The dress code is relaxed. Jammies are allowed, even preferred. I’m trying not to overdo it. It’s like toilet paper rationing – one or two games a day. I’m way better at Wii Golf than I am at real golf, so it’s actually rather satisfying. My record is -14.

We like to keep a stash of homemade cookies in the freezer for when you absolutely positively need something sweet. Yesterday I made a batch of peanut butter cookies, but I added leftover chocolate chips. Maybe half a cup?

They don’t taste like peanut butter cookies. They taste like really good chocolate chip cookies with a hint of peanut butter in the background. Did I say that was a bad thing? During these stressful times, there are no bad cookies.

I’ve been walking on a tree-lined paved path in our neighborhood. It’s quite pleasant. The furthest I’ve ever gone on that particular route is a street called Charter. That’s my turnaround point. Who knows what comes after that? Today I am going to find out.

While I am grateful to the medical community for all the excellent treatment I’ve received over the years, my expectations are high, and I am disappointed when they do things that are not in my best interest. Nothing bad happened, but you could still call this a cautionary tale about manipulation and will.

I am BRCA-positive. The three biggest risks for me are ovarian cancer, breast cancer and colon cancer. I’ve already had ovarian and breast, so, you know, only one left.

Because of my BRCA status, I am on the five-year plan for colonoscopies. I’m due in 2020. I’ve never had an abnormal result, but they like to keep close tabs. At my annual physical, my primary care physician said she’d start the referral process for the colonoscopy. Faster than you can say Jack Robinson, I get a call from the gastro clinic wanting me to come in for a pre-screen.

I said, “I don’t want to do it until 2020.” I did not say, “Because my last colonoscopy was in 2015. I’m on the five-year plan. Do the math.”

She said this is just a pre-screening with the nurse practitioner. Fine. I went this week, and first off, I did not like the nurse. She had sort of a fake kindly voice but only wanted one-word answers to her questions, and I got the distinct feeling she would lock me in an insane asylum if she could. Not that she would be the first.

The pre-screen all went well, and then she said, “OK, let’s get you scheduled!” It was like the Party City ads on TV:

Oh, it’s on.

She escorts me to a room, where a clerk is ready to schedule my event. I said, “I don’t want to do it until 2020.” She said, “We don’t book that far out in advance.”

I said (in my outside voice) this is bullshit.

“I told the person who called me to schedule this appointment I wasn’t due for my five-year check-up until 2020.” She said, and I quote, “Oh.”

Then she explains I’ll simply need to call back as we get closer to the date. What? December? January? There was no specific guidance. Then for the kicker, she added, “We already sent your prep kit to the pharmacy, but don’t worry, it has a long shelf life.”

I was not amused. Because I am a worry wart, I’m thinking, what is a long shelf life? What if I drink all that crap and have to do it again because it wasn’t fresh? By the time I got home, I was hungry and pissed. I made myself a monster tuna melt with good Swiss cheese and Dale’s homemade bread, and it was comforting and delicious.

As I sat there eating what Dale called my Hearty He-Girl Lunch, I recounted the story to him. I explained my dilemma. Every five years is enough. Even though it’s just a couple of month’s difference, doing it in 2019 basically cheats me out of a year. Because next time, they will say, oh, you had it done in 2019. Your next one is in 2024, not 2025, as previously scheduled.

Of course, I could get over my snit and do it this year. I’ve already met the deductible. Nothing prevents me from speaking up and correcting this when they push for the next one in 2024. But I hate getting manipulated because they run a colonoscopy mill.

As I write this, I’m half-way talking myself into doing it after Thanksgiving but before Christmas. In the end, getting the colonoscopy done a few months earlier is no big deal if I dismiss the manipulation charges.

All vigilance is in the interest of my continued good health, right? When I remind myself I am very lucky to have survived both ovarian and breast cancer, I’m exceedingly grateful and not nearly as pissed about the colonoscopy schedule creep.

I am reminded of the quote from Mother Blues by the musician Ray Wylie Hubbard.

“And the days that I keep my gratitude higher than my expectations, well, I have really good days.”

In yet another failed social experiment, I joined a meetup group of over-50 hikers and signed up for what was described as a “brisk 5-mile walk” along an urban trail.

While the trail was fine, the walk was anything but brisk. There were a fair number of chatty slow pokes, and the leader paused every so often to let them catch up. At one point, I went ahead of the leader because the sauntering pace was killing me, but apparently you’re not allowed to get in front of the leader.

I do understand rules. They’re trying to keep everyone together and safe, but it was painful. I was eager to walk with a group, because I’ve read all the studies about social connections and well-being. However, I quickly realized you are only as fast as the slowest walker.

One of the women who was moseying along was raving about what a beautiful and perfect day it was. I was cold, because I couldn’t work up a sweat, and I was stuck behind her lumbering self, so I wouldn’t call that perfect.

I finally figured out how to slow down, although it felt like I was walking in place. I did chat with others, and it was all right, but the truth is I’d rather be alone and walk fast.

So, OK, I tried it, and I didn’t like it. I guess that means I’m still a loner. But you know what? I’m OK with that. When I was working, I thought I was anti-social because I was busy, tired, pissed or whatever. In retirement, all is revealed, and it turns out I’m just anti-social.

I’ve been like this all along, and it hasn’t killed me yet.

I used to enjoy regular massages, but it has been quite a few years since I indulged. Now that I’m retired, taking care of my body is a high priority, if not my full-time job, and I wanted to revisit the benefits of massage. My hair stylist told me about Renee, a massage therapist who works wonders with a monthly 90-minute session.

My first massage was last month. It was excellent but nothing out of the ordinary. I explained I had a mastectomy without reconstruction, and my chest is very tight. Renee dug in around my armpits, which was great because my surgery extended that far out, but she left my chest untouched.

When she was finished, I asked if next time she would be comfortable massaging my mastectomy scars directly. Of course, she said. Yesterday I went for my second massage, and it was a powerful experience.

Massage regulars know you typically start face down. Renee had already done my back and legs, and I’d flipped over so she could start on my front. As she was working on my arms and shoulders, I began to have thoughts about career disappointments. This is a subject I try to let go of, and mostly have, but sometimes the ghosts come back to haunt.

But then I started to feel the sadness of those disappointments leave my body, as though they were being purged. I felt calm and comfortable. Then she started working on my mastectomy scars – not just the armpits this time but the horizontal incisions where my breasts used to be. Renee dug deep, and I could feel the muscles relax.

I’ve always tried to be a trooper about life’s ups and downs and sometimes forget all I’ve been through with two bouts of cancer, but all of the sudden, I felt the pain and sadness of those experiences begin to float away. Not a purge this time but a gentle awakening of my body being healed.

Tears welled and then started sliding down my face. There I was, quietly sobbing as she worked on my mastectomy scars, but I never said a word. I didn’t want to break the spell. When Renee was done, she asked if I was OK, and I said yes. But I was better than OK. I felt released.

Afterward, as I sipped water in her kitchen, I tried to explain away the tears. Until that moment, I honestly thought I had no issues whatsoever about my experience with breast cancer, but in a trusting environment, her therapeutic touch stripped away my defenses, and I was able to acknowledge the pain and then let go.

Renee said massage can frequently rouse tears when there is physical or emotional trauma, and she wanted me to know she felt deeply connected to me as my tears started to flow.

So, wow, that one will be hard to top. But it makes me think more about the mind-body connection and its power to transform. I’ve never been good at meditation, but now I want to try again.

Part of me says, oh, it just felt good and you’re making too big a deal out of it. What do you think? Have you had any experiences like this with massage, meditation or something else? Do you think exploring the mind-body connection can help us recover from disappointments or trauma? Or maybe just improve the quality of our lives as we age?

Not that simply feeling good is a bad thing! If that’s all it is, I’ll take it.

I’ve read quite a few articles suggesting people who work longer stay healthier. Maybe. But I don’t think they’re evaluating people who have brutal jobs with long hours and insane politics … jobs that interfere with sleep, relaxation, exercise and proper diet. Most of those I know from that world look worn out. I certainly was.

On multiple occasions, my boss said I couldn’t take vacation. Part of our business was building and launching satellites. She finally said I couldn’t take vacation the week before a launch, the week of a launch and the week after a launch. That left only a few weeks a year when I could presumably tune out. I was not mission-critical, and I could only imagine she felt insecure and wanted her flock on hand if something went wrong.

When I retired, I had more than 30 days of vacation paid to me because I never got to use it.  Yo, girlfriend, guess who’s on vacation now?

Some people like the intense workplace, and I salute them. However, it was not good for me. I started thinking about this topic because I saw a few people from work at an event I attended yesterday, and several commented on how healthy and happy I looked.

Even the True Believers who will be there to turn off the lights have stories that make me glad to be away from such toxicity. Maybe they are stronger than I am. I lasted a long time but eventually concluded time and freedom is more important than accumulating money and stuff. I got what I needed – no more, no less.

I hope those who are thinking about retirement will ignore blanket statements that working longer keeps you healthier. Maybe – especially if you really love what you are doing – but that has not been my experience or observation.

If you’re already retired, don’t worry. Retirement doesn’t automatically mean a decline in health or well-being. Those I talked with yesterday said, oh, man, all you retirees look so great. Yes, because if you’re doing it right, whatever that means for you, what’s inside is shining through.

Me? At 64, I believe my health and happiness is shining through. My retirement job is invigorating, life-affirming and not the least bit stressful. That job is to keep moving, eat well, learn, love, enjoy simple pleasures and use cannabis wisely. Oh, and sleep. Plenty of sleep.