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Friday, August 26, 2016


Three weeks ago I went in for my annual checkup. (I’m quite responsible about this necessity. A life full of medical issues. Almost from birth. Asthma at 9. Breast cancer at 40. Sudden, unexplained deafness in my left ear at 54. My first broken bone at age 55. My newest diagnosis of full-blown osteoporosis. My ten-years'-older Sweet Hubby-MSH-who’s had two heart attacks in the past three 1/2 years. All of these things make me cautious.)

This morning, bright and early, I had to be in town at my doctor’s office for bloodwork. Nothing to eat after midnight last night. Water. (I typically have had breakfast by 7:00 a.m. I was getting a bit hangry by 7:21.)

I walked into the office at 8:04. (You’re scheduled to come between 8:00 and 9:00. I ALWAYS try to be there as early as possible. It’s a first come-first served sign-up. I’ve waited as long as 40 minutes—if I arrive at 8:15. Talk about hungry/angry/hangry.)

At 8:10, the nurse, who I’ve known now for at least five years (I’ve been seeing this family doctor for twelve years—and adore her!), asked me to sign a paper. I’d never had to do this before. Ever. She said it was a “Medicare Replacement” form.

ELC: I’m not on Medicare. I’m not old enough. I’m 62.

NURSE K (clearly not listening to me): Just sign right there and date it.

ELC: Okay. I don’t understand. I’ve never had to do this.

NURSE K: Hmmm…

As we walked to the bloodwork room, I said: “I’m going to be excited when I’m 65 and I can be on Medicare. This insurance I have—which is quite pathetic—costs me $800 a month and could go up 30% next year. If I’m lucky it’ll only be a 30% increase.”

NURSE K: You’re not 65? You don’t have Medicare?

ELC (SIGH): No. I’m 62.

NURSE K: Well, this form isn’t for you. You’re insurance isn’t listed correctly in our computer. Clearly. You didn’t need to sign it.


But here’s the thing: Again, I’ve known this kind woman for at least five years. (I LOVE NURSES.) She thinks I’m 65? She thinks I’m 65. That’s fine. What can I do? I can hope and pray I live to be 65! In three years. I’m not obsessed with aging. HONEST. Y’all know this. Truth: I don’t like my neck. I don’t like the way my flabby arms flap. (I haven’t worn a sleeveless anything for at least ten years.)  I don’t like how much I weigh or that my hair is getting thin at the top. Near my forehead. Scares me. I WILL be wearing a wig.

I’m grateful to be ALIVE. I’m grateful it’s Friday. I’m grateful MSH and I had Our Three Gals’ visiting with us Tuesday through Thursday. I’m grateful it’s the Weekend.

I’ll close with this wish for Y'all:

I hope NO ONE thinks you’re three years older than you really are (Unless you're 18 and you wish you were 21.) today. Tomorrow. Sunday.

Anytime soon.


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