A couple of weeks ago I scraped together the funds and decided to break in my Starbucks health insurance and went to see a local doctor for some minor complaints. Complaints like shooting pains in my feet after working only an hour, and the excruciating pain shooting through my hands, wrists, arms and sometimes shoulders after typing, writing or making lattes for more than a few minutes. I was sure he would tell me I had some exotic malady, and prescribe a miracle drug that would make me pain-free (and sexy). However, I was to be disappointed.
"You know, you are not young anymore."
Wow, what a diagnosis. Notyoungitis? Aged decrepititude? This is a disease I am not quite prepared to embrace, basically because the cure kind of sucks.
Hobble with me through time to last Friday. I, enamored with the heady pleasure that is health (and vision! swoon!) insurance, decided to treat my myopic peepers to a vision exam for new glasses. The optometrist performed the vision field exam twice before throwing in the towel. When I asked him what could be the culprit, he discovered lesions on my retina. The bright side, he says, is that I am not so old I need bifocals! Fabulous. My heart rejoices.
So my body is ancient, while my eyes are merely aged?
These events have caused me to do further consideration of my life. At this late age of creeping up on forty-one, I planned on having accomplished an entirely different set of goals. I did not plan on having my life's events randomly caused by others. I did not plan to be a professional reactor to people who have no idea how to react.
So it is with every bit of resolve I have not to quit all my jobs and run. Somewhere, anywhere.
Not to abandon responsibility and start living. My own life.
Not to chuck it and spend my remaining days being a drain on the system, fate, and others' nerves.
My task at this point is try to carve out a little serenity, calm, happiness even, when there's not much left to carve from.
Getting my life back might be so grand as to overwhelm me.