I'm feeling OLD

I admit it. I lied.

The fib began two years ago, immediately after I’d written and sent my first story to The Baja Citizen and Gari-Ellen had invited me to send her more pieces. That’s when “Ramblings of an Older American Woman Living in Mexico” was born. Or more accurately – invented.  The truth: I AM an American who lives in Mexico. And I AM a rambler. What I lied about was the “Older” part.  I wasn’t older. I was vibrant, enthusiastic and felt – young. But, all that changed this summer.

For the last two years I’ve survived: a gimp knee – a legacy of Zoomba lessons; an arthritic- riddled right thumb – overuse of  scissors while sewing a Carnival costume; bunions – an inheritance from my mother; and two frightening ultrasounds of my right breast. In addition, the right side of my face is scared because of an infected saliva gland that spewed poison into my bloodstream during a tiny face-lift procedure. But, these things merely ushered me from youngish to middle-aged. It took a dog, a carpet, and an e-reader for me to become “older”.

It was June 2012. Alex and I had arrived in Escondido for our annual house sitting adventure. The day before I’d joined the digital-reading world. We’d finished dinner and I rushed toward the office with my new e-reader in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. The dog chose that moment to cross in front of my rapidly moving body. I caught my foot on the carpet, tripped and fell. I saved the e-reader, the coffee, the carpet and the dog. Unfortunately, I sacrificed my right rotator cuff.

The medical appointments began. In the U.S. you can’t walk into a clinic and request and MRI. No, first you must see a “Primary Care Physician” who orders X-rays; even though everyone knows that nothing was broken.  That’s called “protocol”. Only then can an MRI be justified. It was during this procedure that I experienced my very first near-panic attack (more about that in another article). The MRI technician wasn’t allowed to give me any information so I had to make another appointment with the Primary Care Physician who was no longer smiling. He referred me to a surgeon who I saw a week later. He said, “Surgery ASAP and begin Physical Therapy immediately”. I asked, “Will the recovery be long and painful?” She said, “It will hurt like Hell”.

That afternoon I began P.T. three times a week. I had full range of motion so I questioned the need for surgery. I got a second opinion. The doctor said, “Surgery ASAP and don’t bother with PT until after the surgery; you’ll need it!” Just as a test, I stop taking the pills for two nights. Ouch! Yikes, it hurt. I began taking the anti-inflammatories again. And scheduled surgery for November 6^th.  In the meantime, I ask questions. I begin conversations with strangers and within the first two minutes, I mention rotator cuffs. Everyone either has had a torn rotator cuff or has known someone who has. We trade symptoms and experiences.

In the meantime, all medical personal agree that I should not fall again until a year after surgery. Fifteen months is a very long time not to fall. So I’m careful. I’m aware of the dog, the carpet, and the terrain. I don’t rush anywhere. I’ve become conscious of every step I take. Alex and I have always held hands when we walk, but now I sense it’s born of fear not romance. And THAT has made an Older Woman out of me.

PS – Oh, I also need cataract surgery, too. Bummer, huh?