Okay, here goes.
Dear readers, a confession: When I turned 50, it was as if the warranty on my body expired. Within several months of that landmark birthday, I spent a week in the hospital — and several months thereafter — recovering from the effects of a blood clot. I developed sciatica down my left leg (and overcame my suspicion of chiropractors). My face started looking, well, a little saggy. The gray hair that had been lurking at my temples began a death march throughout my scalp. My eyebrows began disappearing, only to sprout on my chin and upper lip. My shoulders and hips drew strangely closer together. My once-reliable knees began to balk at stairs. And what in the hell were these brown spots on the backs of my hands?!?
Those developments, however, were trifles compared to the ultimate indignation: I can no longer depend on my ability to start and stop. I mean, you know, eliminating. And I’m not talking a little leakage problem here. This is a major gather-yourself-up, get-yourself-home, and shower-and-change problem. I cannot tell you the times I have wept with frustration and embarrassment over this.
No one warned me about it. Not a clue or a hint. My gastroenterologist was sympathetic, but not very helpful. He told me of patients who, when they begin to have physical signs that a bathroom stop is necessary, can calculate how long they have before they will be in real trouble, usually 20 minutes to a half hour. Me? I have five minutes — or less.
So, as with so many crises in my adult life, I had to find my own solution. I know the location of every available restroom in my building and on my commute route. (And I can rate them on cleanliness. Just ask me.) I know what food and beverages will likely trigger a crisis, and I know what hours of the day are particularly deadly for me. (Mornings, almost always, and immediately after I have a meal.)
And (she said, bracing herself) I have added one more item to my stash of indispensable toiletries. In my bathroom cupboard, where the tampons used to be, is a package of adult undergarments. You know: Depends, or their less-expensive generic counterparts. I also have some in my trunk and my bottom desk drawer. Now, when I have an event or excursion where I will likely be unable to have immediate access to a restroom, I take an anti-diarrheal, moderate my liquid intake, and wear the damn undergarment under my Spanx. (Believe me, no one can tell I have them on.) It has lessened my stress level ENORMOUSLY.
I have several friends who are approaching landmark birthdays of their own, and I am tempted to pull them aside and present them with a gift-wrapped package of Depends. I like to think they would ultimately thank me for it.
I would have.
April 17, 2008 at 1:27 pm
oh, this is too perfect. I’ve either got to link to it, or I’ve got to throw MidLifeBloggers.com up right now so I can post it on it.
April 17, 2008 at 3:54 pm
Ain’t it the truth? No one told me that joints would get stiff, sleeping would be an adventure, sex would be unimportant, my belly would pooch out, my eyesight would get terrible, and family life would be complicated by trying to be daughter, mother, grandmother, and wife when everyone is having differnt issues. It’s a challenge to be 50-ish. Rewarding, but challenging.
In sympathy and understanding,
Granny Sue