The opposite couldn't be more true. I'm fighting it tooth and nail. In fact, I'm not sure the word, "grace" has crossed my mind as I look into the mirror at my aging face. More often I think, "Who is that?!" The face in my mind is not the same face staring back at me through the mirror.
It has come on gradually, but this has been a rough year for me. It started back in the early spring when I went for my annual doctor's appointment. "You need a mammogram," the doctor said. "I need a what.?" I replied. "A mammogram," she repeated, "All women your age get one." "You must not know how old I am," I said. She looked down at my chart. "August 1978?' she asked. "Yes! That's me," I said, "See I don't need a mammogram." "When can you come in for your appointment?" she replied.
I decided to show up for my appointment just to humor my doctor, not because I really needed one. "All women my age get one," was the pep talk I gave myself as I checked in at the hospital. They gave me this nice robe, and told me to "robe up" and go sit in the waiting room. I wasn't sure about this whole robing up, and then sitting in the waiting room thing, but I followed the instructions anyway.
When I got to the waiting room, I kept my head down because who wants to look around at strangers when you're "robed up." I sat in the corner pretending to read a magazine and planning my escape route, IF I HAD MORE CLOTHES, that is.
I finally peeked up to see the other women "my age" in the waiting room. THERE WERE NONE. They were all 105, and perfectly comfortable being "robed up!" As soon as those sweet grandmas caught my eye, they wanted to chat. The last thing I wanted to do was sit around in a robe and chat.
I knew the doctor was lying to me. No one born in 1978 was in there for a mammo except ME.
After what seemed like forever, the mammo tech called my name. I nervously followed her to her room. She tried to reassure my fears with words of comfort about how "everyone does this." She got me set up on her torture chamber, er, I mean, mammo machine and told me to hold still. "Hold still??" I thought as I gasped for breath and tears rolled down my cheeks, "What in the world else am I going to do?"
My feet were the only smart things in that room -
They took off.
Of course my torso didn't follow. I'm pretty sure these machines are what they use to train Irish dancers - you know the ones that dance moving their feet a hundred miles an hour, but their top half remains perfectly still.
Yep, that was me. I was outta there, well half of me was anyway.
After my tech had had her good laugh, (i.e. she finished the exam) she finally released me. I thought maybe falling to the floor in the fetal position or running away were probably both unreasonable, immature responses to having a mammogram, so I just stood there.
"Go to the waiting room until we get your results," the tech told me. So back I went. In my robe. Everyone else around me was smiling, but I didn't really see much to be smiling about as I curled up in the corner and waited to hear from the doctor.
Finally the tech came back in. "I have bad news," she said. My heart sank. "We couldn't see anything on the pictures, we're going to have do some more tests."
My feet took off. And this time my torso followed.....
And then there's my eyes....
"Are these lights as bright as they used to be?" I asked Dan. "I don't know," he answered me, "I'm sure they haven't changed." "Hmmm," I thought to myself. "Strange thing is, everything seems a little fuzzier than it used to also - I wonder if I have a brain tumor??" I started to panic. "That must be it," I told myself, "I can barely read the print in my Bible anymore, and it seems to have come on so fast. It's the only reasonable explanation!"
The more I worried about it the blurrier my vision became. I decided right then and there to go see an eye doctor. A random eye doctor. Any eye doctor that would see me IMMEDIATELY in the likely case I was suffering from a brain tumor!
That poor eye doctor. I'm sure he regrets having any openings that morning.
He was gracious. And kind. Not once did he suggest I see a shrink, which is, I'm quite sure, exactly what he was thinking.
"You're not dying," he said slowly. "You're aging," he said even slower. For some reason I don't think he thought I would get it. "I'm what?!" I said, "I'm only 37!" "Your eyes are aging; it happens to everyone." he repeated. He then proceeded to slowly explain to me the science behind aging eyes, and tell me that I probably had a few more good years left.
"Do you have glasses?" he asked me when my appointment was over. "Well, yes," I said. "Where are they?" "At home, of course!" I answered. "I really don't think I need them." "Maybe you should try wearing them," he said slowly again. I'm really not sure why he was talking to me so slowly, when I was speaking so fast and frantically to him.
I got home, told Dan the good news that I wasn't dying of a brain tumor, and then put on my glasses.
I took a look in the mirror. Hey! The face in the mirror looks more like my face than I thought! Maybe I won't die of aging after all!
At least not yet....
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