"My shoulder hurts," I replied.
The pain radiated through my right shoulder, neck, and upper arm for a week before I finally called for an appointment. It turns out that my right rhomboid muscle, to whom I was politely introduced yesterday*, is in full-blown spasm mode. Twenty minutes of twisting, prodding, tweaking, and vibrating later, I was told that it might still hurt for a day or two. As I type this, it's nice to know that he's right about that, at least. It hurts less, though.
I realize that "The Big 4-0" is supposed to be this big milestone. We went over that (and no, I have no nipple-piercing appointment scheduled). I accepted with grace years ago that some facts and givens in my life will either be forgotten or disappear altogether. I'm not as bothered by this as people might suspect; my near-future plans include staying in the here and now.
Over the last month or so, however, I've been gently slapped in the face with my age in a completely different way. Recently, my mother wound up in the hospital with a blood pressure spike. She's had to be careful of such things since her thyroid gave her problems (which was soon after summarily fired and evicted--"Sorry, pal, but yer just not doin' yer job") and her breast cancer recovery. The solution--a mere adjustment of her medication--was simple, but spending the day in the hospital with her (something that she will forever maintain is thoroughly unnecessary) helped to ring the bell of reminder that we're all a little longer in the tooth than we'd like to admit. (My mom, of course,
Last weekend, my brother was admitted to the hospital with a cardiac problem (it's important to note here that he's two years younger than I). His heart just kept stopping, then restarting anywhere from five to fifteen seconds later. Even with the placement of the pacemaker--one of few gadgets I have no interest in--he's still experiencing episodes and awaits further adjustment to his implant. Meanwhile, I've come to two conclusions. The first is that problems such as his can happen to anyone at any time; and although I'm in pretty good health, I know that at 40 the medical checklist gets a little longer, the diet and exercise priorities rise (inversely proportional to desire, of course), and a little more attention must be paid to such things. The second conclusion is that I'm perfectly content to continue walking into the hospital as a visitor.
As far as this birthday goes, I've already been run through the spanking machine several times: my mother made her annual early-morning phone call, my wife hid two cards in my briefcase, my daughter and her friends called from school to sing to me, my work mailbox is full of cards and candy, and my Facebook page is overflowing with well-wishes from every aspect of my life, old and new . . . .
. . . a life that's pretty full, now that I think about it. So this what forty looks/feels like, huh? Not bad . . . .
* I often find it amusing that there are so many parts and functions of our bodies of which we do not know or to which we pay no attention until they become problems. I will also never get used to having the chiropractor force loud cracks and pops out of my body in the name of "adjustment."
