There’s something about your fiftieth Birthday that makes you confront your own mortality. It’s a major turning point and there’s no dressing it up. You remember your own parents turning fifty – and you thought they were old. Now you are them.
You have become the target audience for over-50s life insurance, funeral plans and Saga holidays and when you reach fifty-five you can then add retirement housing to your list. Advertisements aimed at you have greying, benevolent-faced men and women, sporting chinos and Cotton Traders shirts. They, of course, are beginning their fun-packed, travel-filled retirement – I, on the other hand, am desperately making up my pension years, with little chance of retiring before I have to re-apply for my driving licence.
On the health front, I liken myself, this side of fifty, to a ten year old car. Things have started to go wrong and I probably need my cam belt changing. I am not as reliable as I once was and use a lot of oil. Sometimes I have the enthusiasm and drive of my youth, but mostly I prefer a calm life and taking it easy. Just a couple of prescription meds keep my show on the road, for now. And gels. Lots of gel.
I have both longevity and premature death in my genes. My Mum died at the age of 57 from a massive brain haemorrhage. She was otherwise healthy and in good shape. According to the neurosurgeon, she had probably had the aneurysm that caused the bleed since childhood. All sorts of factors could have contributed to its rupturing, but the main one was Bad Luck. And so I wonder about my luck. Do I have some ticking time bomb inside me like she did ? Has Fate marked my card denying me my old age, or will I follow most of my relatives and reach my 80s. It would be good to know because I could adjust my behaviour accordingly.
The other week, Spring poked its head around the corner and Costa decided to refresh its frozen drink range. I had walked into town during my lunch hour and had settled down in a corner with my frozen Fruit Cooler and a piece of tiffin to watch the street outside. On taking a sip of my drink, a searing pain shot up my neck to my head, just above my eye. ‘So, this is it,’ I thought. ‘It’s the short straw I’ve picked and it all ends here in Costa Coffee !’
Of course, it didn’t. It was simply a reaction to the icy drink and after a few grounding exercises I was back planning what I was going to cook for dinner and my pain was gone.
Joking aside, though, I regularly take my blood pressure at home and I keep a couple of aspirin by our bed in case of a heart attack. Other than that life goes on as normal and I allow myself to dream about the next phase of my life, where our girls are both independent adults and my husband and I can start running around sand dunes in our chinos and walking sandals.