60 is the New Middle Age

I'm a woman of a certain age, and we do not speak of this. I haven't hit the big 6-0 yet, but it is looming. I said something to my husband about being middle-aged, and he quipped, "Really? Do you think you will live to 120?" It was then I realized that I was....old!

I live an active life. The kids are grown, I have more free time after work and on days off, and I like to spend it bicycling with friends. We took a two day tour down the coast a few weekends ago, over big hills and dramatic descents. We stayed in a hotel that used to be a vacation ranch house for William Randolph Hearst. It's kind of funky but cheap and scenic, perfect bike tour qualities. We got our rooms and showered off the day's sweat and grit, (it had been a hard and hilly 80 miles) and as I sat down on the patio overlooking the sunset, with a cold beer and a bowl of salty chips and pretzels, I got a text message from a dear friend. She is a bicyclist, rides maybe 4 or 5 thousand miles a year, and has ridden in dozens of countries. I have been lucky enough to go with her a few times. She wrote that she had bad news. She had been to the doctor and then to a test, the consensus was that she had a cancer of the colon. As I read this, a chill went through me, even though I was sitting in the sun.  There it is again, we are mortal. Even those of us that refuse to age and never slow down, gadding around the globe on bicycles, hiking when we are too sore to ride, eating our fruits and veggies with gusto, resolutely dieting off in spring the pounds we pick up in winter. Even us.

Post script: I started writing this story in October, and now it is February. My friend is okay. She had a big surgery and a rocky recovery, but all is finally well. The tumor was contained, the nodes were negative, all 21 of them. She is back on the bike and planning her next tour: Poland, maybe followed by China. What is the take home message? Live each day like it could be your last, or at least your last really good one. Start right now. And get a check-up!

The Man Who Swallowed a Spork

He was in his mid-30s, nice-looking guy, short blond hair, blue eyes. It was his eyes that got my attention. His stare wasn't vacant, but it did not meet my own. He had his boundaries, and he was not going to connect with or acknowledge anyone. He was shackled to the bed at both wrists and ankles, plus the nurses had put soft foam wrist restraints on him, mostly to protect his skin from the hard metal cuffs placed by the police. Two security guards were stationed in the hall outside his door. They were required to be present because this was a prisoner, and one who had assaulted a police officer.

According to the record, the man had been seen beating his head against a brick wall on the main street of our little tourist town. Someone called the police, who stopped him from doing this and brought him to the hospital for a medical checkup. He was found to have a mild concussion, but no internal bleeding or fractures, and he was sent back to the police station. He was placed in a cell and given food, with a plastic spork  instead of dangerous metal utensils. Later he was noted to be choking, which required another trip to the hospital, this time to remove the spork from his esophagus, which was fairly easily done by the docs.

Now they ordered PT to get the patient up and exercise or walk him, so he wouldn't get deconditioned from so much bed rest. (This is where I always come in. I'm the getter upper.) I was allowed into his room with the two-man security team.  The patient followed commands for muscle strength and range of motion testing. He was normal, strong and fit. The guards released his shackles so I could get him out of bed. He stood up, all the while focused on a point about two feet in front of his face, totally without expression. As he let me guide him to a chair, I noticed a trail of blood drops on the floor. I asked the guard to pull the curtain, then I looked under the patient's gown for the source of blood: there was a three inch wide shallow hole gouged into his buttock, fresh and beefy red, where I assume he was somehow able to rub against one of the shackles or maybe the bed itself, until his flesh opened. I left him with the guards and found his nurse, who applied bandages, and in another day or two he was discharged, probably to a psych facility like the one he was recently released from, before he decided to come visit our town.

Mental health facilities are overburdened. People who do well on their medications are released, no doubt with some kind of plan of care, but they often go right back on the street, maybe in a different town, and descend back into their personal hells, right in your backyard or on the main street of your town.  I don't have answers. I don't know what this man needed. I know we didn't fix him.