Jason turned 50 in January. I think it shook him up a little, but he seemed to be handling it fine.
At least until this past Friday. Friday morning, he went in for a physical. Honestly, he probably wouldn’t have gone, but our doctor flags his heart medicine once a year and won’t refill the prescriptions until Jason makes an appearance.
So, was there bad news about his heart? No, no there wasn’t. His heart seems to be doing fine (although Dr. H wants him to stay on his meds). Was there bad news about his blood work? No, no there wasn’t. Was there bad news about anything? No, no there wasn’t. So, why the drama? We have no idea.
Evidently, his body is aging. His blood pressure was a little higher (although not worrisome). His shoulder has a touch of arthritis in it. There’s a mole on his back that we’re supposed to keep an eye on. He has a few liver spots on his face. His prostate is fine (although there was a decent amount of whining about that little test). And… wait for it… he has to have a colonoscopy. Not because there’s a problem… just because 50 is the magic age for men.
Now, I really have to muster up my sympathy for all this. First of all, please spare me the pity party about the prostate exam. Don’t even get me started on how much more invasive routine medical care is for a woman. Arthritis? Been there, done that. Colonoscopy? Been there too. Twice. Maybe that’s my beef with his beef… for me, the wheels started coming off the cart a bit when I turned 40. Here’s he’s 50… healthy as a horse… but a little surprised that his body is aging like the rest of us.
But I’ve been nice. I have. We all have. Even when we discuss future plans, and he makes comments like, “I hope my health holds out for that.” Even when he circles his arm around and mentions arthritis like he has the plague (as if he does a lot that requires that much range of motion in his shoulder anyway). Even as he realizes that he accidentally scheduled his colonoscopy for the day before the NCAA Championship Game, and I shrug and tell him casually to just reschedule the silly thing. Even when the kids wonder aloud if he’s having a midlife crisis, and he sighs and says, “Oh, I’m past midlife now. It’s not like I’m going to live past a hundred.”
Bless his heart. If I didn’t know him, love him, and trust him so much, I’d be afraid that he’d buy a sports car and find a younger woman. But… wait… that’s right… I am a younger woman. Much younger. And I have full range of motion in my shoulders too:)