The signs have been there for quite some time: the truth of the matter is my body is falling apart. Like most humans, I have been in deep denial. It started when I discovered that I was taking more medicines than ever before. Then my eye sight started to waiver requiring a stronger lens prescription for my glasses. Having never enjoyed contacts, but now frightened that my cute glasses would resemble coke bottles in order to be able to see or drive, I begged my optometrists for a solution. He suggested that bi-focals would do the trick, and told me that I could get them without the lines After all, it’s one thing to admit to one’s self that you are nearly blind, but to shout it to the world — I don’t think so.

The rest of me is going to pot as well. My thighs have started to rub together when I walk making it nearly impossible to sneak up on anyone. While both knees are in competition to see which one of them can creak the loudest when I bend over. However, the final insult happened yesterday when my breasts failed the pencil test, with the pencil disappearing completely from sight. I just hope that I won't need to write anything down until I locate it.

This past Monday I went for my annual physical. After taking my blood pressure and my pulse, thus determining that I was still alive, the nurse sent me across the hall to have my blood drawn to be tested. That’s when the problems began. Having always been told that I have small veins, (the only thing on my body besides my feet) ever described that way, I wasn’t too worried about my lab work. 

Once in the Lab I made a fist, and the technician slapped my arm a few times seeking a vein. After my one good vein decided to play hide and seek, she started slapping my left hand, found a vein that she thought was good, and immediately stuck the needle in. Unable to stand the sight of blood I starred at the ceiling of the lab. Then I started humming a little ditty — anything to take my mind off what she was doing. However, once she inserted the needle, that vein also fizzled out. So she went back to the original arm. Again nothing! By now I had a bruise the size of a silver dollar on my left hand that I could see despite the bandage she put on it, and another the size of a dime in the right arm --without any blood being drawn to show for it. I asked her not to stick me a third time and said I’d try it again another day, maybe.

Someone once remarked that ‘growing old is not for sissies.’ While another once remarked, ‘age is something that doesn't matter, unless you are cheese.’ But in the meantime I plan to enjoy the few ‘good parts’ that I have left, as long as I can. And I’ve suggested that my husband do the same.