I'm young. I'm hip. Or I need a younger hip........

In the last couple of years of his life, my Grampa Elmer was very ill much of the time. A sweet, articulate man, who, as his body broke down, seemed compelled to share the details with anyone who was around. I managed to escape the most graphic descriptions, but my cousin and aunt were not so fortunate. The episode that always left me gasping for breath from, first, laughter, second, dry heaving, had Grampa holding out a Dixie cup full of lung butter for color inspection. My cousin beat a hasty retreat at a full gallop before viewing said specimen. Auntie, however, felt, somehow, bad about the idea of running screaming from the room. She stayed. She looked. She earned her place in Heaven.


The upshot of hearing about/living through this and other such occurrences was that I vowed, out loud, more than once, to keep my shit to myself as I grew older and aches and pains became an issue. And, let’s be clear. By, “older,” I meant 80. At least.

What I did not count on were the complications pre-menopause can cause, not to mention the genetic stomach issues I inherited from my father and grandfather. Ones I was sure they either exaggerated or brought on themselves. The results of the aforementioned afflictions have had me sick and/or bitching about feeling sick for close to a year now.

I didn’t think too much about it – much less equate it with Grampa’s ill-health epilogues - till last night when I found myself telling my 25-year-old nephew about my goddamned gallbladder attacks.

WTF

I am still a vital woman. I still have many active years ahead of me and I’m as young as I’m ever going to be. Those are only some of my positive mantras and let me tell you, I believe them. I live them.

I hiked 2/3’s of the way up a mountain last week, for God’s sake, slowed only by that raw place in my abdomen. It would have been fine had I not tried to sneak a Texas Hot (for those who’ve never had the pleasure, it’s the best thing that ever happened to a hot dog and the real ones are sold only in Wellsville, NY), bacon and baby back ribs past it in a 24 hour period. Unhealthy for anyone – masochistic for someone like me, who has a testy gallbladder and intestinal tract.

And, honestly, that’s basically everything I said to Casey, my nephew. Plus he’s a doctor, though not that kind of doctor. He was either thinking, yuck, overshare – or maybe nothing, really, because he’s known me his whole life and realizes that, post-glass of wine, thought vomit is just one of my charming (?) habits.

It was a brick over the head to me, however.

“Just call me Elmer,” I thought. Minus the sweetness, charm and loving gratitude displayed to those caring for him during his illness. Not to mention the 30 years he had on me before he started complaining.

At least I realize, right? I now know what to avoid. No more stomach soliloquys. No more speeches to my daughters about what they have to look forward to in the female department when they get to my age and how fortunate they are that I’m giving them a heads up.

I’ll go forward and live my life.

As soon as I can get up.

I strained a muscle in my hip and it’s been difficult to get around the last few days………

God, where’s the tequila?