I question the responsibility and wisdom of sensationalising the side effects of anti-depressants and potentially alienating the very people whose lives might be saved by them.
Tragedy at Bondi Junction: Who’s To Blame?
Share this:
Do I Really Have To Give Up Drinking?
There are a multitude of crazy, irresponsible ways to die. Sky-diving, smoking and driving too fast are a few, but drinking alcohol is the latest to be targeted.
My socials are full of “get sober” campaigns and I’m beginning to think that I must be an alcoholic because each time an article appears on “How Many Drinks Are Too Much” or “How Much Happier I Am Since I Got Sober”, I flick past it.
I have always hated being told what to do or shamed for not being an influencer model of perfection who only wears white and lives in Byron, and so I will keep on drinking – albeit more mindfully.
Mindfulness is a buzzword right now and something I am endeavouring to apply to most aspects of my life. In other words, my choice to drink less these days is for reasons of my health, my decision to try to resist the dangerous lure of addiction that runs through my family tree, and because my post-menopausal body can no longer tolerate it.
These days, three drinks give me the type of hangover I used to get after a 12hr bender
Many women my age discover that our bodies no longer metabolise alcohol as well as they did when we were younger. It’s just another of those unfair, gender-biased bummers, as annoying as the fact that most men look distinguished with grey hair. There’s also the well-documented scientific link between alcohol and breast cancer, which my anxiety can’t shake off.
But therein lies the problem. Because, despite those health warnings, it is still not easy for someone anxious to give up something that has been a dependable crutch for as long as I can remember.
Even now, in what should be my twilight years, one of my favourite pastimes is to share a few drinks and good food with friends. And though, ordinarily, I wouldn’t allow a hangover to get in the way of my fun, it is hard to ignore the science.
Clearly, I have a problem with alcohol, but what I like to believe is that it is a small problem.
A friend of mine has a pleasing way of putting my concerns into perspective. She agrees that yes, we both drink more than we should. But as she also points out: No one is perfect, and there are also some negatives to stopping – social ostracisation, and permanent designated driver status to name but a few.
Yet for all the downsides of recreational drinking, it can also bring delight: for centuries, it has been the backdrop to life-affirming adventures; liquid to help us let loose.
Michael Segalov, The Guardian
Imagine how boring I would become if I stopped completely
Furthermore, I’m just as likely to die early by getting into my car each day and taking the concoction of medications I take that is likely to damage my organs. Not to mention stress, which we’ve had more than our fair share of over the past few years.
I’m not condoning drinking heavily, I suppose what I’m saying is that you weigh up the risks with the benefits. Be your own judge. Assuming you don’t slug Vodka from your water bottle at the gym or get the shakes in the morning, maybe you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.
Life isn’t perfect and neither are we
Think about those crazies who do extreme sports, who despite risking their lives each time they jump off or free-climb a mountain, are applauded. I don’t expect anyone to congratulate me for drinking, but if a glass of wine keeps me human, then why not?
Obviously, our governments want us to cut back to ease the pressure on the healthcare system and reduce abuse. And I understand that. But if we return to the driving analogy, they don’t recommend that everyone stops driving to prevent the small percentage of those who take risks.
There’s no doubt that alcohol will get me in the end. But for me, the risk is worth taking. I am working towards drinking more mindfully – in social situations and within the weekly guidelines – but as neither an irresponsible nor abusive drinker I refuse to beat myself up about something that eases my stress and gives me some pleasure.
Share this:
Ageing: Is Ten More GOOD Years Really Too Much To Ask?
The main topics of conversation on my 50+ grapevine at the moment are retirement and downsizing. Of course, the two are interlinked, and although there are a few lucky people who love their jobs and intend to carry on working until they die, the main sentiment amongst our friends at least is to get out while you still can. Most of our circle are tired of working for other people and nervous about Snipers’ Alley – the dangerous period between now and seventy – according to my brother-in-law and an old GP friend of mine – when we start falling off the perch.
I was born anxious, but I’m surprisingly at peace with the idea of death
It is hard to avoid the onset of ageing and mortality as pesky little reminders like higher cholesterol, higher blood pressure and increasing joint pain start to present themselves. Not to mention the rather scary melanoma that I was lucky enough to catch in time – a wake-up call that was, frankly, quite rude.
The surprising thing about the ageing process is that one minute you’re cruising along feeling young and carefree, and the next you’re using hand cream. And yet, despite a proclivity for anxiety, death scares me somewhat less than the journey there. It is the not knowing how and when that I find truly terrifying.
It doesn’t help that my body is self-combusting without my consent – and trust me, there’s no bigger scare than finding yourself in the waiting room of a cancer surgeon. And yet, albeit the large hole in my arm is an unwelcome reminder of my advancing years, it is slowly being superseded by other maladies.
HRT is my new bestie since my body decided to self-destruct without my consent
Despite the fact that men die younger – in many cases, indirectly linked to their refusal to go to the doctor, I believe – menopause has a drastic effect on the lives of many women, with debilitating symptoms that can last for decades. And the angst, cost and annoyance that menopause causes me have pushed me to think about which bucket list experiences to prioritise over the next ten years. The statistics might suggest that we should live to the grand old age of eighty-six, but I suspect that the reality of reaching that milestone isn’t that great if the wailing and awkward conversations about pad changes and bowel movements I overheard during my latest trip to the ER were indicative.
Can most people still climb a mountain or the steps of the Amalfi Coast over eighty? I doubt it.
I want a few more “special” summers
I would like another decade or so for my kids to find their soul mates, for though I’ve accepted I’m unlikely to ever hear the pitter-patter of tiny feet in either of their homes – unless they belong to small dogs or cats – I would love to meet their future partners.
I want a few more “special” summers to dance again and to feel the cool splash of the ocean on my face, the sand between my toes. I’d like to wear another ball dress – ideally in a size 12 – and go to a few more weddings before the funerals start.
But in the unfortunate event that I do lose my marbles before I’m ready, I hope my children stick to their promise and pluck out the hairs on my chin. I hope too that my husband sticks to his plan of becoming a fully-fledged hermit on the outskirts of some ghastly regional town that he is always trying to convince me to move to, and that if he does take a younger model, I wish her a high tolerance for dirty bench tops.
What’s on your bucket list?
Photo by Donald Giannatti on Unsplash
Share this:
Mental Illness: Love and Acceptance Must be The First Line of Treatment
Our son recently returned for a restorative stint at home, bringing with him the latest addition to our family – Sammy the cat.
Our son acquired “The Meister”, as we call Sammy, during one of the COVID lockdowns last year when he was experiencing burnout. Living alone, unable to work or look after himself properly, he was at a particularly low ebb, his imposed isolation creating the perfect conditions for someone with ADHD to slip back into depression.
Masked up, heads down, we drove through the ghost town of Sydney to meet the latest family member
Admittedly, when he first suggested acquiring the cat as a companion, I was resistant. Many friends of mine are now raising the pets of their adult kids and after almost thirty years as pet owners, my husband and I are now looking forward to a period when we can rent boujie properties again and go away without worrying about leaving them with strangers.
But despite my many (illegal) visits to my son’s apartment to try and keep his mental health in check, I could see that he was slowly sinking under the strain, and it wasn’t long before he embroiled me in his illegal mission to collect Sammy from a rescue home in the west of Sydney with some of the harshest lockdown restrictions. Masked up, heads down, we drove through the unusually quiet streets to be introduced to the newest member of our family.
“Scaredy-cat” is an understatement to describe Sammy
Sammy is the most anxious cat I’ve ever met. Skittish is an understatement. He jumps at the sight of his own shadow and even the noises his own body makes when he moves, and there were many times in the early days when I visited our son’s apartment when he hid in his litter tray to avoid me. He was never aggressive, but each time my son foisted him onto my lap, it was clear from his body language that he was tortured and planning his escape.
Fast-forward a few months and our relationship was still lukewarm. Sammy’s clear refusal to acknowledge me as the matriarch of the family or to cow-tow to my many innovative attempts to connect with him was part of the reason, but the loss of our son’s deposit on his apartment as a result of Sammy’s scratching didn’t help.
Nevertheless, I like to think I am the bigger person, so when my son returned to the family home, I welcomed both boys with open arms.
He hid under the bed for the first month
We didn’t see Sammy for the first month as he set up home under our son’s bed and each time I attempted to initiate contact, he did this impressive Houdini contortion to avoid my touch. Nevertheless, he was productive during his transition to our home, developing a handy left hook as an extra mode of defence to his hiss.
I felt some fleeting optimism when I first introduced him to treats or new toys – even though for a street cat, Sammy is surprisingly gourmet in his choice of cuisine – but each time I thought I was making progress, he slapped me back down where he decided I belonged.
It was more than a month before curiosity got the better of him and he ventured beyond the boundary of our son’s bedroom door, his progress only to be thwarted by the territorial behaviour of our terrifying Spoodle. Luna is a princess and used to our undivided attention, so each time he appeared, she chased him away and set Sammy’s intrepid exploration back another few days.
Then one day he appeared on my husband’s desk chair in his study, and even though physical contact with him was still risky, occasionally he allowed me to stroke his paw gently before swiping my hand away in disgust. My son calls this “playing” and assures me that Sammy is just as fickle with him.
And slowly, over the past month, Sammy’s steps to integrate have gone from strength to strength. They are ALWAYS on his terms – he is a cat, after all – but suddenly he is everywhere in the apartment, from the bench top when he is waiting for his food, to sitting outside my bedroom when he doesn’t think I’m looking.
Sammy is now sleeping on our dog’s bed
Evidently, whatever trauma Sammy experienced before the RSPCA found him on the streets had a lasting effect on him and he has had to learn how to trust again – something that requires patience, love and understanding. And though it is frustrating when animals don’t behave the way we want or expect them to, people with trauma are the same, like the fictional character of Marianne in the book/tv series “Normal People”.
Like our son, who several times each year experiences burnout and requires time out to recalibrate from the overwhelm of trying to meet expectations. He can’t leave the house without feeling nauseous, he stops eating and communicating and feels permanently fatigued, but because he doesn’t look disabled, there is little compassion for his struggles. He is seen as lazy, entitled, or weak in some way.
People who have lost trust are often defensive and oppositional
Like Sammy, fear makes him angry, disillusioned and defensive, but with love and acceptance – what should be the first line of treatment for people with mental illness – he starts to feel less isolated, judged and shamed. “Tough love” is the gold standard of approach to care for certain mental health issues, but it is a risky choice that doesn’t necessarily work for people who feel alone and have lost the ability to function.
In the three months since my son and Sammy returned home to live with us, we have watched them come out of their respective boxes and flourish. Slowly, we will reintroduce boundaries – which for Sammy means not scratching my rugs or chewing the leaves of my plants – because boundaries are just as important to them as they are to us. But the hope is that with some time to heal and just “be”, both will find the confidence and strength to meet the challenges of the next stage of their lives.
Share this:
Trusting The Journey: The Secret to Happiness in Middle Age
“Being in constant control of everything. The older we get the more we realize how little we actually control. And there’s no good reason to hold yourself down with things you can’t control. Learn to trust the journey, even when you do not understand it. Oftentimes what you never wanted or expected turns out to be what you need.”
The above quote is from Marc Chernoff’s article, 20 Things That Will Matter A Lot Less To You in Twenty Years. I assume Marc is younger than me and is predicting the wisdom that should come to someone my age – 50+ – but clearly I’ve been a slow learner, and it’s only recently that his ideas have started to resonate with me.
I recommend you read the post in full, because there’s a lot of useful advice in it, or at least advice I’m finding relevant to my life right now. But the idea that struck me the most was “trusting the journey”, having been a control freak who tries to fix everything my whole life – as my sister recently informed me.
Indeed, it is only now, during middle age, that I am finally accepting that I don’t have the superpower to fix everything, nor should have. No one does, not even those with the money to buy (in theory) whatever they want or need. Money may be able to buy rockets, but it cannot buy your health – as Steve Jobs found out – or love or loyalty.
This is why we must learn to trust the journey, as Marc says, and not let the frustration around our inability to control what we can’t make us unhappy or bitter.
To put this idea into context, I have realised that two things have held me back in terms of accepting my lack of control:
The first has been my preoccupation with the past and the victim persona I have allowed myself to adopt as a result of childhood trauma. Perhaps, the tendency to self-pity is ingrained in my character, because I can clearly remember an aunt telling me that I whined a lot as a child. But that tendency to whine may also have been a symptom of my undiagnosed anxiety, feelings of insecurity, or need for perfectionism to feel in control. What I do know now is that those “why me?” feelings aren’t helpful and I have allowed them over time to detract from my happiness. I’m not negating the emotional impact of childhood trauma, but constantly looking back means you get stuck in time and struggle to move forward.
The second is the amount of time I have wasted trying to change my son. I wish I could say that I have spent a lot of time trying to understand his differences, but that would be a distortion of the truth. For too long, I have tried to change him to the son we anticipated – a clone of us, I suppose – and that has caused an enormous amount of pain for both of us. My abortive attempts to “fix” him and make him fit into the hole we expected him to slot into have threatened our relationship. Worse, I suspect that my attempts to carve out his future was a way to validate our lives in some way – like there is only one way. It has taken me almost twenty-five years to understand that he must make his own journey, take responsibility for his choices, and I must trust his decisions.
I could ask myself why I had to go through that challenge – and trust me, I have, many times – but what is the point?
Without question, raising my son has made me a better person
But if someone were to ask me if what I have learned from the experience of raising our son, I would say, (hand on heart) that it has made me a better person. And trusting the journey is a much simpler way of making the most out of this precious opportunity of life.
I now understand that happiness is directly linked to accepting whatever life throws at us
This narrative is about making the best of the hand we are given. It is about accepting that there is only so much we can do to control our lives and the lives of others. I’ve had countless why me? moments during my journey with our son and there’s no way I could have prepared myself mentally for the anguish we have experienced, but when I look back on the aspirations of my twenties, I realise I was lucky – I got exactly what I wanted, to be happy and loved, many times over.
So maybe we shouldn’t be so hard on ourselves. Maybe, we should set ourselves a lower bar and measure our success by whether we can meet our basic needs, the main goal of so many less privileged people in the world. Can we put food on our table? Is our health good? Do we have a roof over our heads? Because once our basic needs are met, surely anything else is a bonus?
The wisdom of middle age and the experience of a decade of renting houses have shown me that material things – and in particular, where I live – are minor contributors to my happiness. Living in Australia, a rich country where the main focus of the lifestyle is time spent outdoors, may make that more achievable, but for me the value of my home is in its functionalism. It is a place to invite family and friends that protects me from the elements.
“‘The good life’ begins when you stop wanting a better one.” (Nkosiphambili E. Molapis)
These days, “experiences” are where I choose to place my time, money and energy. Because, finally, I understand the power on the mind of a beautiful sunset, a walk in nature, a check-in from a friend, a new food, a new cocktail or an impromptu gathering of friends. They are the things that reset me.
A minimalist lifestyle is the key to happiness
I have that terrible habit of saying things like “It is what it is,” or “What will be will be”, but not as a suggestion that I’ve given up on my dreams, but rather that I’m finally trusting my journey, and I’ve never felt less pressure in my life.
Share this:
Travelling Solo In Middle Age: It’s A No-Brainer
Unfortunately, 2022 is starting to look as unpredictable as the past two years. Just as we thought we were getting a handle on COVID, we face the threat of a global war over Ukraine and the escalating repercussions of climate change such as wild weather patterns and bushfires. There’s little hope of any real hope from either Australian political party at the next election.
COVID has left many of us shell-shocked and a little uncertain about our place in the world
On a personal note, we’ve also recently learned of several health crises amongst friends and family. Nothing major, but enough to remind us that life is short and our need to drag ourselves out of the lockdown lethargy caused by COVID. That’s why I’ve made travel my top priority over the next twelve months.
Sadly, travel doesn’t rate as highly on my life partner’s agenda – a Cancerian with an abject terror of finding himself more than five kilometres from our suburb, which he refers to as “the safety zone”. So, after several abortive missions to get him back on a plane, I decided that the best way to get him back into travel mode was a gentler approach such as a mini-break.
I wasn’t exactly in the mood for anything super-adventurous either, especially with (what was then) the recent arrival of Omicron – which, even though I’m reconciled to catching it at some point, I’m still not foolhardy enough to court.
The idea to my husband of a short trip to a neighbouring suburb was met with the anticipated response – panic – and each time I went into my his study to show him some perfect boutique hotel with irresistible “special offer”, he did just that, he planted his fingers in his ears or made those humming noises I make when he wants to discuss our finances.
Basically, he sucked every ounce of pleasure out of planning something that in my mind should have been fun
When my husband decides he doesn’t want to do something, he reverts back to the single-mindedness of a toddler – like many middle-aged men, it appears – and it became obvious pretty quickly that his strategy was to lay as many roadblocks as possible to change my plans.
Firstly, he start a ridiculously low budget that would only stretch to some tiny home in the middle of Woop Woop if we were lucky – and I don’t mean those pokey dwellings that are now deemed luxury destinations, I mean a 3-star motel on the outskirts of some mining town. Then he insisted that the accommodation was within walking distance to the beach, on the aforementioned minuscule budget.
But the biggest problem was the difference in our priorities for the break
We couldn’t even agree on what we wanted to do once we got there, if we ever got there. My perfect break incorporates fancy dinners and long lunches spent in the more eclectic range of restaurants that larger towns offer and the chance to dress up – because although there are benefits to the relaxed lifestyle on the Northern Beaches of Sydney, sometimes even I want to wear some lippy and heels.
Obviously, his biggest fear was what exactly he was going “to do” for two days with his wife of almost thirty years
Top of his requirements – thanks to a second La Nina year in which all his favourite pastimes have been compromised by rain – were good internet reception, a pub with a wide selection of craft beers, single beds, and a lock on the minibar.
The other problem was that prices of holiday rentals and hotels outside of Sydney have increased drastically since the last time we went away. Many of the Airbnb properties in our price range had stopped offering full refunds for cancellations, which made the risk of spending money (we don’t really have) on a cheeky weekender even more like Russian roulette – especially with Omicron biting at our heels.
The fear of disappointment was palpable
But, finally, after a full risk assessment of bush fires, floods, poisonous snakes and jellyfish and a full scale search of locations within a 2.5 hour drive of Sydney, from the beautiful Kangaroo Valley in the Southern Highlands – prior to the realisation on closer examination of the “dairy conversions” we could afford that their vintage styling reminded me too much of my various uni accommodations – to areas closer to home and the ocean.
Finally, I booked…
I found an apartment approximately an hour down the road in an area close enough to home for hubby to run back to if he got too homesick, in a suburb close to where we used to live. That meant, that in spite of the rainy forecast, there were many places we could revisit as well as Barangaroo, a new waterfront precinct in the city to visit for dinner one night. I won’t deny that what sealed the decision was the hotel’s motley selection of sports facilitites which I knew would appease hubby’s need to get an hour away from me do some kind of exercise each day.
The weekend was a success, BUT…
When you really think about it, life is too short to travel with someone who doesn’t enjoy the same thing. Especially, when you spend the rest of the year together. So, surely travelling solo or with like-minded people at this stage of our lives is a no-brainer? The benefits are:
- You get to spend time with people who feel as passionately as you about the trip which ensures less friction and a REAL holiday,
- Your friends tend to be more respectful and less resentful of your choices, i.e., you don’t get bogged down in the petty-mindedness that can sometimes be symptomatic of a long marriage, and…
- Travelling without your partner means you get a break from each other.
“A large 2018 study conducted by Booking.com found that 40% of 55 to 64-year old’s had taken a trip alone in the past year and a further 21% were planning to take one in the future. British Airways reports that more British men and women were over 50 on their first solo trip compared to any other country.” (The Flashpacker)
Marriage doesn’t have to be about compromise all the time
Men and women change as they get older, and research suggests that many men prefer to settle down and enjoy a quieter life in retirement – which is fair enough. Equally, many women enter a soul-searching stage, where they are looking for new new activities and challenges to empower them.
Surely, travelling solo or with friends makes sense?
Overall, our weekend was a success and even met our budget – something to do with the hotel’s location slap, bang in the middle of a small business district that is a ghost town on the weekend, perhaps. I got to wear my heels, luxuriate in crisp white sheets and fill my washbag with freebie bathroom products. Hubby got his gym – albeit his workout gear never made it out of his suitcase.
But the organisation to get us there was a painful reminder of why, prior to COVID, I had begun to travel solo, and why my husband was so supportive of that decision.
Anyone else decided that travelling solo is easier in middle age?
Share this:
Does Pain Make Life More Meaningful? How I Navigated The Shit Show That Was 2021
I have been sitting on this post for several weeks. In part, because I am struggling to write anything cohesive at the moment, and in part, because it’s impossible to turn this into a “things I was grateful for in 2021” post to wrap up the year.
I don’t think even the most optimistic blogger could reframe 2021 as a great year
Months of lockdown, fears about catching COVID, distance from family and friends, and an overwhelming feeling of helplessness have ensured that the past twelve months were a shit show for many of us.
Admittedly, our government did a reasonable job of tackling the pandemic, but who knows what the real, longterm cost will be to our mental health and the economy. And it is terrifying to think about how many other important policies have been sidetracked to save us from this virus, not to mention their lacklustre approach to climate change, ongoing lack of commitment to women’s issues, and the arrogance of our PM on the international stage.
But this isn’t a political blog, what I want to talk about today is several personal challenges I faced last year – that started with a serious health scare in February and was followed by a problematic transition into semi-retirement.
Looking back, it’s hard to believe how optimistic I felt back in January.
But our situation was different back then. Our family had just survived a lockdown Christmas and re-entered the world with the excitement of William Shatner on his descent back to earth, optimistic and eager to move onto the next phase of our lives.
On a personal level, I was so blinded by the excitement of what semi-retirement would bring me, I forgot that the finger of fate is always on the button and that it would take more than a fancy-pants new computer to fulfil my grandiose intentions of becoming the next Sally Rooney. Hence, when the emotional ramifications of the pandemic dried up my creative juices like a harsh summer in the Northern Territory and I couldn’t string even a few words together or achieve anything very much other than watching back-to-back episodes of New Amsterdam, the year started to unravel.
Was my lack of motivation caused by menopause or some greater force at work?
Was I suffering from a case of minor PTSD on the back of COVID, or had I simply underestimated the disparity between the expectations of retirement and the reality? Whatever the reason for my lethargy, my focus went out the window and I spent most of the year wandering aimlessly around the apartment, achieving very little.
The difficulties that some people experience during the transition into retirement are well-documented, but in my defence, what the brochures fail to mention is that you don’t suddenly land in some nirvana after your last day at work. You still have to balance the books, care for those in need, and worry about the unknowns under the permanent threat of a pesky virus that morphs into something even scarier each time it mutates.
Then there’s the overthinking that accompanies one’s approaching mortality. Don’t get me wrong, I am inordinately grateful to be still be here with such a wealth of choices, but what has materialised so far will require some adaptation. For example, having waited my whole adult life to implement a proper fitness routine, my body has conveniently decided to degenerate with the speed of light since I acquired my new gym membership.
I’ve lost count of the number of conditions ending in itis I’ve suffered from this year
But my biggest bete noire has been my preponderance to overthink. “Existential crisis” doesn’t cover the number of Camus moments I’ve experienced in my quest to work out my purpose now. I have days when I feel guilty about not being productive enough and days when I feel guilty about taking too much on and not making the most of this wonderful privilege of free time.
Honestly, if someone asked me what I do right now, I would struggle to answer them.
I mean I’m busy. I write a lot – although, very little worth publishing; I read and file a lot of research; I try to stay fit within the allowances of my degenerating body, and attempt to live vicariously through the lives of my children – albeit, they don’t seem as keen on the idea.
But what am I actually achieving? And do I need to achieve anything?
I have concluded that my main accomplishment this year has been my clearer understanding that LIFE IS HARD for everyone.
I have always believed that resilience is the key to happiness but in the past I struggled with the in-egalitarianism of that idea, i.e., why some people (seemingly) sail through life whilst others struggle. I never quite got the “pain makes you stronger” theory because I allowed the traumas of my own childhood to define me. I struggled to harness my pain and transform it into a strength, instead, I chose to wallow in it, allowing it to weaken and control me.
I chose to be a victim.
For a long time, victimhood has served as the perfect excuse for my inadequacies, my fragility, my tendency towards mild depression and my struggles with work and parenting. It makes sense that if your emotional battery has never been fully charged, you go flat much more quickly when faced with challenging life situations like parenting, relationship disharmony and rejection, and that increases your predisposition to mood disorders. As I discovered this year, difficult transitions like middle age or retirement – when there is more time to overthink the meaning of life – can also be a trigger.
The struggles of people who have suffered trauma are valid – as proven by research into the longterm effects on their potential and mental health – but I’ve come to understand that being a victim is neither a healthy option nor a solution to my low moods.
So how do you stop the pain?
For years, I masked my low-grade depression with self-medication. I still do, to a degree, because my anxiety-induced perfectionism and hypersensitivity ensured that the knocks hit me harder.
But this year, I had time for an epiphany. Tired of wondering why the fuck I couldn’t enjoy what (by most standards) is a pretty good life, I spent the year experimenting with different strategies and medications – HRT in combo with anti-depressants – in an attempt to change my outlook. I took the opportunity provided by COVID’s restrictions to rest, exercise harder and create boundaries in relationships that were becoming toxic. In brief, I sought a way to approach the rest of my life in a way that suits my brain.
I chose to live by two maxims:
1) “Life is shit and then you die”. Because when you expect the worst, (which you do when you suffer from anxiety), things can only get better;
2) And “Tomorrow is another day”. Because time does indeed move relentlessly forward and dwelling for too long on the unfairness and the absurdities of life is clearly a waste.
And those maxims may sound ridiculously defeatist to you, they seem to work for me.
Which brings me back to the question of whether pain makes life more meaningful?
Maybe. I haven’t experienced life from the other side, so I suppose I will never know what might have been. What I will say categorically is that, in many ways, my pain has shaped me for the better. I believe the knocks have shaped me into a kinder, more compassionate person – if not a happier, stronger one.
The writer, Paul Bloom, an advocate of this theory, agrees. He says:
“Some degree of misery and suffering is essential to a rich and meaningful life.”
I think he has a point. Maybe we do have to experience pain to understand our purpose here. The gift of semi-retirement has given me the time to look at my life more closely, to separate its different elements and compartmentalise. All those cliched strategies for people with depression – walking in nature, fortifying relationships with family and friends, standing up for my rights, and being more self-compassionate – have helped me develop more resilience and autonomy.
Anxious people like me place an inordinate amount of pressure on themselves to lead perfect lives and then, when they don’t succeed, they see themselves as failures. But as Mofiyinfoluwa Okupe’s points out in her article on Medium, though many of us may have come through the past twelve months without any outstanding achievements, we must remember that some of us have “fought different, less glamorous battles…clawed through {our} own darkness and now {we’re} standing in the light.”
Good stuff did happen to me this year: I caught a potentially life-threatening Melanoma in time, I watched with pride as my children continued to grow, I discovered the spirituality of swimming in cold water, and I fell more deeply in love with my husband. I have also been fortunate to live in a democracy that provides a wonderful healthcare system and (for the most part) promotes values I agree with.
And so, I will leave you with one final, simple quote which I hope inspires you as much as it did me, or at the very least helps you reframe your pain if it is holding you back.
“Sometimes when you’re in a dark place, you think you’ve been buried, but you’ve actually been planted.” Gratitude Addict
Photo by Motoki Tonn on Unsplash.
Share this:
I’m A Feminist, So Why Won’t I Let Myself Age Naturally?
When we came out of lockdown, I broke an Olympic record for the speed with which I booked the recolouring of my hair with my hairdresser. Ageism has a lot to answer for, proven by a recent study by Australian Seniors that showed the drastic lengths middle-aged women and men go to – from hair colouring to plastic surgery – to remain visible, relevant, and employable.
Ageism has a lot to answer for
I’m lucky, apart from basic body hygiene, I don’t have to maintain any particular beauty standards for my job, and neither am I high maintenance when it comes to my appearance. Which may be why I transitioned so smoothly into slob-dom during our restrictions. For me, living in lounge wear day and night was a dream come true, and that extra layer of fuzz on my legs made the switch from autumn to winter much less painful.
But it was a different story with the hair on my head. Like many middle-aged women, I went through the seven stages of grief as the visible signs of my age crept through my parting.
Hats and scarves helped me hide them, but my biggest low point – at the Mare Sheehan stage of rootage – was when I succumbed to smudging my roots with mascara.
I wouldn’t recommend it.
In retrospect, I handled the ever-widening salt and pepper line down the centre of my scalp with a level of grace and stoicism, and the return to my mousey roots didn’t bother me quite as much as I thought it would. So much so, the closer we got to the magical seventy percent vaccination rate required to open our salons, I began to seriously toy with the idea of ageing naturally.
So what was my midnight vigil outside my hairdressers all about? I am a feminist after all and dying my hair is a surrender to the blatant gender inequality around beauty expectations. Each time I agree to pay through the nose to highlight my hair, I’m giving into the narrative that youth trumps pretty much everything.
If I want to stay visible, I cannot look my age
It’s not like I’m one of those women who enjoy the experience of sitting still in the hairdressers for two hours, staring at myself either. I struggle to hide my disdain for the cost of my foils and the special shampoos and treatments required to maintain my hair in some vaguely manageable condition. My hairdresser is a lovely Millennial who has surrendered to my refusal to talk to her, but I’m still not sure if that unspoken rule has made our two hours together more honest or more awkward.
I can’t chit-chat inanely about the mundanities of life with a woman whose biggest daily conflict is the straightness of her hair
I know other women my age who can, but I cannot pretend to have anything in common with a twenty-something who goes out for the night around the same time I’m going to bed. Perhaps, if she had some understanding of vaginal atrophy or grumpy, middle-aged men, we might have something to work with, but I’m just not that bothered about Tik Tok and online dating at this stage of my life.
The sad fact is I like being blonde and evidently, I’m not grown up enough yet to come out as an old person. I know I should feel proud of this ageing body of mine and what it has achieved, but though I can’t control what happens to my fact is I can still control the colour of my hair
As I left the house for my appointment, my husband told me how beautiful I looked with my new “natural” hair. But I suspect the comment came from the accountant in him rather a man who has any real desire for his wife to turn into his mother.
Share this:
Why Did It Take A Pandemic To Make Me Slow Down?
“Slow down, you move too fast,” the lyrics from Simon and Garfunkel’s Feelin’ Groovy, have struck a note with me lately. As a person who suffers from anxiety, I am conscious of my tendency to rush through life without taking a breath, shortchanging myself of the full benefits of life’s simple pleasures.
I’m semi-retired, but most days I still feel like I’m chasing my tail and there aren’t enough hours for everything I want to achieve
Admittedly, my inability to say no is a big part of the problem – because I do waste hours of my week on unnecessary activities, and then get cross with myself for compromising what time I have left to do what I enjoy.
But even when I’m walking the dog, my mind is often elsewhere, thinking about that email I need to write, the call I need to make, or the machine load that needs to be emptied.
But the world won’t stop turning if I don’t empty the washing machine immediately
And on the rare occasions I allow myself to breathe, to throw the ball to the dog on the beach, or take in the natural beauty of where we live, my head clears, and I kick myself for not doing it more often.
Because, relaxing is easy, and doesn’t cost very much, and aside from my new hobby of swimming in the ocean, I’ve rediscovered many long-lost passions recently, like reading, walking, and listening to podcasts, not to mention my love of watching mindless tv series on the sofa.
I’m not saying I walk happily to the trolley bay when it’s on the other side of the supermarket car park or I don’t grit my teeth when the traffic lights ahead turn red, but I am making a conscious effort to try to walk rather than run.
Sometimes, it’s enough just to be. To be me. To be happy in my skin
I’m sure spiritualists have some fancy term for the art of “enjoying the moment” – something like unconscious mindfulness, I imagine. But each time I’ve tried to be intentionally mindful in the past, I’ve struggled to close down the tabs in my brain – this, despite my belief in the importance of living each day as if it is your last – an awareness of the unpredictability of life that was foisted on me by the loss of my mother in my teens – although, I don’t recommend it.
But if you don’t believe me and need any more convincing about the right order of your priorities in life, check out the biggest regrets of the dying, because one of the top five regrets is how much time they wasted on work rather than spending it with family and friends, or doing things that made them happy.
Unfortunately, a clink in the armour of the human brain is that many of us only realise what we have when it’s gone
Fortunately, COVID has rammed the importance of the philosophy home for me, and the physical effects of ageing are helping with the slow down. While I moan about the limitations of my body – and this year has been a real test – I am beginning to understand its language. When it lets me know I’ve pushed it too hard, I’m learning to listen to it, because those minor pains and aches quickly evolve into costly issues when they aren’t addressed.
Admittedly, it is easier to switch off or recalibrate physically than it is mentally. But another benefit COVID has gifted many of us is extra time at home. And although I’m certain my lockdown existence looks very different to the parents of young kids or essential workers, I don’t believe slowing down must necessitate being alone.
For example, when our kids were small, I used to dread the approach of the school holidays. And yet, it always surprised me how quickly the three of us adapted to the change of pace. Within a week, each of us started to slow down, to get up later, to take our time over meals and stretch out activities that we normally raced through. We communicated more, and because I didn’t have to manage that precarious balance between work, school, and extra-curricular activities, I was less irritable. Rather than the cabin fever I anticipated, we had more time and energy to try out new things, and the best days were those when we did absolutely nothing without feeling guilty about them – a foreign concept in our increasingly driven society.
It’s important to allow yourself days off, when you do absolutely nothing
Recently, a friend of mine took her two weeks of annual leave at home due to the current restrictions. At the time, she was feeling burnt out at work, and I know she was disappointed she couldn’t escape somewhere exotic for “a change of scene”. Nevertheless, she approached her two weeks with a positive mindset and a list of her priorities for her time off – relaxation foremost, with some walks, swims, catch-ups with friends, and some overdue organisational tasks if she found the time.
At the end of the two weeks, she was exuberant about her holiday at home, which had given her the opportunity to explore some previously undiscovered areas of our local landscape with friends and family, enjoy long breakfasts in the sun with her daughter, eat healthily, and replenish her sleep quota with daily naps. She returned to work re-energised, and when I caught up with her at the end of her first week back, she had rediscovered her old passion for her job.
Trips abroad, where we used to cram more into a day than we would at work, are not always what our body needs
I have fully embraced the return to simple living that COVID has necessitated, and I’m feeling quite nervous about my return to the hustle and bustle of normal life. I have to agree with Michaela Coel who mentioned in her acceptance speech at the Emmys the joys of embracing invisibility, rather than jumping straight back onto the demanding treadmill of our lives prior to COVID. I am loving this invisibility that has come with lockdown and middle-age. I have no desire to leap from our current restrictions straight back into my old life. Rather, I intend to set myself a realistic pace and be more mindful of how and when I really need to emerge from the shadows.
Share this:
Ocean Swimming In Winter: The Best Cure For The Menopause Blues
Sometime over the past few years, I lost my spark, and even though I wasn’t sure if menopause or the medication I took for my anxiety were the culprits, or even the amount of time my husband and I had spent together in lockdown together, I was desperate to retrieve it.
Impatience and irrational outbursts of anger had become a big problem that were linked (I suspected) to menopause and poor sleep, hormone fuckery, the inability to control my body temperature, and my secret fears about the life-altering changes that lay ahead.
And, clearly, emotional eating and drinking weren’t working…
And so, as we approached our seventh week of lockdown — and I found myself subconsciously plotting my husband’s death — I decided enough was enough, and determined to find another outlet for my anger.
Admittedly, I laughed when a friend suggested swimming through winter, but I didn’t completely dismiss the idea when in the past, swimming has had a calming effect on me.
It wasn’t an obvious choice. Public indoor swimming pools had been closed down in lockdown and we were in winter in Sydney, and albeit I was aware of the health benefits of swimming in cold water, I needed more convincing.
After two years of comfort eating in lockdown, the idea of contorting my body back into tummy flattening swimmers didn’t fill me with joy
And despite living in arguably one of the most beautiful landscapes in the world, I hadn’t been to the beach in a while. Two years ago, our summer was spoilt by the blanket of smoke from bushfires, and last year, my age caught up with my body — with, firstly, a painful case of bursitis in my foot, and secondly, a malignant melanoma on my arm, which entailed surgery and stitches and put an end to my weekend dips.
However, those health issues did provide an epiphany of sorts, (or the cliched “wake-up call”), about the importance of living each day as if it’s my last, being grateful, getting back to nature, and enjoying the simple things in life, blah, blah, blah…
And so, I decided to take the plunge
The water temperature is not warm in winter, nor indeed at any time of the year in Sydney. In fact, the only way to swim in temperatures comparable to the Mediterranean or Hawaii’s Waikiki beach in Australia, is by heading north taking your chances with the crocodiles and box jellyfish.
Hence, I admit that the thought of my first winter swim in one of our local ocean pools— originally built to protect swimmers from dangerous surf, currents, and…ahem… sharks — was hardly appealing, and in the end it was vanity that swayed my decision. Because, surprisingly, there are benefits to the crazy activity of swimming in cold water:
- It improves the body’s circulation
- It reduces stress
- It boosts the immune system
- It rejuvenates the skin
- It gives you an immense feeling of smugness
- And it eradicates any middle-aged body image issues, because NO ONE over 50 looks good in a wetsuit
Furthermore, really “cool” people like Julia Baird, Kathy Lette, and Benjamin Law swim through winter
Convinced, I ordered myself the most fetching spring wetsuit I could find in my size, a very unflattering swim cap, a pair of new goggles, and I set about preparing myself for my new adventure.
Admittedly, alcohol may have been involved as I psyched myself up for my first swim
As one of those swimmers who lingers longer around the steps than actually in the water, I knew I had to get into the water quickly for any chance of success, but as my teeth chattered and I felt the need to wee again, I strode as purposefully as I could into the shallow end and all feeling left my lower body.
Luckily, the trickles of iced water that broke through the armour of my wetsuit restarted my heart several times
The temperature of the water was around 17 degrees, but felt closer to zero. However, my new wetsuit did a commendable job of protecting me as I submerged my body with far less grace than a submarine into the icy-cold beneath me, grateful for the odd trickles of iced water that broke through the rubber and restarted my heart several times in between my underwater expletives.
Holding my breath, fully aware of the importance of keeping my heart rate up as I doggy-paddled frantically in the direction the “real” swimmers on the other side of the pool, I prayed silently that none of the lifeguards would jump into save me as a group of kids in bikinis laughed at my progress.
But I made it
And more importantly, the anger left my body as my brain switched its focus from the inadequacies of my husband to my survival. And although the smile of relief on my face nearly cracked until I located a warm spot in the water where the kids had peed, by the end of my second length I remembered why I had married him again.
Photo by Haley Phelps on Unsplash
Share this:
Why Do I Pee So Much? The Question So Many Middle-Aged Women Ask Themselves
In a vain search to reach the level of physical perfection required of middle-aged women, I’m endeavouring to drink more water.
My hope is that by upping the volume of water that passes through my body each day, I will drug a niggling kidney stone, transform my sallow complexion to the porcelain finish of my twenties, eat less, and sort out some digestive issues that started in menopause.
Basically, I’m expecting a miracle
Apparently, water is the elixir of life, and women should drink around 2L of the stuff a day. But I don’t even fulfil that criteria by counting my coffees, Sloe gins, and the desperate slugs my body demands after every attempt at exercise.
And none of them count, anyway.
The biggest problem I have with water is my body’s refusal to retain it long enough to do any good.
It’s like I have some structural issue whereby my oesophagus extends all the way to my urethra and there are no STOP signs along the way.
I’ve worked out the issue is not solely related to my shoddy pelvic floor – from birthing two babies, one of whom weighed more than a toddler and shot from my body with the speed of a canon ball – because I can still hold on, when I have to.
Just about…
But I can literally drink a glass of water and watch it exit my body before I finish it
Fortunately, because I haven’t experienced any other side effects or discomfort, my issue points to a frequent urination problem – thank you, Dr. Google – possibly caused by an overactive bladder or decreased oestrogen, and not helped by anxiety.
A very common issue in middle-aged women.
And while I always suspected that my bladder was the only naturally active part of my body, I do need to understand how to fix the problem before I get caught in a compromising position.
So what can I do?
Obviously, I don’t need tips to get more of the stuff down me, and the suggestion of cutting back on coffee and alcohol is tricky right now – as we’re currently in lockdown in Sydney, hence not the best time to reduce two of the few remaining pleasures in my life – see self-care/mental health.
So, on the advice of a nurse friend of mine, I’m giving bladder retraining a go. I’m trying to monitor how often I go to the bathroom and delaying urination a little more each time.
Admittedly, it’s about as much fun as the name suggests and (I imagine) feels a lot like the pain addicts experience during withdrawal – my fix being the bathroom – but I am getting better at it.
There’s no easy solution, unfortunately, and in hindsight I wish I’d done my pelvic floor exercises after childbirth
But I refuse to feel ashamed about a little incontinence caused by the awesomeness of the female body. And thank God for celebrities like Kate Winslet and her confession about her problem – “I can’t jump on trampolines anymore, I wet myself” – for bringing more awareness to it.
I won’t underplay the difficulty of drinking enough water at this age, and I’m not sure that rewarding myself with food treats while I wait fifteen minutes longer to pee is necessarily helping my goal of eating less, but at least I have the clear complexion of a twenty-year-old to look forward to.
How about you? Are you struggling with frequent urination or incontinence? If so, what treatments have worked?
Share this:
I Hate Discrimination, But Is It Time To “Cancel” Blatant Stupidity?
A friend of mine admitted to me recently he is not attending social events anymore if some loud-mouthed fuckwit – with whom he has crossed paths before – is on the guest list.
I understand. I’m completely behind removing toxic people from my life. But that does gets harder in middle age when many of us – myself included – begin to like the sound of our own voice.
While I love a good political debate, but not at the expense of respect
In my view, these spats happen more often in middle age for the following reasons:
1. We seem to believe that our age and experience gives us more credibility
2. There’s a noticeable switch in the middle-aged brain towards intolerance
3. We are becoming more aware of our impending mortality, so we feel a sense of urgency about imparting our newfound wisdom – even if it is a load of old bollocks.
4. And, finally, we become set in our ways and closed off to new ideas.
The biggest problem, however, is we stop listening to others
Countless times, I’ve had to listen to some idiot make sexist comments in front of me when they know I’m a feminist. And if I dare to argue back, they backtrack with platitudes like “I was only joking” or “I was having a laugh.”
Not to mention the times our older generations feel the need to justify their archaic – often racist and sexist – views about political correctness, or indeed any change to society from what they know and understand.
‘The world has gone mad,’ they say… as if greater compassion, equality, and scientific progress are bad things
I understand our frustration with the world not being quite where we want it to be, and I’m not pointing the finger. I get as irritated as the next person when things don’t go my way. Thanks to menopause, I have an embarrassingly short fuse when it comes to people who walk slowly along footpaths, neighbours who fire up leaf blowers before 8am on the weekend, and hospitality workers whose service is slow. And don’t get me started on people who refute scientific evidence.
But unlike my friend, rather than isolate myself from the torture of listening to more vomit come out of the mouths of idiots, I’ve chosen to do my best to educate them. Not in terms of their political persuasion, I hasten to add – after all, we live in a democracy – but in terms of their compassion, listening skills, and basic manners.
That may sound arrogant – and I am fully aware that leopards don’t, in general, change their spots – but after years of countering stupid comments about the terror men feel about engaging with women since #metoo, or the rights to women’s bodies and the difficulties around consent – not really – and even why the mentally ill can’t just “pull themselves together”, I’m determined to help them see the light.
GRRR!!!!
Evidently, these people are threatened by equality, and desperate to remain in their vacuum of privilege. But I would love one of them to educate me about a) the benefits of hating on people for no real other reason than their difference, and b) the ways equality and social inclusion actually affect their lives.
‘The world’s gone mad,’ they say, while the rich get richer, our environment continues to suffer at the hands of the wealthiest corporations, and the poor are still treated like second-class citizens.
There was a time when I believed everyone had a right to an opinion…
But maybe not. Not when we’re talking about the kind of ignorance and filth spread by religious nutters and conspiracy theorists about proven FACTS – like the different gender identities, climate change, and life-saving vaccinations – which have the potential to harm others.
Personally, I have never condoned censorship or cancel culture. As long targets like Chrissy Teigen show remorse for their past demeanours, I believe justice has been served. After all, having made a shitload of mistakes in my own youth, who am I to judge the mistakes of others? And yet, as per the message I saw on a poster recently that was promoting safe practices in the face of Covid – WE’RE ONE DICKHEAD AWAY FROM DISASTER.
So, maybe there is one case for discrimination – discrimination against dickheads.
Share this:
Embracing The Menopause Belly
I caught up with an old friend recently and when the conversation turned to the inevitable topic of menopause and weight gain, I was surprised to see her stroke her belly and proudly flaunt it in my direction.
She told me she’s decided to embrace the menopause belly – a brave choice, I thought, in a society that chooses to celebrate youth and beauty over experience and wisdom, and the reason many of us struggle to adapt to the mental and physical changes caused by this stage of life.
And I’m not talking necessarily about the well-documented changes caused by menopause, such as hot flushes and brain fog. I mean the symptoms that not even women are comfortable discussing until we’re halfway down a bottle of Chardonnay and someone blurts out they’re incontinent.
Not to mention the increase in facial hair, the decrease in libido, the thinning of the hair on our head, joint pain, and for some of us, the impact on our digestive system.
I thought hot flushes during meetings were bad, until menopause attacked my digestive system
A short time ago, (and in spite of a healthy diet), there was a period when I could have powered myself to work, such was the intensity of my intestines’ reaction to certain foods I’d previously eaten without any problem. Fortunately, I managed to reduce my mortifying excess emissions by switching to a Low-FODMAP diet, but I haven’t been quite as lucky solving my memo-pot.
In spite of eating less, dosing up on turmeric, and exercising like Jane Fonda on Speed, my belly still looks like a five-month gestation
I understand our metabolism slows down in middle age – although, recent scientific research suggests that increased weight gain has more to do with a reduction in our activity patterns rather than chocolate, because as Erin Brodwin points out in an article she wrote about the problem, “As we age, we also get less active while sticking to roughly the same diet.”
And I’m also fortunate that Facebook reminds me daily about my problem area with its clever promotions of the latest pills and exercises to combat bloating. And yet, in spite of trying just about everything to tighten up those loose folds of skin left by two pregnancies – short of a tummy tuck – nothing gives.
Why do I care so much, I hear you ask?
Well, if I’m honest, I care because the media tells me I should care. Apparently, women are expected to have a flat stomach – even though the majority of men my age walk around proudly with bellies the size of small beer kegs, and the average woman’s clothing size in Australia is a size 16.
And when I struggled to find an image of a “mummy tummy” for this post, it became even more apparent to me why women struggle with body image issues.
Last Christmas, I experienced this type of gender inequality firsthand at a drinks party, when a male friend of ours greeted me with, ‘You’re looking nice and slim, Lou.”
I’m still not certain if the implication of his words was that I was a bit porky the previous time we met, or if I was finally meeting expectation, but I suspect he thought he was being polite. Whatever his reasons, I can’t imagine ever greeting a man like that.
But life’s too short for crunches, pills that make you constipated, and wearing Spanx each time you want to wear a dress
And fortunately, one of the benefits of ageing is the wisdom that comes with it, which helps us appreciate the privilege of wrinkles. And so, instead of sacrificing the last chapter of my life to the knife or the gym to get back into my size 12 jeans, I choose to be a bit more circumspect about my priorities.
I choose to carry on eating good food and drinking good wine with good people
I don’t need to fit into a bikini again. EVER. I am actually really enjoying my middle-aged invisibility at the pub and on the beach. And I’m grateful for the extra time (I used to waste on the most minimal amount of pampering) to keep challenging my degenerating brain.
That’s not to say if I woke up one morning with a flat stomach I’d demand the old one back. But there’s an old quote about controlling the things you can control, and that’s where I’ve drawn the line with my belly. Like my friend, I’ve decided to embrace its wholesomeness in celebration of my age and maturity, its awesomeness in nurturing my two babies, and its visual presentation of a middle-aged woman’s right to be who the fuck she wants to be.
Photo by Monika Kozub on Unsplash
Share this:
7 Surprising Truths That Came Out Of My Recent Health-Scare
I went through a “thing” last month. A health-scare that came out of the blue and made me look at the world through a different lens.
Followers of my blog will be aware of my propensity to over-think and many attempts to find my new “normal” in this middle-aged stage of my life. Hence, it will come as no surprise to you to hear that when my doctor called me with “bad news”, it kicked off a truly marathon session of overthinking about my life and its fuckeries.
Fortunately, on a scale of 1–10, my health scare was in reality a 1 in terms of seriousness — when compared to sufferers of terminal illnesses, and especially during these difficult COVID times, when their treatment has been compromised. And my treatment, while invasive, was marginal in terms of discomfort in comparison to the procedures some have to endure to simply stay alive. Nevertheless, it was scary enough to provide me with an insight into the question of how best to manage whatever time I have left.
The metamorphosis of my mindset over the three weeks was also an interesting experiment in resilience
As you would expect, my initial reaction to the news of my diagnosis was one of fear, anger, and self-pity, but that quickly involved into a need to be hugged, held, and sympathised with, until finally I reached a level acceptance – where I could joke about my plight and even discuss my cremation and my controversial choice of “Light My Fire” as the opening number.
My senses were heightened
But the real surprise — and I know it’s a cliche — was the way my potential, early death sentence made me look at life so differently. I was expecting to be racked by despair, for everything to suddenly appear bleak, when instead I started to view the world with rose-tinted glasses. My senses were heightened. The fear of time running out made me focus and appreciate the colour in my life, the simple pleasures, and the relationships I am often guilty of taking for granted. My doctor had switched on a timer that propelled me to cram in as much living as I could before it stopped.
There have been many times over the past few years when menopause has turned me into a cranky old bitch (my husband’s words), made me irrationally angry and resentful about unimportant stuff, and my scare provided me with the perfect reminder of what I have rather than what I don’t have.
Not that I needed it, but my scare gave me another lesson in gratitude
I can only describe the experience as a brief glimpse into how I would grieve for my own life. My mind wandered from a state of total numbness to self-pitying sessions that focused on my regrets and dashed hopes, an obsession with my bucket-list and a greater appreciation of minimalism — a lifestyle I have been drawn to in middle age — to, finally, some level of acceptance.
It’s impossible to list everything I took away from the ordeal, but below are 7 surprising truths I discovered:
- The realisation I don’t want to die — which for someone who has experienced several depressions was an awakening — and yet …
- The discovery that I’m also not afraid of dying. I came to the realisation that I am grateful for my half-century when so many others are cheated.
- The understanding that no one can understand the emotional battle you experience, unless they’ve been through it themselves. And nor will they handle the news particularly well that you have a potentially life-threatening illness. No one wants to believe the gravity of your situation or can really identify with the whirlwind of emotions that come with the territory. That’s why it is easier to limit those early days of processing the news with close family and friends.
- I felt ashamed. Inwardly, I felt responsible and judged for my situation, which is a horrible feeling when you are already coping with a potential fight for your life.
- My legacy is not what I believed. I came to the realisation that the legacy I want to leave behind is not about the paltry list of my professional achievements, it’s about my acts of service. It’s about the people whose lives I’ve touched by telling them I love them, remembering their birthday, calling them (when I hate the phone), and been there for when they needed me most; and my services to charities or the awareness I’ve contributed to charities through my writing.
- The need to change the narrative around death. I discovered the danger of the media’s drive to corrupt the meaning of death by making us believe that living longer and looking younger are what really matters, when all that does is increase our fear. Our culture’s fear of death is discriminatory and isolating for those who are nearing the end of their lives, when what they need is support.
- The importance of an equal healthcare system. True to my leftie principles, my experience cemented my belief in equal healthcare for everyone. Our system here in Australia isn’t perfect, but not only was I made to feel confident in my level of care, my scare was dealt quickly, professionally, and with compassion. That support helped me cope with the mental fear of the unknown.
Has anyone else experienced a health-scare serious enough to change the way you live?
My Midlife Mayhem 