Growing old is not for sissies!

That’s the favorite saying of a dear friend of mine, and it came home to roost today. Not in a big, bad way—just an annoyance. I went to see a hand surgeon because the middle finger of my right hand is hugely swollen and really crooked. I’d show you a picture, but you really don’t want to see that ugliness. It’s not new—it’s been that way for at least a year, but my family physician said it was time to check it out to make sure it doesn’t get worse. I am at this stage in my life beyond vanity about my hands, so it wasn’t a question of ugly—okay it does bother me a bit. It’s that ugly. But it doesn’t hurt, I can still bend it, etc. so the doctor said there’s no reason to do anything about it, and I was grateful. I like a conservative approach.

Still, gout conjures up visions of, oh maybe Samuel Johnson consuming gallons of red wine and countless beef roasts while scribbling in his diary. It’s an old person’s disease for goodness’ sake. I am these days trying to convince a much younger friend (mid-50s) that the way to grow old is to do it with grace, to accept that aches and pains grow more frequent, but much of the time they amount to nothing. She swears she’s going to fight it tooth and nail and mostly with rigorous exercise as soon as she is fully out of PT from a recent surgery. I don’t think this is a good day for me to talk to her.

But the visit had its social aspect. The doctor is an osteopathic physician, and I grew up deep in the osteopathic profession. When my brother and I were young we could count eighteen DOs in the family, and Dad was the president of the Chicago College of Osteopathic Medicine. The so-called cradle of osteopathy is in the small town of Kirksville, Missouri where A. T. Still first preached his doctrine of wholeness. My brother and my ex-husband trained in Kirksville, and I went to graduate school at Truman University there, then known as “the teachers’ college.” The doctor I saw today also trained in Kirksville, some twenty years after all of us.

When he asked if I understood what he was showing me on a computer screen and explaining about arthritic changes in joints, I said, “Let me give you a connection,” and the whole Kirksville thing tumbled out. It led to a pleasant discussion and a really cordial visit. But telling him was my way of saying I had some medical background.

There were other frustrations in my day, though. You may remember Cigna Dental cut me off July 31, didn’t tell me, and the whole thing was a mess. Then early this month I discovered they still had an open account for me, albeit with premium payments way overdue. I blistered their ears as best I could without being rude and thought the matter settled, bought new insurance. Today I got Cigna identification cards—I don’t know what to do with them, but I have some unladylike suggestions.

Then there’s the USPS site: I have tried for days to order stamps. Some days it tells me I don’t not have authority to access the site; other days it lets me get as far as payment and then stalls on the loading site. Whoever accused DeJoy of ruining the postal service gets my vote.

My political contributions are random—when I think someone needs a boost, I send $50 or $25, figuring many others will do the same. Again, sometimes it works fine; other times, Act Blue, the umbrella Democratic site, flashes a big “Forbidden” sign. After investigating, I have decided the problem is on their end, not mine, but you’d think s much as they beg for money, they’d work this out. Tonight I want to give to John Fetterman in Pennsylvania, but it won’t let me.

Tis the end of the day, and I have gotten diddly squat done on the things that matter to me. Morning is my work time, and the doctor’s appointment, plus a trip to Trader Joe’s, took it all up. This evening, it being Tuesday, Mary came for happy hour but tonight she stayed for supper because we planned a special dinner for her. She loves lamb but when she serves it to Joe, he says, “Not my favorite.” So tonight while he was paying tennis, we had lamb burgers and salad. So good.  A funny mistake: last night when Jordan was frying hamburger meat for taco salad, she got the wrong package of meat. As it started to cook, she said “Oh my gosh, this is lamb!” She pulled it from the flame, cooked the beef, and I made lamb burgers of it tonight. No problem.

Sweet dreams.