Learning the lessons of aging—again!

Some of us seem destined to learn the same lessons over and over again. That was my story this week, as I learned the unvarnished truth that I no longer have the digestive system of a thirty-year-old. Saturday night, the family wanted take-out from a Mexican chain which shall remain anonymous but shouldn’t—some of us need to be forewarned. Not feeling like enchiladas or fajitas, I chose a taco salad, usually a safe and tasty alternative for me. Not this time!

The salad was huge, the price high, and the meat spicy. I ate about half and put the rest away for Sunday’s lunch. Whoa! The meat had gotten much spicier overnight. I remember once making salpicon with chilies in adobo sauce. Too spicy for me the first time around, but the spiciness intensified with each passing day. I gave it to friends with a stiffer palate than mine but even they found it too strong. I was afraid of salpicon after that for years, until I had a mild and good version in El Paso. This leftover taco salad tasted like it had been in adobo sauce for a long time, and the wilted greens were no longer appetizing.

For the next couple of days my stomach felt pretty uncertain, but it was just beginning to improve when Christian made a pot of chili for our supper. Ordinarily I am a devotee of his chili, though he keeps changing the recipe. Still, this would have been fine, if it weren’t adding insult to injury. By yesterday I felt really miserable. I managed to work all morning, on an empty stomach, but gave it up in the early afternoon and took a three-hour nap. Dinner was a solitary bowl of chicken noodle soup. I decided I might possibly survive.

Last night I went to bed at nine o’clock. Nothing unusual about that—I often lie down about nine, but I get up about ten and work for a couple of hours. Not last night. I explained to Sophie we were going to bed early, turned out all the lights, brushed my teeth, and went to bed for the night. The thing about going to sleep at nine is that by four you’ve had eight hours sleep, and you may find yourself, as I did, sitting on the edge of the bed, wondering what you’re doing there, awake, at four in the morning. Not a problem. I went back to sleep and slept until eight when Soph woke me.

Am I a new person today? Not quite but headed that way. I’m beginning to think the smoked salmon in my fridge sounds good, but I’ll wait another day and stick to bland foods today. Yesterday Jordan started me on the BRAT diet—banana, rice, applesauce, and toast—but I don’t like rice particularly and we have no applesauce. A diet of bananas and toast sounded pretty limited to me.

For now, lesson learned. But it’s not a new lesson. Rather, one I keep learning over and over. Maybe it’s timely, as Jordan and I have planned lots of good food, some of it rich, for Christmas Eve and Christmas—lobster pot pie, a corn pudding with so many calories her eyes rolled. I will eat judiciously—no more dietary indiscretions.

The other day I managed to make molasses cookies. Later this afternoon, I’ll try to get the bourbon balls and a cranberry cake made. All that Christmas baking to do!

Hello, 3 a.m. – meet indigestion

Indigestion is not a word in my vocabulary. It doesn’t happen to me—at least not that I’m aware. But  three a.m. is no stranger. I rarely sleep the night through in one long sleep but rather two- or three-hour intervals. Last night the two came together.

I woke up about three-thirty with the feeling that everything in me was in turmoil, a great feeling of unease. If I sat up, I was less aware of it, so I sat up. I read phone messages, I planned a novel, I went to the bathroom too many times. But each time I lay down that scary feeling, located in the middle of my lower chest, was there.

We all know that everything is scarier at three in the morning. I thought of my friend Bobbie who died halfway out of her bed, apparently going for help. I thought of Don who, home alone, felt unwell and called 911. The parameds told him if he hadn’t called in the next three minutes, he’d be a dead man. I thought of the man I worked for who complained of back pain and it turned out to be a massive heart attack. I tried to remember what I knew if anything about silent heart attacks. I was cheered that I really didn’t think it was my heart—I had no sharp pain anywhere and I wasn’t aware of a rapid or louder heartbeat.

After an hour in which my imagination ran totally away with me, I called Jordan. Sweet, caring girl. She came out, diagnosed indigestion, and asked if I’d taken a Pepcid. “Never in my life,” I replied. She went inside for them, gave me one, and settled on the other side of my bed. The culprit she thought was that kielbasa we had for dinner plus two not-small helpings of German potato salad with it’s heavy vinegar component. I remembered the night Jordan, driving us home from Dallas, had her first-ever attack of heartburn (after barbecue sandwiches), so severe she kept threatening to pull off at the next motel.

Sophie totally puzzled by both of us in the same bed at the same time joined the party and went from one to the other, giving face licks.. I began to feel better, but it was one of those elusive things—I thought I’d feel better if I could just turn my mind off.

After about half an hour, Jordan went back to her own bed, and I finally slept. Woke a couple of times and finally got up about 8:45—late for me. I’ll be glad for a nap this afternoon, and I guess I should put some Pepcid in my medicine chest.

And kudos to Jordan for once again proving herself a good caretaker--and a loving daughter.

It’s a rainy day, good day to stay in my jammies and chill. Good plan.