May

It's almost May.  I'm sure you know that already, but it somehow crept up on me this year-- along with the other four months that proceeded it.  I'm still writing 2011 on my checks and trying to find the Valentine card I bought for my husband-- but still can't find.

May-- already!

Thinking about the past four months of this year has me wondering what the heck I've been doing.  I certainly haven't blogged very much, although this is my 450th post.

I flipped though my calendar-- The old fashioned paper kind because I just can't seem to part with a big page and a month's worth of "to dos" noted all in one place, and realize so far this year I've...

--Been to various doctors 17 times-- mostly routine visits, or at least for nothing major.  Some of my docs are close to free city parking lots.  Other parking garages charge $13.50 with no street parking available anywhere.  Ouch.

--Stopped at my new favorite fabric store 12 times and purchased 26 total yards of fabric.  This shop owner is smart and is located close to a $2.00 per hour parking lot.

--Made 5 quilts with some of the above mentioned fabric and have 3 more quilts in the works.  I suspect this is where most of my spare time has gone but I'm on a roll at the moment and warm weather is coming which is not "sewing season" for me.

--Attended one 150th birthday party for 2 great friends who celebrated their 75th birthdays together.  And I attended a 102nd birthday for a dear friend who is mentally sharper than most people I know.

--Tired unsuccessfully to get tickets to the Bruce Springstein concert this past weekend-- The concert that received such a rave review in the newspaper that I was green with envy when I heard a friend was actually there.

--Seven cakes have been in my oven, all from scratch and made for celebrations with family and friends.... except for the one chocolate cake I reallllly needed to cheer me up after one of the above mentioned doctor's appointments.

--Watched more basketball on television with Husband asleep in the chair next to me than I can count.  He's the basketball fan.  I am not.  What's wrong with that picture?

--Dreamed of my own garden filled with tomatoes and herbs but remembered I do not have a green thumb when it comes to vegetables so I promised my BFF I'd help weed her gigantic garden if she shares her harvest with me... She would anyway but I'm making a conscious effort to pick weeds every week.

--Pulled 47 recipes from various magazines but have yet to make a single one. I need to work on that.  Not sure if I'll stop saving recipes or start cooking more.

--Bought a bathing suit online.  Note to self: Big mistake.

--And, I picked my first arm load of white Iceberg Roses of the year.  These are for you.  I'll be around soon to visit.

How's your Sunday?
Welcome to www.TheFiftyFactor.com  -  Joanna Jenkins
Top Photo Credit: © Jitka Laníková - Fotolia.com

In A Rut

"June Gloom" is the term used by weather gurus in Southern California for the gray skies that kick off our summer. In actuality, the gloom spills into July too but the month of June officially gets stuck with the gloomy title.

I'm fairly close to the Pacific Ocean so in addition to the constant gray haze, we get a bit of damp fog, along with the usual LA smog and dirty air too. It all adds up to decent temperatures but gloomy days..... Kinda like how I've been feeling lately.

I can't blame it all on June because the gloom has been knocking on my door for a while now. No one thing is bringing me down, but I'm in a rut that is getting deeper and deeper as time goes by despite some really joyful events in my life. Even on the rare sunny afternoons, when the gloomy gray skies burns off before the sun sets, I'm still "in the pits" as we used to say back in the 70s.

For nearly a year I've been reading Christine Forest's blog-- Doctor Forest that is. She's a successful LA psychiatrist with an easy way of explaining things that often leaves me feeling encouraged with ideas and a fresh outlook.

Today I discovered Christine is offering a free e-course titled "A Six Point Self-Guide to Healing and Happiness". It's a weekly newsletter with no strings attached and I signed up for it. I thought some of you might find it of interest too so I'm sharing the link.

Note: I was not asked to promote this program nor am I being compensated in any way. It's just that after reading Dr. Christine's blog for nearly a year, I'm confident she will provide useful and helpful information-- And maybe I'll pull myself out of this rut before summer's over.

An introduction to her course is HERE and will give you a good idea of what to expect. The e-newsletter link is in her right sidebar.

Happy weekend everyone. I hope the skies are blue and sunny in your world.

Welcome to www.TheFiftyFactor.com - Joanna Jenkins

Photo Credit: © jeancliclac - Fotolia.com

Health Care At Our House & UPDATE

Update: Day Thirteen and Attila's son: "His care has truly been wonderful. We are so grateful to all the dedicated professionals who have been working hard to save his life." Click HERE for the latest news. And if you have a good joke to send them, they could really use a little humor right about now!

Growing up in a family with five kids, it seemed every other week one of us was going to the pediatrician for something.

"Doc" was his name, or at least the only name I ever knew or called our pediatrician-- There was no first or last name that any of my siblings or I can remember. Anyway, Doc was a big, tall guy with cold hands, that part I remember clearly. His office was in an old house with a huge wrap-around front porch located on the main drag of town, about five blocks from our home.

He was one of those small town doctors that gave out lollipops with string handles that, much later in life, I learned were "safer" than suckers on a stick. As a kid, I remember thinking a string sucker was a sorry excuse of a "reward" for getting a shot in my butt. And I always seemed to require a shot every time I saw the doctor.

Doc took care of us through the mumps and chicken pox, colds or the flu, a couple of tonsil surgeries and a broken bone or two. He was a nice guy, very caring and always sympathetic to my Mother's worry about us kids. And he even cared for a few of my nieces and nephews when they were babies before he retired.

His receptionist, Miss Gloria, was another story. She was, in a word, mean. And scary. She never smiled, never had anything nice to say and never said anything other than "Your bill today is....". I'm pretty sure she was a relative of Doc's but they were not married. Miss Gloria was older than dirt. Doc was only older than Moses.

Back in the 1960s Mom didn't carry a checkbook. Dad handled all the money, so we were always billed by the doctor. It worked that way for everyone. Doctors didn't "demand" payment before seeing you back then like most of the medical profession does today.

Each month on payday, Dad would sort through the medical bills while Mom recounted what each doctor's visit was for and which kid had been sick. They'd also try to budget if follow-up medical visits might be required the next month so they could set extra money aside and try to stay ahead of the doctor bills.

Dad had a payment "system" for Doc. He swore every time the pediatrician's bill was finally paid in full, one of us kids would get sick again. And he was usually right. So, when times were tough and money was tight, Dad managed our "health care system" by always having an open balance at the pediatrician's of $1.00. He firmly believed that an open balance with Doc helped keep us kids healthy and our medical bills manageable. Now that I think of it, Dad applied the same system to the dentist and the veterinarian too.

As I said before, there were five kids in our family. Mom swears all five of us were planned and welcomed-- None of us were "surprises" as they say. But after baby number five, Dad decided to leave a $1.00 balance open with the OB/GYN doctor too and that was the end of kids for our family-- The ultimate in health care cost control.

I hope you're having a healthy year.

Welcome to The Fifty Factor - Joanna

Photo Credit: Dejan Jovanovic

Prayer

Dear Blog Friends Near and Far,

Regardless of what you think about the H1N1 "Swine Flu" virus, the endless media "hype", or if it's even a real pandemic or not. And regardless if you think the "bad stuff" you hear on the news only happens to a few people-- Today it hit home for me when I read my dear blog friend Atilla The Mom at Cheaper Than Therapy.

At 4:30 Sunday morning, she wrote a post about her son catching a cold a few days ago. She brought him some cold medicine and he said he was feeling better. Later, when his girlfriend came home from work, she found him unresponsive. He's in the hospital, in septic shock and respiratory failure due to complications from the H1N1 virus. He has pneumonia in both lungs and is on a ventilator.

When I read her updated post HERE I knew I had to do something, anything I could, to reach out to help her son.

I am a firm believer in the power of prayer so I ask you to PLEASE, take a moment, read her update and PRAY for her son.

Thank you.

xo

Joanna

Meet Christine

While I'm on vacation, I thought I would share a newer blog that I've been following by Dr. Christine Forest. This particular post made a lot of sense to me because it reminded me of what I'd done, in part, with my blog. I feel like I've "found my tribe" in so many of YOU. Thanks a million for your kindness, friendship and support over these past nine months. I appreciate it more than I can say.

So go check out Christine's blog to see what I'm talking about. When you get to her main page, scroll down a little to read "Finding Your Tribe-- Living Well Among Like Minded People".

Hope you're having a great week. Vacation is paradise. And now I'm closing my laptop for the rest of the day. Ahhhhh....

PS Christine painted the above picture!

Welcome to The Fifty Factor - Joanna

Born An Old Lady

"She was born an old lady and is working her way backwards." That's what my ballet teacher told my mother, about me, when I was ten years old. I had no idea what she meant at the time and I thought long and hard about it before I decided it probably wasn't a compliment.

Miss Erin, the ballet teacher, was elegant and grand and the most beautiful dancer I'd ever seen. I wanted to be just like her when I grew up. But she called me an "old lady" and she wasn't implying I was mature for my age.

After a few weeks of worrying about being a "geezer", I finally broke down and approached my mother on the meaning of the comment. Mom smiled and turned it into sweetness and nice and explained that Miss Erin thought I was a "very serious dancer". In actuality, I was a very intense kid and Miss Erin was calling me a stick in the mud.

Over the next couple of years, I made it a point to lighten up around the dance studio and especially Miss Erin. But truth be told, I was a stiff, kinda boring and an extremely serious little girl. I don't think Miss Erin noticed my new found light-heartedness but eventually I out grew it.

I think.

No, I was never a true "party girl" or the life of any party for that matter, but once I stopped studying ballet, when I was 18 years old, and started listening to rock and roll and then disco, life got more fun. In my 20s I started becoming more adventurous, saw a bit of the world and, dare I say, became slightly "hip", in a Granny kind of way.

I've thought about the "old lady backwards" comment many times over the years, especially on my 40th and 50th birthdays. The older I get, the more I like the sound of it, not that I'd ever want to be Benjamin Buttons. But, best case scenario, I figure at my current age of 51 1/2, I should be about 35 years old today if I'm going backwards. And I like the sound of that.

Thirty-five was a great age-- Actually all of my 30s were mostly good and it was an exciting time in my personal and professional life. If I had the opportunity to "get stuck in a decade" it would definitely be my 30s.

Today, news reports often talk about people living well into their 100s. Although that has appeal to many, it does not float my boat. Unless I could go back and stretch my younger years to last longer, I have no desire to spend MORE time in my "golden years". I know my health and my body and I know it's not going to be a walk in the park. Simply put, I will not be one of those 80 is the new 70s kind of gals. I'll be more like "80 is the new older than Moses" women.

Yes, life should get easier as we age because we learn from our past mistakes. Yes, yes, yes, blah, blah, blah. I get the aging gracefully concept. But what doesn't appeal to me is more years of my body breaking down, my mind fraying, my finances diminishing because I'm living longer, and the likes.

Sure I take good care of myself and do the best I can medically, but as one doctor so *ahem* eloquently put it recently, "as you age, your body begins to wear out and yours is". He was, in fact, bracing me for the possibility of a pacemaker, hip replacement, cataracts and the likes in my future-- my near future.

So much for working my way backwards, huh? Somewhere along the way I hit the "fast forward" button by mistake. Damn!

I've long since given up my little girl dream of being a prima ballerina/tap dancing teacher/fashion designer. Heck, I've given up my dream of being tall too-- A good thing since I've shrunk a full inch. But lately I've dwelled on the "old lady working her way backwards" comment that was made more than 40 years ago and I'm thinking now might be the time to finally embrace those words and start dreaming again.

Sure, my aching 50-something body is what it is, but if joints need replaced-- then thank gawd they're available! If my eyes need bifocals, at least they aren't Coke-bottle thick and come in designer frames. And, I dodged a pacemaker once before so maybe if the need comes around again, it'll be simpler than an oil change at Jiffy Lube.

No, I'm not knee-deep in a medical crisis, it's one of "those days" and this is a pep talk for myself. Sometimes a girl just needs one-- or a kick in the pants, take your pick, but today I'm going with the pep talk. Being 50-something, and the aging process often feels like a full time job. Today, this working girl is going to start thinking like a 35 year old and hope my aches and pains get the message.

How old you you feel today?

Welcome to The Fifty Factor - Joanna

Photo Credit: © Maceo - Fotolia.com

What Did He Say?

To say I'm not a fan of the dentist is an understatement! But then again, who loves getting their teeth cleaned or drilled? Not me, I'm a wimp, but it's one of those things you just have to do and get it over with.

On my Monday visit, I noticed a definite change around my dentist's office. Gone was the perky hygienist who'd been cleaning my teeth the the past six years. Gone was the receptionist who always called the day before an appointment to reconfirm and gone with my happy, friendly dentist. In his place was a crabby guy who looked just like my regular dentist only this guy had a full-on attitude and a giant chip on his shoulder.

Apparently, the sagging economy has made it's way to the dental biz and he was not happy about picking up the slack. He'd laid off staff and was once again a "working stiff" doing the "grunt work". Yep, he actually said those words. It was early so I gave him the benefit of the doubt and thought perhaps he hadn't had his morning coffee yet.

Dentist went on to grouse about being "reduced" to cleaning my teeth and having to "lug around" the lead x-ray apron all by his lonesome. Let me tell you, there was a lot of moaning and groaning, huffing and puffing, and whining going on, and it was only 8:15 in the morning! I wanted to speed dial Starbucks for a delivery to shut him up.

The poor pitiful doc had to do his own charting too-- Which made me wondered where his pen had been before my oral exam because each time he picked it up to write, he then threw the pen back down on my chart and stuck his rubber-gloved hands into my mouth again. I'm guessing he does that with all his patients. It gave me pause and a couple of WTH? moments.

While he was digging around in my mouth for the cleaning, I squinted to read his framed diplomas hanging on the walls. He was so rough I figured it must have been quite a while since he'd taken a class in "gentle" cleaning. Low and behold he graduated in 1973; I'm sure he'd forgotten most of what he learned.

Doc Dentist has joked over the years that he "can't make any money off my mouth". I'm lucky to only have two cavities in my 51 year old teeth, but now, apparently, it wasn't a joke anymore. With his hands and a couple of instruments jammed in my mouth, my lips stretched wider than the Grand Canyon, exasperated, Doc asked if I'd recently had my teeth whitened, which I had-- at Brite Smile. That prompted a rant about how tough business was for him. Um, okay, but he doesn't offer Brite Smile.

Oblivious to my discomfort and squirming from his polishing drill jabbing my mouth, Doc then launched into a sales pitch for a $17 tube of whitening tooth paste. Yes, seventeen dollars and it was for a "travel size" tube! I scanned the room for a mirror to see if I wore a stupid face that day.

Doc was working it too-- non-stop-- brighter, whiter, fantastic, blah, blah, blah. I'm making hand gestures of "no thanks". He kept talking. I give him a thumbs down. The sales pitch continued. I try to make "no thanks" noises while he nearly drowns me with the water spray. Finally I close my eyes with my hands folded tightly together so as not to give him the middle finger salute.

At last I was allowed to rinse and he asked how many tubes of toothpaste I wanted. I ignore him. "How about some new sparkle mouthwash to go with it?" he asks! "I'll give you a good price."

Did I step into The Twilight Zone, Let's Make a Deal or the friggin nut house without realizing it? My dentist was hocking unnecessary stuff to beef up his sales? What's next-- Amway, Tupperware, Avon?

By now, my head is ready to poop off my shoulders and frankly, I'm none too please by the strong arm sales tactics. I wiped my mouth, dried my face and pulled bits of mystery stuff from my hair before I turn around and firmly, but politely, said no thank you. One. Last. Time. Then I walked out to the billing station.

The doc wrote up my $30 co-pay invoice himself and asked for CASH! When I gave him two twenty dollar bills he told me he didn't have any change. Huh? I offered a check or credit card. Nope, he only accepts cash now. So I folded my arms and said I'd give him twenty now and mail him a check for ten or HE could make change, but I was not leaving him forty bucks-- As if the extra ten dollars was a tip?!?!

Houston we have a problem. We both stood there with our arms folded in a stare down.

Tick, tick, tick....

He blinked first.... And actually pulled a wad of cash out of his pants pocket and handed me ten bucks!

As you might imagine, I did not get the usual free toothbrush and dental floss in the little plastic bag with smile faces on it. And I did not pre-book my next appointment in six months. Oh yeah, and he doesn't validate for parking anymore either.

Can anyone recommend a good dentist-- without an attitude?

Welcome to The Fifty Factor - Joanna

Photo Credit

Glass Half Full

In my continuing quest to view my glass as "half full", I consider my dry eyes (Sjogren's syndrome) a little "perk" of having lupus. I've had lupus for nearly 20 years and the Sjogren's "perk" for the last seven.

In a nutshell, the silver lining, so to speak, is that my eyes don't make tears, so I don't cry with tears-- Not ever.  I couldn't squeak a tear out if my life depended on it, even at my most emotional times, therefore, I never have to worry about "mascara tears".  See what I mean about my glass being "half full"?  No more make-up running down my face.  How's that for positive thinking!

It's a strange feeling though, not having tears when I cry, and honestly, crying is a lot LESS productive without them. I actually feel silly crying, because without the waterworks, it's just a series of funny looking facial contortions.  As a result, the physical part I used to feel when I cried simply does not happen anymore.  Look in the mirror and try boo-hooing without tears and you'll see what I mean.  

So basically, I haven't cried in years and that makes for significantly less drama in my life!  Instead, I channel my sadness, angst, anger, stress, happiness, joy, love or excitement in other ways-- Sometimes it works great, but sometimes, I'm left wishing I could just have a great long cry like Diane Keaton in "Something's Gotta Give" when Jack Nicholson dumped her.  That was a "wail" of a good cry and eventually she felt better!  Crying can be a good thing and sometimes I miss it.


Something's Gotta Give

The thing that bugs me about my lack of tears is that, I'm pretty sure, when I'm not crying and should be, people wonder what I'm up to-- as if I'm not hearing, feeling, participating or caring, when I really am.  Yes, I am taking all the emotions IN, I'm just not releasing them with a flood of tears.  This leaves some people wondering about my sincerity.

Take funerals for example-- I've attended more than my share lately-- No tears! Not even when my heart was breaking as I delivered a eulogy for a longtime friend. Everybody in the place was sobbing and passing Kleenex except me.  Grieving, without the benefit of a good tear cleansing, takes much longer, by the way.

On the flip side-- Weddings-- I used to cry like a baby at weddings.  I love them!  All that joy, the love, the hopes and dreams.  I always carried my make-up with me to weddings so I could "fix my face" after a good cry.  Not necessary anymore. 

In a crisis, I look like a pillar of strength because I'm the only one not crying.  At times like these, the doctor, Rabbi, police officer, funeral director, or the likes, usually walk straight over to me-- as if I know what the heck to do.  (Ha!)  In those cases, my inability to cry isn't suck a great perk.

How about sappy chick flicks, corny love songs, Hallmark card commercials?  Bring 'em on!  I don't even whimper.

Menopause mania, hormonal swings, volatile emotions- Cry me a river, right?  Not!  Oh sure, I can be a crazy woman, but I'm not crying.

Watching President Obama's inauguration would normally have left me in a puddle of emotions.  That was a day I will never forget, but my eyes were bone dry. Watching Sarah Palin resign early as Governor of Alaska would have left laughing so hard I cried-- Instead I just laughed, and laughed, and laughed-- dry-eyed.

That's the really good news-- Laughing until I cry is one emotion that has not changed despite my Sjorgen's.  And all I can say is thank gawd!  There is nothing better than a great, big, throw my head back, heeheeheehee, snort through my nose (embarrassing), roaring, fall on the floor and laugh hysterically until I can't speak, kind of belly laugh.  Even without the waterworks, all the joy, feelings, emotions, and hysteria are still firmly in place, regardless if tears aren't rolling down my face.  And for that, I know I am truly blessed, despite my chronic medical issues.

My vision is not impacted by my dry eyes, at least not yet, but I get it checked all the time.  I'm not a fan of the prescription eye drops I could take to help the dryness. They burn like a trip to hell so until I must take them, I'll be the driest eyes in the house.

When I was first diagnosed, life expectancies for lupus patients were discussed in "five year" increments with less than favorable odds.  It scared the living daylights out of me.  These days, lupus has come a long way baby-- diagnosis isn't followed by the "get your life in order" speech and medical progress is slowly being made.  

Over the years, lupus has occasionally had its way with me, but all-in-all, I've been lucky and have successfully dodged medical bullets.  I'm holding up pretty darn well. 

When I council other lupus patients, I remind them that a good sense of humor goes a very long way when dealing with the disease.  I share medical "war stories" and what I call my "lupus bloopers" to help ease their concern and to show lupus is usually pretty manageable.  If I can get a big belly laugh of of them, well, all the better I say-- even if tears aren't rolling down my cheeks.

Is laughter your best medicine?

Welcome to The Fifty Factor  -  Joanna

Be Still My Heart

"Be still my heart" had a whole new meaning for me last year. For some unknown reason, mine started beating really F A S T. Three hundred times a minute kind of fast! I felt like a human vibrator. The cardiologist called it an arrhythmia somethingorother.

I'd had early warning signs of a shaky heart and was armed with a small monitor to press against my chest during a "big vibration". It's a weird sort of take-your-breathe-away feeling and you wonder why your chest is suddenly possessed and pounding like a jack-hammer-- and for so long! In my case, I'd vibrate for 45 minutes at a time!

The silver lining, if you could call it that, was getting to know my local, and might I add, very cute, paramedics. Four handsome guys would run into my house just to see me! I felt special.

The first time those happy hunks arrived it was a little embarrassing. They'd brought in all their equipment and I just assumed they'd want to hook me up to the EKG like they do at the doctor's office, so I took my shirt off. "Not necessary Ma'am", the Captain said sweetly as he attached the electrodes to my ankle. Oy. I turned red and refrained from asking for mouth-to-mouth recessation.

As I continued to vibrate across my kitchen floor at an increasingly rapid rate, I noticed one handsome paramedic, who could easily be a shirtless Mr. July in the Los Angeles Fire Department Calendar, pulling out the defibrillator paddles. You know, the things you see on TV when the doctor yells "Charge!" then "Clear!".

Fellow fifty-somethings, if you ever, EVER, see someone coming at you with paddles like that, get your sick butt out of there. Pronto! You will not like it-- Trust me on this.

It wasn't long after that I checked into the hospital to have probes inserted into my heart exploring the source of my internal earthquake. And I was awake for it! Let me tell you, THAT was an experience, to say the last. Once the damaged portion was identified, my teenage look-a-like doctor actually froze the defective piece of my heart thereby avoiding the need for a pacemaker. Phew!

Ever since, my ticker has been just fine, thank you very much. But the "cold hearted bitch" jokes are starting to get on my nerves. And the constant "when will it defrost" question is making me nervous.

Seriously, when will it defrost?

Kidding.... It defrosts in 7 years. I'll deal with it later.

Have you met your local paramedics? I hope not.

Welcome to TheFiftyFactor - Joanna

At the Intersection of Foggy and Forgetful

Am I losing my mind or what?!?!

Today I was in such a fog that I didn't remember about plans to meet friends for dinner at a restaurant this evening. I mean, I completely forgot even though my husband and I had discussed the details at breakfast! And what do you think I did right after breakfast? I went grocery shopping to buy food, to make for dinner, at home, tonight! Let me tell you, when I finished shopping and schlepping and putting food away and then getting food out to start cooking, I was exhausted.

About an hour after the spareribs had been slow cooking in the oven, my husband asked what I was doing? Actually, he looked at me like I had three heads and asked WTF???? As I stared back at him blankly, he knew it had happened again. And-- he knew to slowly back out of the kitchen, without saying another word, so no one would get hurt.

I'd forgotten about dinner out. I hate when I forget things-- and it happens all the time!

Several months ago my memory had really gotten out of hand. I was sure I was loosing my mind and well on my way to Alzheimer's, so I talked to my doc and she recommended a full battery of neuropsych tests to see if, in fact, at age 50, dementia was setting in. Holy crap! I was so stinking scared.

So off I went for 8 straight hours of testing at a major University hospital, with a psychiatrist, in a small office, asking millions of questions that made absolutely no sense to me. I mean, I knew what he was asking, I just didn't know WHY and what on earth they could possibly have to do with my memory loss.

He started by telling me to remember the numbers 29, 18, 62, 91 and 6. I knew this test was coming so I seriously tried to remember them. That was followed by lots of picture drawing, card playing, pattern making and simple math. I was feeling pretty good because it was all so elementary and simple, and my memory was great; plus I remembered 29,18,62, 91 and 6.

After lunch, Dr. Freud stepped things up big time. I realized, to my shock and horror, that I wasn't having memory problems-- Apparently, I just an idiot!

For example, he gave me a pretty high level math test-- that was timed. And I couldn't use a calculator! When was the last time you did three dozen calculus problems without a calculator-- in 5 minutes-- while you're trying to remember 29, 18, 62, 91 and 6? To be honest, I never even took calculus in school but I guarantee you, if I had, there would definitely have been a calculator in my hand!

Then, after freaking out over the math, Dr. Freud started asking me random questions like who's the Queen of England (duh), Marco Polo (I had to think about him for a minute.), where the Grand Canyon was located, stuff like "Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader?". I was holding my own, right up until he asked me to name the Continents-- You know, North America, South America, Antarctica, Australia, Africa, Asia and Europe.

Sadly, at that very moment, and for the next painful few hours, despite being asked at least 30 more times, all I could think when asked to name the Continents was-- Poughkeepsie, New York! What was that about!?!?! Oh, and I remembered 29, 18, 62, 91 and friggin 6!

This type of memory loss-- the kind where information just falls out of my brain never to be seen again-- was exactly the type of memory loss that brought me to the neuropsych test in the first place! I know the Continents; I've even been to four of them for crying out loud. But as upset, and frankly embarrassed, as I was about it, I found comfort in the knowledge that finally the doc would feel my pain and understand my memory loss dilemma.

Not exactly. Dr. Freud wasn't buying it. A mental block with Poughkeepsie, NY flashing in my head was not on his memory loss radar. He thought I was just plan stupid. I know because he kept flipping back to the page with my education information listed and asked where I went to school-- As if I'd lied and it was a trick question-- And then he'd ask me to name the Continents again. Damn! I must have had loser written all over my forehead.

The testing continued for two more difficult hours. It got tougher and the questions were way out of my league! I did not remember what year Lincoln was elected president, how far the Wright Brothers flew, or how to convert inches into centimeters; and I'm not sure I ever really did. It's not the kind of dinner conversation that would stay on the tip of my tongue for decades. Nor was I able to count cards for sequencing, or retell stories with extensive details. But I did know 29, 18, 62, 91 and 6.

I felt more and more defeated as we pressed on and frankly, pretty sure I was on my way to assisted living behind locked doors in the very near future. At the end of the day, Doc sent me home with instructions not to worry and that he'd be in touch.

Two weeks later, there I was again, across the desk from Dr. Freud. He gave me my test results and assured me that I was "just fine". Alzheimer's, dementia, memory loss, whatever was concerning me was NOT an issue. Phew!

But here's the kicker-- Doc explained in way to much detail, that I am an average middle-aged woman (I cringed at his words.) with an average middle-aged education, (See, I told you he thought I was stupid), living an average middle-aged life (I need to get out more!) with an average middle-aged memory.

WFT!

And I was suppose to feel better about that! Don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled I'm not on the fast-track to Alzheimer's but what's with all the AVERAGE, MIDDLE-AGED crap?

I pressed him for more details and he politely and a bit condescendingly pointed out that "at my age" I was just fine. But if I was say, 70 years old, well then I'd be below average. And if I was 30, I'd be above average. And that was supposed to make me feel better? It did not.

Doc went on to say that my "strengths" would make me a great quilter and I have good recall for faces (but not names). Eureka! My new middle- ged career chould be making face quilts! Who knew! He also said I'm an "alpha-dog" and a "bit of a rebel". Really? Dr. Freud lost me on that so I asked which tests I took proving my, um, "strong qualities". Apparently they had to do with the card games we played-- The card games we played where I always lost!

Oy.

I hadn't talked to my gal pals about the testing in advance but now that I wasn't "losing it", I told them about my situation and the very expensive "I chould be an average middle aged quilter" tip from Dr. Freud. Apparently this type of thing is common with them too! Not the testing, the memory loss. They blamed it on menopause and had a good-hearted laugh at my expense. They called it "the fog" and "meno-brain" and I felt better. Sort of.

So now that my house smells of delicious spare ribs that we won't be eating until tomorrow night, and since I know I do not have Alzheimer's, the only thing I do know is 29, 18, 62, 91 and 6.

And you know what else? Dr. Freud never, ever, ask me to repeat those numbers back to him.

What are you forgeting?

Welcome to TheFiftyFactor - Joanna

Dermatologist To The Stars

It just so happens that my dermatologist is the same doctor several well known movie stars and some very tall, very sleek, supermodels use.  I didn't plan it that way, it just happened.  

I won't name names but, trust me, you'd be star-struck and sorry you arrived that day with zero make-up on for your skin check-up.  

How do I know a tabloid baby is in 'da house. Paparazzi. Everywhere! And they aren't taking my picture.

  

I've seen this several times at my doc to the stars.  You know an VIP is arriving because their perfectly coiffed "people" enter the office first, scoping out the joint to make sure no photographers are hiding in the very chic waiting room.  Then they carefully scan the room to make sure people like me don't have cell phones at the ready to snap a picture.   Ha! Don't they know I'm too cool for that?  I don't need no stinking pictures! Besides, I can see them in People Magazine next week.

Once the celebrity's "people" arrive, the usually sweet office staff turns cold and, well, kind of bossy as they quickly usher me to my exam room with the snap of a finger, the door slamming shut behind me.  Did I just hear a deadbolt lock?  Mine, I might add, is an exam room at the very far end of the office away from even a whiff of the Sexiest Man Alive.

Out the frosted window, I once saw a massive Cadillac SUV with super tinted windows pull up to the curb.  Out jumped two gorilla type bodyguards.  The back door opened and in a flash, the stunning super model strutted her stuff up the runway and into the office.

Once a star is "in the building", things get really intense.  The first time this happened I thought the President of the United States had arrived with a full SWAT team.  Staff practically carries the showbiz idol into the HUGE exam room in the front of the office.  The exam room door closes ever so gently, and then, silence.  It's as if no one else was in the office-- Except for the now very loud rock music in the hallway to drown out any conversation with the star that could possibly be heard by the outside world. The muscle men and assistants are outside the room standing guard and texting on their Blackberries.   

Now the doc and his staff are all in the exam room with the super star, so I twiddle my thumbs, in my tiny exam room filled with dusty file boxes and old laser equipment, as my head pounds to the beat of the music and wait.  Just my luck to have an appointment the same day as the latest tabloid sensation.  

After an hour of waiting past my scheduled time, I once cracked open the door and, shouted over the blaring music, to ask, "Is anyone home?".  The body guard glared while the receptionist jumped up and handed me a warm bottled water, assuring me it wouldn't be much longer. By the time the star exits and the doc arrives for my appointment, I could have completed an entire season of Friends on DVD.    

My exam then lasts, oh, about four minutes, start to finish.  I'm packed up with a prescription for a bleaching cream and enough skin care samples to last a lifetime.  As I arrange for my follow-up visit, I explain to the receptionist that I really can make friends but I'd prefer to avoid them at my next appointment.

Oh the price of vanity!

Welcome to TheFiftyFactor  -  Joanna

Frozen Peas, Mint Chocolate Ice Cream and a Side of Guilt

Last week, my husband had knee surgery; not a big deal in the universe, but a very big deal to him, and me. He's doing really well and following doctor's orders, I'm making sure of that.  

I'm also making sure he keeps bags of frozen peas on his knee so it doesn't swell or gawd forbid, hurt. Hubby dear, is not so great with the pain part of surgery.  

I've babied and pampered him like only a devoted, loving wife could.  The other day, for example, I gently unwrapped the huge, bowling ball-sized bandage from his knee and cleaned the three surprisingly small incisions. Then I re-wrapped his knee in Saran Wrap so it would stay dry when he took his first shower in 72 hours. And it actually worked! 

Afterwards, I helped him dry off and applied three Sponge Bob Band-Aids over the tiny holes.  He felt so much better, although he was not crazy about my choice of bandages; but hey, you work with what you have.  I parked him, again, in front of the big screen TV, elevated his foot above his knee, with his knee above his hip, just like the doctor said to.  Last, but not least, I applied two bags of frozen peas for the five-hundredth time.  He gave me a big kiss and thanked me for taking such good care of him. 

That's where the guilt comes in.

My husband knows I would go to the ends of the earth to make him happy and comfortable, and I've proven it in more ways than just the 14 bags of peas in our freezer. But what he doesn't know is that his "nurse" is hiding a carton of Dibs Mint Chocolate Ice Cream amongst all those bags of frozen peas that I keep insisting are changed every hour on the hour.

It's like this.... The Dibs would cause quite a ruckus in our household because I banned all ice cream from our home last year-- as I started gaining weight-- when I turned fifty. Seriously, no ice cream, whatsoever, except Rum Raisin, and who the heck cares about Rum Raisin!  I sure don't.  Bless his heart, my husband went along with the ban to be supportive.  It helps that he actually likes Rum Raisin and can eat it directly from the Haagen-Dazs carton since no one else will touch it; but he often comments that a little chocolate would be a nice change.   

My guilt began with the knee injury.  I stressed out about his surgery, and stress drives me to eat sweets; and when I spotted the Dibs in the frozen food aisle opposite the vegetables, I swear, I heard the angels singing-- cheering-- calling my name-- Nurse Joanna, we're here for you!  And I bought a big tub of those calorie-laden mint ice cream delights all covered in chocolate, despite my constant bitching about my expanding waistline.  It was just one of those moments and well, ice cream happens.

To make matters worse, I have not shared the Dibs with my poor, sore-kneed husband.  In fact, he doesn't even know they are in the house-- Which technically they aren't.  They're hidden in the extra fridge in the garage, behind all the frozen peas.

Oh the guilt.  The shame.  The increased stress.  So, when I went to the grocery store to pick up new "generic" Band-Aids today, I bought another tub of Mint Chocolate Dibs because I'd eaten all of the first bucket without sharing a single nugget with my beloved, and well, I wanted more.

Here's the dilemma--  I did not buy plain Chocolate Dibs-- his favorite, I bought Mint Chocolate Dibs, which are my favorite. So not only am I hiding banned contraband, I'm also blowing the whole devoted wife award by not being all that thoughtful about my "patient".  The Dibs were an impulse buy for me, not a "my husband would loves this buy" for him.  

I know.  I'm a bad wife....

So, should I tell him-- share some-- fess up and "own" my ice cream shame?  

As I sit in the kitchen typing, the Dibs only a few yards away, I'm thinking long and hard about my decision-- Right up until my husband hollers "Honey, I need another bag of frozen peas please!".  I gulp down a couple of Dibs, wipe the cat-who-ate-the-canary smile off my face, and take him his frozen peas-- Just, frozen peas.

On my next trip to the grocery store, I'll buy him his own carton of Chocolate Dibs.

What would you do?

Welcome to TheFityFactor  -  Joanna

What To Expect When You're Menopausing

Researching menopausal symptoms seems to be my full-time job of late.  I have a variety of other chronic illness that have accumulated over the years-- nothing major, just mostly annoying ones, so I often feel the need to compare the chronic crap to the budding menopausal side-effects now targeting my increasingly freaky body.

I thought I had a fairly good understanding of what was in store for me during "the change" but quickly realized I needed a modern day "What To Expect When Your Menopausing" type of book.  

Seriously.  If you have a baby, you can read a step-by-step narrative on what's happening to your body, practically daily, for a full nine months.  Then there's a second book to tell you what to expect, moment-by-moment, for the first 12 months of your little tike's life. That's hugely helpful!  Why isn't there one for menopause?  A simple, week-by-week wrap-up on menopausal happenings, would be a best seller!  I know it would be a much bigger book because menopause is not wrapped up in nine or twelve little months, but I'd buy that book no matter how big it was, as long as it's not a book associated with a celebrity, product or service someone is trying to hock me.  That doesn't count.

I know, I know, every woman is different, so are the drugs to take for it.  It's not cookie-cutter, I get that, really I do.  But come on-- I just want a blow-by-blow on what to expect, when to expect it, and a few pointers on when the hell it will be over! Is that too much to ask? Apparently so, because I've yet to find "the source" for all things menopause.

In my quest for answers, I discovered something absolutely shocking.  Did you know there are as many as THIRTY-FIVE symptoms of menopause?  I sat straight up in my chair when I read that tidbit of horrifying news. Until that moment, I only knew about the "top eight". (Irregular periods, decreased fertility, hot flashes, sleep issues, mood swings, weight gain, hair loss, and dryness you know where.)

But THIRTY frigging FIVE symptoms????  Who the hell counted and why didn't they tell anybody-- Like my doctors-- who continuously dismiss my whining about these wacky symptoms, or my best gal pals?  I know some things are embarrassing and potentially pretty unattractive, but really, someone could have pulled me aside and whispered the other twenty-seven possibilities that lurk in the shadow of very hot, sleep deprived, menopausal women.

Okay, so only 5% get the "burning tongue" thing, but a heads up would have been nice.  Same goes for the ringing in the ears.  Or how about the "itchy skin" which usually turns up early in the change process?  I just read it's associated with the loss of collagen and makes you look older.  So that explains it!  

And like a late night infomercial-- Wait, there's more! Pass the tissues because some experts say menopause "increases allergies" which is not to be out-done by tingling extremities and the feeling of ants crawling all over your body.  Nice, huh?  Or the whole bleeding gum thing--  I can't even go there!

But my personal, mind-blowing, fave, has to be the peculiar "electric shock sensation"-- like a rubber band snapping on your muscles-- That's a red alert for an impending hot flash.  Did you know that?  Think of it as your body's very own early warning system of a flood about to rush from your head to your toes.  Not one single person mentioned that to me-- ever.  See what we have to look forward to?!?!

No wonder menopause is kicking my ass!  And according to my research, I'm just getting started.  Damn!  It's going to be a bumpy ride.

How are you doing?

Welcome to TheFiftyFactor  -  Joanna

Adventures At The Orthodonist

It's a little weird having an Orthodontist when you're in your fifties.

It started as a 45th birthday present-- to myself.  I "gave" me braces, on my teeth-- a full set of metal for my pearly whites.  I always hated my crooked front teeth and decided it was high time I did something about it.  

It's the best thing I ever did for myself; I only wish I'd done it years earlier.

My Orthodontist, Doctor Jay, has a beautiful Beverly Hills office with lots of frosted glass and attractive dental assistants for his adult patients.  But every now and then, things get backed up and I find myself in the "boys room" surrounded by enough sports memorabilia to fill a school gymnasium.  Every inch of the walls are covered with shirts, jerseys, hockey sticks, basketballs, baseballs, posters and pendants-- literally all the sports bells and whistles you can imagine.

I'm out of my element in the "boys room".  Sports is not my thing, neither are adolescent and teenage boys with metal-mouths who look at me like I'm the old dog on the porch.

I much prefer the "girls room" when the office is over booked. It's filled with about 200 hot pink and purple lava lamps.  For the morning appointments, the lamps are just warming up and move as slow as I do-- but by the afternoon appointments the lava is like flowing, like totally awesome, and like way cool for sure.  In the girls' room I don't have to worry about being the old dog-- Teenage girls don't even notice me or my braces.

Regardless of which room I'm in at the dentist, there is not a snowball's chance in hell I would have been brave enough to wear braces as a teenager-- if they'd been an option for me.  The teen years were tough!  The teen years with a full mouth of metal-- like back in my day-- NEVER.  I'd have run away from home first.  But as a forty-something, my confidence was, in fact, strong enough to handle to jokes and wise cracks that accompanied all my metal.  At 50, check ups with my retainer are a walk in the park.

Like I said, it's the best thing I ever did.  Now if only a facelift was as simple.

Welcome to TheFiftyFactor.com  -  Joanna

Doctor Dude and the Paper Gown

After months of nagging back pain I found myself in a paper hospital gown seated on a very cold exam table waiting for my new spine specialist to walk through the door.  As I waited and watched the clock, I mentally calculated how much I used to charge my clients per hour and estimated Dr. Spine owed me about $450.

Finally the door swung open with a swoosh that sent my paper garment flying higher than Marilyn Monroe's dress over a street grate.  Dr. Spine took one look at me and immediately registered disappointment on his face.  You know how on "Grey's Anatomy" the interns are always fighting for a "good case?  Well, my case wasn't and apparently neither was I as I tried to cover myself.

My reason for sharing this moment of humiliation is simple. Women of a "certain age" should carefully pick their physicians. Dr. Spine is  NOT the kind of doc you want.  Trust me on this. Although he looked like he'd just walked of the set of "Beverly Hills 90210" and was dressed from head to toe in Armani, he was only 35 years old.  THIRTY-FIVE!  So unless you are some hot "cougar" who has the secret recipe for shaving 10 years off your 50 year old sagging, and might I add in this case, braless boobs, a 35 year old doc is not the doc for you. (Remember the paper gown ladies!)

To add insult to injury, this very fine looking man of medicine had clearly missed the college course on how to talk to middle aged women.  He totally dismissed the tears running down my face when I tried to bend and touch my toes.  When our eyes finally met, he radically proclaimed "Dude!  You're great!".  

Yes, my doctor called me "Dude".  Of course it was the last time I ever saw him again and for good reason.  How can I have confidence in a medical professional who not only looks like a kid but also talks like a kid.  Sure he has all the beautifully framed medical school diplomas hanging on the exam room walls.  And, clearly he is capable and qualified to be a doctor.  But, I just can't wrap my head around a doctor that is younger than some of my socks. 

How old are your doctors? 

Welcome to TheFiftyFactor.com  -  Joanna