Is there a nice doctor in the House?
I just returned from visiting my 83-year-old aunt in the hospital, where I met one of the most arrogant doctors I’ve ever met in my life. That’s pretty arrogant.
My aunt has Stage IV colorectal cancer. To make matters worse (as if they could be), she fractured her hip last week as a result of severe osteoporosis. As her closest living relative, I am her “patient advocate.” From the day she was diagnosed with cancer almost two years ago, my aunt could count on me to stay on top of her doctors and treatment, help her maneuver and understand complicated medical processes and make certain the quality of her life was the best it could be. Up until the fracture, it’s been pretty good.
After striding into my aunt’s room today, the orthopedic surgeon immediately told us he normally doesn’t work on bone fractures but he was reviewing her case “as a favor” to her oncologist. “All I do now is elective hip and knee replacements. Five hundred a year,” he proudly announced.
Then he called me to task for ignoring his instructions to bring my aunt to the hospital sooner. ”Now the hip is broken and a rod needs to be inserted.”
After firming establishing there were no such instructions and reading aloud emails that I exchanged with my aunt’s oncologist (I felt like a defense attorney), DR. “I DON’T DO BONE FRACTURES” contritely explained the options. I asked him lots of questions too, as I’ve been doing for two years with all kinds of doctors. His speciality is bones. My specialty is my aunt.
Two decades ago, when my 68-year-old dad was dying, doctors and patients acted like Gods and their worshippers. The medical profession was sacrosanct. Our attitude towards medicine has changed—even if many doctors still think of themselves as holy.
We, the over 50 million FOF women who had blind faith in our doctors 20 years ago, now realize it’s not just okay—it’s wise—to question their authority. We’re becoming patient advocates for our elderly relatives who take sick. We’re becoming advocates for ourselves when we become the patients. We know docs make mistakes–just like we do.
Don’t mess with a FOF woman.
The quotes that come out of the mouths of FOF women are worthy of Barlett’s: Witty, wise, wacky, and all wonderful. Actually, we’re going to start our own Book of FOF quotes right here, right now. So here we go (note: I am not listing anyone’s age. Suffice it to say, everyone is FOF.)
Rise and shine
“As long as I get up in the morning, I’m happy.” –Ann, Washington, D.C.
“I think I’m fab for keeping up with our internet/computer crazed era. I refuse to be left behind!” –Deborah, Houston
“I try not to be around things that feel toxic, like bad coffee and annoying people.”–Linda, Detroit
“I don’t have any secrets. I share with everyone.” –Jayne, Dallas
“I love to share my knowledge with other women so they too can be fab over fifty.” — Melanie, Baltimore
“We’ve been breaking all the rules and reinventing ‘woman’ as we go. We are truly fabulous!”–Mara, New York
“Most women of our age have been tested and survived and know the treasure of time.” — Teri, Sierra Madre, CA.
“When we were little our princesses came from books. Our heroes went to the forests to study primates. We never lost our names. We had babies while we worked. We made sure our children expressed themselves. And we make sure our grandchildren hear all these stories.” –Carol, Oakland CA.
“It finally is all about me!” — Linda, Hudson, MA
A former friend refused to reveal her age. We’d often talk about intimate subjects—affairs to salaries—but AGE was strictly off limits. A fashion and beauty writer and editor, I think she was concerned that potential employers wouldn’t hire her if they thought she was “too old.”
Perhaps they wouldn’t have. But that was then. This is now. Fab Over Fifty women are finally coming out of the closet! Who cares what the calendar says? 48? 52? 57? 63? 85? It’s never been cooler to turn fifty.
I’m not sure how Heidi (above, right, with mom Liv) from Anchorage feels about her state’s former Governor, but I do know how she feels as she’s about to turn FOF. “I turn fifty next August, the same summer my youngest son graduates from high school and my oldest from college. When they were two and five, I became a single mom and started law school. Three years later, I passed the bar exam and finished a master’s degree in theology I had started in my twenties.
“When my sons were in elementary school, I tried to be a nurturing, hands-on, cookie-baking, field-trip attending mom, a primary provider and a law firm associate. But the relational costs were too high, so I left the firm to help start a program that provided legal services to those who couldn’t afford them.
“As my oldest son entered his teenage years, I balanced my desires as a mom, professional, and provider by becoming a career law clerk in federal court. Now that my sons are graduating and I am facing fifty full on, I wonder how I will reinvent myself. I am grateful for all that has been and am excited about all that is yet to come.”
Heidi in the mountains...no fairy tale
Heidi also manages to look beautiful, hike and have a great relationship with her 72-year old FOF mom, Liv, who just finished her second mini-triathlon.
I wonder if my former friend feels as good about herself as Heidi and Liv. Good enough to say:
What’s age got to do with it?
At 20, I was jealous of my boyfriend’s old girlfriend. I worried he’d leave me to go back to her.
Exquisite Paris
At 62, it doesn’t phase me if my husband looks at every beautiful woman on the street. And tells me how great she looks. I’m sure he loves me and only me.
At 25, my best friend thought only of herself, but I still longed for her approval.
At 62, my friends are happy when I am. And even when they don’t agree with something I’m doing, they still love and support me.
At 30, I smoked like a chimney and drank martinis at business lunches.
At 62, the thought of a cigarette disgusts me and martinis remind me of stale air and cloudy thoughts.
At 35, I was a mediocre mother.
At 62, I try to put myself in my children’s shoes all the time and nothing matters to me as much as they do.
At 40, I was so needy, I confused good sex with love, thought the world revolved around me and impulsive was my middle name. I had to be thin to like myself.
At 62, I know sex has nothing to do with love, recognize I am a speck in the universe, resist 90 percent of my impulses and am perfectly comfortable with my imperfect body.
At 45, I desperately craved the attention and approbation of a needy boss who loved to emotionally abuse his staff and a needy boyfriend who loved to emotionally abuse me.
At 62, I’ve learned to sniff out needy clients and run for the hills. My husband doesn’t have an abusive bone in his body.
At 50, it all started to come together. Thought about leaving my long-term employer and my long-term boyfriend.
At 55, I had my own business, met a wonderful man, craved friends who loved me for myself and loved my sisters like never before.
And FOF friends, like exquisite Valerie Ramsey
Fab Over Fifty RSS Feed