I am pissed off. Cross. Crabbit. Mighty big pissed off. This ageing lark is now interfering. It is taking over. Ugh.
I’ve been pretty louche. I’ve not given a damn. I’ve given into temptation and not suffered too many twinges – of guilt or health or purse-strain. Hedonism (mostly small scale, not too risque, of the full fat, nicotine-stained, alcohol-fuelled abandonment strain) is me – I used to think.
It’s all catching up.
With a family medical history like Death’s reference book of Ways to Go – cancer (bowel, stomach, throat, lung, prostate (ok, so no threat to me there), womb); heart disease; high blood pressure; hypercholestrolaemia; diabetes; pancreatitis; depression et al – I knew that the odds were that I’d get one or other of the above and shuffle off early.
This knowledge is probably why I never could take pension advice seriously. And why I always gave into temptation. Life’s too short I’d say, then do whatever thing it was that I knew sensible people wouldn’t do.
But the years are piling on. They are loading my arteries with fat and my lungs with tar and my liver and pancreas are screaming ENOUGH and I’m facing ‘the truth’: that I need to lose weight; stop smoking (for real, everyday); never touch another alcoholic beverage and that even if I do all of that I’ll still need to take the tablets.
I have inherited the hypercholestrolaemia. I am now diabetic. And I have a referral to the Breast Clinic to investigate a lump I found a month back and which I was convinced would go away but which hasn’t.
It’ll be fine. I’m sure. One way or another. But it’s all just too grown up and old. Momento Mori. My reminder of the shortness of this life. A reprimand. My personal admonition: you are not in control Mrs S – life is.