Blogging Boomers Carnival

     The current edition of the Blogging Boomers Carnival is brought to you by Laura Lee Carter, who shakes out some of the interests of her fellow Baby Boomers -- from astronomy to writing; from food to finance; from travel to dogs.

     So if any of these topics smell good to you, go fetch the links at Midlife Crisis Queen, where you can sniff them out, chew them over and lap them up. Because as Groucho Marx was reputed to have said, "Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read."

You Knew I Never Had a Chance

     I admit, it was a long shot right from the get go. So, now, gracefully I cede my ground and deliver the dinosaur bookcase to someone who . . . who will appreciate it.

     But not before I tell you, when I delivered the bookcase, Leslie, the Goodwill store manager, walked out the front door -- she must have seen me coming -- and she was clapping her hands and wore a huge smile on her face. "Oh, I love it!" she enthused.

     I pointed out some of its merits but conceded that not everyone liked the bookcase.

The dinosaur arrives

 
     "Oh, I don't like it," she replied. "I love it. I'm not even sure if I'm going to sell it; I'll bring it to the back of the store and put my children's books on it."

     "Well, I'm glad you like it," I demurred.

     "I don't like it, I love it," she repeated as she signaled to her assistant to carry it inside. I followed her in, took a last look at my bookcase as though it was an endangered species, and said goodbye.

   

My bookcase finds a new home

No Accounting for Taste

     B and I are having a bit of a contretemps. She's being very unreasonable, in my opinion, so I thought I'd reach out to my friends in the blogosphere for some support. Because as you'll soon see, my position is obviously right, and B is just being ... impossible!

     It all started a few weeks ago when B and I were helping out at the used book sale at our local library. We were setting up, when what should come through the door as a donation but the coolest, neatest, bossest bookcase you've ever seen. It's custom made. It's homemade. By a master handyman, lovingly crafted for his child.

     Before the sale started, the ladies in charge of the book sale decided on a $50 price tag for the bookcase. But before the doors opened, they decided $50 was perhaps a bit too ambitious. They put a $40 sticker on it as the book sale began. They placed this piece of furniture in the back of the room, hoping it would draw people through the rows of books -- kind of like the way the supermarket places milk at the back of the store.

     Okay, the bookcase didn't sell for $40, so we moved it up next to the checkout counter and brought the price down to $30. Surely someone would grab it now.

     At 2 p.m. we dropped the price to $10, as a couple of the women started worrying about what we would do with this bookcase if it didn't sell at all. At 4 p.m. we marked the price at $5, but still it didn't sell, and the bookcase went into storage in the coat closet with the leftover boxes of books.

     We gave away the books -- some to the senior citizens home in town, and some to the prison up the highway. Our last disbursement occurred this past weekend when we went over to the library to help a woman load the last of the boxes into her SUV -- she is going to use the books in her literacy program and ESL classes.

     After all the boxes were gone, I spied the bookcase standing up against the back wall of the closet. "So I'll take the bookcase if no one else wants it," I ventured.

     The woman in charge of the book sale gave me a puzzled look. "Really?" she replied. "Well, go ahead, take it. We need to get rid of it."

     "Get rid of it?" I said. "It's a really cool bookcase. I can put it in my bedroom."

     That's when B came around the corner. "What's going on?" she challenged.
 
     "The bookcase," I explained. "I'm taking the bookcase."

My new bookcase, temporarily relegated to the basement.

     "No, you're not," she said, looking slightly panicked.

     "Yeah, we can put it in the corner of our bedroom."

     "No, we can't."

     "Well, alright, we can talk about that, but surely we can find someplace for it," I countered.

      "You're not serious."

     "Don't worry," I said, "it'll look good." I wedged the bookcase onto the dolly and carted it out the door. I wheeled it out to her minivan and slipped it into the back. B trailed after me, "You're really taking that?" she kept asking.

     And so, long story short, the bookcase is currently residing in our basement. I want to bring it upstairs to the bedroom. She wants me to bring it out to the curb for trash collection.

     Now, tell me the truth, don't you think it's pretty cool? One of a kind. Admit it . . .  wouldn't you like to have something like this in your bedroom? We're lucky to get it. So, come on, don't you agree it merits a special place?

Enough Money? Who Cares!

     It seems almost every day you see something on the Internet about how retired people are afraid they will outlive their money. About how we all live so long these days, and about how we will need a lot more money than we think to carry us through to the end of our days. Nobody is saving enough for retirement. Social Security is running out of money. Medicare is running out of money even faster.

     There's all kinds of advice about how to make your nest egg last for as long as you live. Buy an annuity. Invest in stocks. Cut your expenses. Watch out for inflation.

     I had a little health scare last week, and after that, when I read this money advice, it suddenly seemed so trivial. And I realized your priority should not be to save and scrimp and make sure you have money for your old age, but to take care of yourself and do the things you need to do to live long enough to get to old age.

     I don't know if I'll live to be 90 or 100. I think I'd like to -- although I know a lot of people who don't. They believe life in old old age will be a miserable experience, full of pain and loneliness, and they think they'll be happy to die at age 80 or 85. (I'll make sure to ask them if they still feel the same way once they get to be 80.) But, surely, nobody wants to die at 65 or 68 -- if for no other reason than you want to get back all that money you paid into Social Security!

     So I've spent the last week not thinking about how much money I'll need in case I live to 100, but how to give myself the best chances to get to 100 -- or at least live a reasonably disease and pain free life for the next 30 years, until I get into my 90s, and maybe to 100.

     My parents died at ages 89 and 91. Many of my relatives lived well into their 90s. I had one uncle who died in his 60s but he'd had polio as a child and suffered from diabetes his whole life. And one of my grandfathers died in his 60s, before I was born, but he picked up some disease from working in a factory for 30-odd years. I don't have to worry about diseases from a factory -- I just suffer from the maladies you get from sitting behind a desk for 30-odd years, things like carpal tunnel syndrome and a bad back.

     So I'm hoping I have the genes to keep me around long enough to allow me to collect plenty of Social Security checks.

     But I used to smoke. And I know I don't get enough exercise. And I eat too much sugar and not enough fruits and vegetables. And I have to work on my attitude, too. Happy people live longer than people who are depressed. I'm not depressed, but sometimes I get a little too moody, or disgruntled, or too critical of the world.

     In the fall of 2009, I lost about 15 pounds, partly to improve my health and to take some weight off my sometimes-painful knees and ankles. I've put back on about 6 or 8 of those pounds. I've got to shed those recidivist pounds.

     I lost that weight in part by giving up sodas and sugary drinks. But the truth is I've been backsliding on that, and I know that soda and anything else with high-fructose corn syrup is not just fattening but is bad for you in other ways as well. And so is sugar. And so are too many carbohydrates.

     So I've recently gone back to drinking water. I also need to eat more veggies. B always serves a vegetable with dinner. But I have to make a point of eating some veggies during the day as well -- raw carrots or a tomato or a green salad. This is a good time to resolve to eat more vegetables because they're just starting to come into season, and fresh ones are so much better than the frozen or canned variety.

     I have to fill up on more fruit as well. I can have raisins with my morning cereal. An apple or a banana during the day. If I could only be satisfied with a piece of fruit for dessert at night, instead of lobbying for cake or cookies, or falling to the siren song of ice cream. (I'd love to hear: what is your dietary nemesis? Mine is definitely ice cream.)

     I do belong to a fitness club, but my attendance lately has been very sporadic. I resolve to go more often -- at least twice a week, maybe three times. And do more walking as well. Or at least play golf.

     B and I like to go dancing. That's not only good exercise, but it helps your social life as well. And all the research says the more friends you have, the more connected you are to a community, the better your health will be.

     Dancing is also something B and I like to do together; it helps to keep our relationship strong, and we all know a good intimate relationship will help you live longer -- or if by chance it doesn't, it sure makes your time here a lot happier.

     As of right now, I'm not worried about having enough money to support me until I reach a hundred. Instead, I invite you share with me a much more important goal -- to make the adjustments in our lives that will ensure we get there at all, hopefully pain free and in good health.

A Little Health Scare

     It started as a small, barely perceptible pain on the right side of my chest. It occurred a few weeks ago, after I'd been doing some work over the weekend. It didn't concern me. I thought maybe I'd pulled a little muscle.

     After a couple of days, the pain -- it wasn't even really a pain, just a "feeling" -- seemed to migrate to the center of my chest. Maybe I hadn't pulled a muscle. Maybe I'd breathed in dust or mildew and it was causing some congestion. Regardless, I thought, it would clear up in a few days.

     But it didn't go away. I developed a little cough, and it felt like there was something caught in my throat. The pain wasn't there all the time, but as soon as I thought it was gone I'd lie down to go to sleep at night ... and there it was. Especially when I lay on my back. If I slept on my side, I didn't get the feeling. But if I woke up in the night to go to the bathroom, when I crawled back into bed, there it was. A little pain in my chest -- nothing major, just something knocking inside, refusing to allow me to ignore it, reminding me that, yes, it was still there.

A chest X ray -- not mine

     A week went by, then ten days, and it didn't go away. I got a little worried. I went to my computer and called up WebMD and the Mayo clinic site. Chest pain. They advised me to seek medical attention immediately. But I knew they were thinking "heart attack," and I was pretty sure I wasn't having a heart attack. I have no history of heart disease in my family; my cholesterol counts have always been good; and besides, if it was a heart attack I would have been dead ten days ago!

     The sites wanted to know if I had any other symptoms. Body aches? No. Increased sweating? No. Decreased appetite. No. Cough? Maybe a little. Fearful? I had to admit, I was getting fearful.

     I searched through the list of possible maladies. Common cold. I didn't think I had a cold, because I wasn't sniffling. Allergies? I checked the pollen count, and it has been high. I didn't have itchy eyes or other symptoms, but I've had mild allergies in the past, so I bought some Claritin and took it for a few days, but it didn't seem to make any difference.

     My symptoms didn't get any worse. They didn't get any better. Indeed, the pain, or the "feeling" seemed to move around in my chest. First it was on the right side, then in the center, then on the left. Then lower down. Was it possible I had some kind of stomach issue?

     I checked WedMD and the Mayo clinic again. Got past the warnings of a heart attack. Could I possibly have COPD, or sinusitis, or bronchial adenoma (whatever that is)?

     Then I saw it: Lung cancer. And that's when I did break out in a nervous sweat. I have a history of cancer in my family -- not lung cancer, but my brother had cancer; several females in my family have had breast cancer; even my dad eventually died of cancer although it wasn't until he was 91.

     I went on to do a little research in small cell cancer (the most deadly) and non-small cell lung cancer (the most common). There are over 200,000 new cases of lung cancer diagnosed every year -- about the same number as prostate cancer or breast cancer. But breast cancer kills only about 40,000 women per year, and prostate cancer kills only 30,000 men; while lung cancer is far more deadly, killing more than 150,000 Americans every year.

     The chances of getting lung cancer increase if you're a smoker -- or if you've been a smoker. I smoked when I was in college and for a few years after that. Even after I gave up, I cheated for quite a while. But in my favor, I hadn't touched any kind of cigarette or cigar in at least ten years.

     Chest pain shows up as a symptom of lung cancer in about a quarter of the cases. But often there are no symptoms at all until ... basically, it's too late. Did I have shortness of breath? No. Had I lost weight? No. Was I coughing? Yes, a little bit. Was I hoarse? I didn't know. None of my friends or family had mentioned that I sounded hoarse. But I was too scared to ask B outright.

     First I convinced myself that I might have lung cancer. Then I convinced myself that I didn't -- it really didn't seem as though I had the symptoms. Besides, I've had a few aches and pains in the past, and eventually I'd gone to the doctor, and it was always "nothing." So this must be nothing.

     Or was I in denial? Did I think it just couldn't happen to me?

     One day last week I woke up in the night. When I slid back into bed the now-familiar pain started pinging me in the chest. I tried to ignore it; I turned on my side; I tried to fight my way back to sleep. After two hours I got up, went downstairs and read my book for a while, until I fell asleep in the living room.

     That was the day I decided I really should see the doctor. I'd had the pain for three weeks. It wasn't going away. I should either face up to the fact that something might be wrong -- or deal with the embarrassment of going to the doctor and finding out that "it's nothing."

     My primary care physician fit me into an appointment the next day. The nurse took my pulse and blood pressure; the doctor asked about my symptoms and nodded thoughtfully; he thumped my chest and made me breathe deep. He finally declared that he thought it ... was nothing. "It sounds to me like it's something muscular," he concluded.

     But he sent me for a chest X ray and an EKG, just to make sure. I took the stairs down to the lab, got the two tests and drove home. I was supposed to call the office later in the afternoon for the results.

     The tests only took a few minutes and seemed very routine. But even though I'd had a measured, unworried response from my doctor, I'd be lying if I told you I didn't break into a sweat when I made the call later that day. The nurse came on the line. "Oh yes," she said. "I got a note from the doctor. Hold on a minute."

     She put me on hold. I paced the living room listening to the barely audible hum in the background. The seconds ticked by. Nothing. Maybe a minute, before I said aloud into the phone, "Come on, what's the hold up?"

     The nurse came back. "Hi, I found the note," she said. "Nothing showed up."

     I queried her three times to make sure that "nothing showed up" meant that everything was normal; there was no disease; I was completely normal.

     We hung up the phone, and I know I had a smile on my face. A silly smile because I was happy that nothing was wrong, and a little embarrassed that I'd bothered the medical group for no reason. And I was also amused by my own ... my own what? Frailty? Weakness? I dunno. I just panicked. But I was glad the doctor was there to tell me everything was okay.