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​Turning 50 and falling apart

​Turning 50 and falling apart

By Linda Emslie on 9 August 2017
​Turning 50 and falling apart

If you’ve read my previous blog article you’ll know I’ve recently turned 50 and am doing my damned best to grow into the mantle of the Wise Woman, and embody the Ageless Goddess.

I am also determined to break the mould, by not slipping complacently into middle-aged obscurity to be forgotten and left to rot in mindlessness in an old age home somewhere on the outskirts of normal. No, I don’t think that’s my destiny, and it’s certainly not the path I’m choosing, even though society in general seems to think that’s what happens to humans these days, once they are no longer of pop-culture age.

I mean, look what the government gave me for my birthday (see photo above.) Happy birthday! Congrats on making it to 50. Hope you enjoyed it because you’re about to die.

Now, I know that breast cancer and bowel cancer are terrible and often terminal diseases and that 50 is just an arbitrary number. I also know that someone, somewhere thinks they are doing the best they possibly can to “keep me safe” and save me from a life-threatening illness. The fact that they are also working to spare the tax-payers’ dollar from treating a disease, or two, that could have been prevented, probably needs to be acknowledged in the decision to target me with this patronising welfare. I get it. I appreciate it.

Age is a risk factor for these two particular diseases. But, you know what? Being born is a risk factor for dying.

It’s not so much the fact that I received these prompts to get some checks done that’s got me riled. It’s the fact that in the eyes of the institution I am now a member of the nanny state and need to be looked after by people who condescendingly think they know better than I do about what my needs are; what my understanding is; and what my health status might be. My individual sovereignty has been steamrollered.

If I can’t be treated as a grown up at age 50 – what hope is there? It’s my body, my responsibility. Mind you, if terminal illness is a lesson my Soul has chosen to undertake this time around, then I guess I’d better buckle up for the ride. No amount of boob squashing or stool testing will alter that.

In the meantime, I’ve got a lot to do. Look out world, here I come!