OK 50, here I come ready or not

They are dropping like flies.

At first, it was just one or two, but gradually the wave built until it was a tsunami of birthday celebrations with just about everyone I know being clobbered by the big 5-0.

My high school classmates and many people I work with and go to church with are succumbing to the half-century mark with alarming frequency.

It seems like I can not open FaceBook anymore without seeing someone being consumed by the five-decade milestone.

But the more candles on your cake the better off you are.

I can remember when I turned 20 – sort of. It was a party and a good time. It was a little more concerning when I turned 30 because for some reason, that was a big number for me.

I really appreciated my youth and 30 was definitely not a kid anymore.

Even at 29 you could say, 'Hey I'm still in my 20s,' but at the stroke midnight on the day I was born the calendar decreed I was no longer a 20-something. I was now a 30-something and that felt different for some reason.

By the time I was 31 I had two little kids to worry about and a couple years later the third installment of the Handschuh clan made an appearance so I was far too busy – and tired – to really worry about 40 that was coming at me like I was a deer in the middle of the road, blinded by the oncoming high beams of middle age.

Forty did not come with dread, but was pushed to the side as the chaos of life with three kids took precedent over being concerned with becoming an old guy,

Fast forward nine years and nine months and I am once again staring an age milestone in the face.

This time, however, the kids are older, more independent giving me more time to play the part of a deer that is about to get splatted by the oncoming freight train that is Father Time.

In three months, I will no longer even be a 40 something, but will cross that great divide of age and be a 50 something.

OK, so what does a 50 something act like? I still like motorcycles, like I did when I was 20. I am still doing martial arts, like I did when I was 30. I am the oldest person in my martial arts club, by the way and everyone knows the single most important rule the club has is 'Don't hurt the old guy.'

If my fellow - and much, much younger – students remember just one thing, I hope that is it. For the majority of the people in the club I am old enough to be their parent, and for the little kids even a grandparent and I...Whoa, hold it, I just crossed a line. I am not willing to refer to myself as a grandpa just yet.

Grandpas, and grandmas, are old. I mean my dad was 52 when he became a grandpa and I...uh oh.

Hmmm, I know my own grandpa always seemed old, but he would have been in his 50s when his grandchildren started showing up.

I am not saying there is anything wrong with being a grandparent and I admit it will be kind of cool to be able to play and have fun with little kids until I get tired and then just hand them over to their parents, but I am not ready to go there just yet.

How can I be a rebel, a renegade, a free spirit if I am a grandpa. It just does not seem right.

It is just another aspect of reaching the half century mark I am trying to wrap my brain around.

Before you can be old and wise, you have to be young and stupid. I did very well in the young and stupid department, now I just need some of that wisdom to kick in.

Copyright 2014 Darren Handschuh

It's just a bruise, it's no big deal - isn't it?

Being married to nurse has its good points and its bad.
The good is you are living with a highly trained medical personnel you can run to for advice and healing.
More than once our living room looked more like an emergency room as my son and his skateboarding friends all lined up to have their injuries tended to.
One day, there was four of them patiently waiting to have their wounds tended to.
Skinned knees, elbows, scrapes, bruises and a variety of other injuries were treated by my wife who has been a registered nurse for 26 years.
She has worked in the real emergency room of a hospital in a small town we lived in for a while, she has cared for seniors, palliative patients and for a few years she specialized in wound care.
This is where she would look after people who just had an operation or injury and got to perform such lovely tasks as draining a wound, which is actually more disgusting than it sounds.
I learned many years ago not to ask her what she did that day because the answers are not conducive to keeping your dinner down.
Tales of seeping blood, puss-filled sores (my personal favourite) and a whole raft of maladies are discussed by her and her nursing comrades with the aplomb of someone chatting about the weather.
To them, it is just another day at the office. Meanwhile I am huddled in the corner of the room with my hands over my ears trying to think of puppy dogs and sunny days to get the horrid nursing tales out of my mind.
Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.
But when you are injured, it is great to have an expert on wound care living under the same roof – most of the time anyway.
The other day I bruised my leg doing martial arts. As the most senior member of the club (in age, not belt ranking) it can be a challenge to keep up with the young pups as they bounce around the training area with the kind of energy and agility only youth allows.
On this particular day I took a knee to the thigh, creating a rather large, purple bruise.
In the club I train at, a bruise or a black eye is referred to as a souvenier and I have had many souveniers over the years.
Anyway, the young pup I was training with accidentally landed on my leg causing a bruise I casually mentioned to my wife.
ÒYou should keep an eye on that. It could cause a blood clot.”
ÒHuh?”
ÒIt is a hematoma, and if your leg starts to turn red and swell up, you better get to a doctor. There was this one patient I had with a bruise on his leg, got a blood clot and died.”
It took less than a minute to go from me telling her I had a bruise on my leg to her telling me I could get a deadly blood clot.
Up until that point I just thought it was a little boo-boo. No big deal.
Now I have to worry about a blood clot making its way to my heart or brain and sending on a one way trip toward the bright light.
I am really quite confident the bruise is just an minor 'owie' and nothing to be concerned about. It is not the first boo-boo I have had in my lifetime.
But when you are married to a medical professional, they tend to look at the worst-case scenario so they are prepared for any scenario.
The downside to being married to a nurse is sometimes she really freaks me out with all the possible medical disasters that could happen. The upside is, she knows about all the  possible medical disasters that could happen.

copyright 2014, Darren Handschuh