I Did a Thing

Inevitably, there are moments in life where you recognize that you’re getting old. It doesn’t have to do with how you feel. It doesn’t have to do with how you look. It has to do with the life events that go with your date of birth.

On May 1, I started the enrollment process for Medicare. I have a very specific reason for joining Medicare, even while I’m gainfully employed. My new employer, Banyan Tree Counseling & Wellness, has less than 20 full-time employees. For someone turning 65, that means, come birthday month, Medicare beckons (for those aware my birthday is in August, the enrollment process for Medicare starts three months earlier, hence May).

I am willing enough to start Medicare, and happy with the plan I’m intending to get.

But still!

My Mom had Medicare. The next generation(s) up had Medicare. My neighbors have Medicare. What’s that you say? I only have two living relatives in the generation up from me? Sure, smack me with the facts, why don’t you. Kind of like the way every Tom, Dick and Harry Medicare-related insurer has from the moment I turned 64 last year.

I decided to hit up my big sister, Andrea, to discuss this age 65 turn of events in my life. She’s had Medicare since 2017.

She said she applied right after our mother died, which took the sting out of it for her. “I was too caught up in all the emotions of that time to feel my own feelings about age and Medicare. I just wanted to get it done.” She also noted that Medicare was less expensive than the private insurance she and my brother-in-law, Nick, had at the time.

Then she got around to the rub of it all.

“Remember the days when we used to laugh at all the folks, including Mom and her friends at the Century Village pool (in Boca Raton, Florida, the place where so many New Yorkers used to land in retirement), whose conversations mainly dealt with health issues and the drugs they took? We occasionally find ourselves having conversations like these today when we are out with friends.

“Then, we stop ourselves  from continuing the conversation. We don’t want to be those old folks!”

I knew I could count on big sis for perspective. Her parting words were a reminder, too.

“I remain convinced (or I try, anyway) that old these days is not the same as old in those days.”

I’ll ponder that as I await my Medicare card in the mail. Hey, at least I don’t live in Boca Raton.