Truth Hurts: The Surprise Milestone I Reached When I Turned 50

Our columnist, John DeVore, on taking care of yourself after you get older

The truth is, I was under the impression that turning 50 was the last significant life milestone. Congratulations on half a century of getting by! Apparently, I was wrong.

The previous five decades were a series of watershed moments, from first jobs to marriages, mortgages, and children. I remember turning 40 and thinking, I’m an adult now. And when I turned 50, I thought, I’m an adult now, only older.

But I believed I was good on rites of passage until at least 65, when I officially become a senior citizen and get a part-time job disinfecting the backseats of Waymos.

Then I went to the doctor for my annual physical.

Now, for years, since my early thirties, my physicals have been routine. Bloodwork, heart check, turn, and cough. Over that time, I’ve had to learn how to manage high blood pressure, but otherwise, my doctors have always said the same thing: “Eat healthy, exercise, and take your meds.”

Don’t be a disgusting sloth blob? Got it, doc.

When I turned 47, my doctor recommended a colonoscopy, and that was a milestone. He was perfectly perfunctory about it: This is just something a man my age should do. So I did it.

While under general anesthesia, while I was being probed, I dreamed I was an 18-wheeler truck driver. It was a sunny day. When I woke up, I was disappointed to remember where I was and who I am.

According to a 2019 survey from the Cleveland Clinic, 65% of men reported actively trying to avoid going to the doctor, with 72% stating they’d rather clean toilets than undergo an examination by a medical professional. But not me. My body is a temple, a falling-apart temple that needs constant maintenance, renovation, and probably historic landmark status.

My first post-fiftieth-birthday physical was a vibe shift, as the Millennials are fond of saying, and the change in tone was stark and sober. Usually, my doctor breezes into the examination room, a boyish, slightly graying professional at the top of his game. Confident and assured.

But for the first time, as a freshly minted 50-something, I noticed he was younger than I was.

For most of my life, doctors were like powerful grandparents, wise and experienced. Instead of pockets full of butterscotch candies, they could write prescriptions for highly addictive painkillers or nuclear-powered laxatives.

And my doctor was, actually, at least 10 years my junior. I was old enough to be his handsome brother!

He was studiously reading my chart when he entered and almost immediately announced the bad news: I was 50 years old. I had tested positive.

He said it just like that: “You’re 50 years old.”

It was half question, half statement of disbelief. I had a birthday party. I know I’m 50, but here was a man of science confirming a diagnosis. A terminal diagnosis: I was 50, and in 12 short months, I would be 51. This trend was irreversible.

This doctor’s previous cockiness had been replaced with world-weary grimness. He addressed me not as an older sibling, but as a talking skeleton.

It was time to see a cardiologist, Mr. DeVore. He called me Mr. DeVore! I nodded. You’re going to have to get a shingles vaccine. I nodded again. That’s two shots, and the side effects are awful. I nodded, only slower. You’re going to need a lung cancer screening because you were a former smoker.

And then he laid hands on me.

The examination was quiet, tense even, as if he was afraid to press the stethoscope to my chest for fear I would crumble into a pile of ashes.

“Does this hurt?” he said as he pressed a finger into my gut.

“At my age, what doesn’t hurt?” I said.

He was having none of my attempts at casual middle-aged dude humor while I was naked, save for boxers and a thin paper gown.

“Does it hurt?”

No, doctor.

Does he know who he’s talking to? I thought. I have sprained my ankles while wearing ill-fitting flip-flops, discovered new and horrifying skin rash allergies, and nearly sliced my hand in half while cutting avocados.

I’m familiar with emergency rooms, buddy. I have spilled my own blood from acts of sheer thoughtlessness, so I know a thing or two about all the various vulnerabilities of the flesh.

I once fell up a flight of stairs during rush hour on the New York City subway and almost ruined my right kneecap. I’m no amateur when it comes to wrecking myself before checking myself.

I actually took offense at his sudden concern with my well-being. I’m completely paranoid when it comes to germs and plagues and various body horrors. How dare he suggest I’m some kind of reckless redneck he-man who wouldn’t drive himself to the hospital if a pitchfork was sticking out of his neck? I’m part of the 35% of men who are convinced they’re dying.

He asked me if I drank alcohol, and I said, “You know I’m sober.” I filled the pause with the information he actually wanted: “No.” Drugs? No. Are you sexually active? I desperately wanted to respond “ask my wife” while pumping my eyebrows up and down, but replied: “Yes and no, I don’t require an AIDS test. Yes, I’m sure.” Are you currently actively dying? Bleeding profusely from any orifices? Any bodily appendages recently rotted off? Are both your eyeballs still in your skull? He didn’t ask those questions; I’m just trying out more casual middle-aged dude humor, but he may as well have asked these questions.

I assured the doctor that I take care of myself: I walk 10,000 steps a day. I eat oatmeal. I even meditate. That’s right. After a long day, I meditate on my couch. I meditate on my couch while watching Netflix and scrolling through social media. (Gotta stay on top of the news.)

He wasn’t impressed.

The appointment ended with a heart-to-heart, a talk I did ’t receive when I was a young lamb of 49. I had no idea 49 was last call and 50 was lights up at the dive bar.

First, he said, “I’m going to put you on medication to lower your cholesterol.” And what I heard was: “Most, if not all, of our internal organs are way past their expiration date.”

It was at this point that I came to the following conclusion: My doctor, who I thought was a seasoned healthcare professional, was 12 years old. Finally, he looked me sternly in the eyes and told me to take care of myself.

Who did he think he was talking to? Someone not terrified of death? But I understood his point and his concern.

I’m but a mortal. A living stick of butter. I’m not stone. I’m a bouquet of wet bones wrapped in sheets of throbbing meat. I’m a dream with feet, a wooden boy blessed with life. My time here—our time, your time, Doctor 12-Year-Old’s time—is short, compared to the life of a tree or a tortoise. A short stroll between two sleeps. Six dozen years or so, if you’re lucky, each one as fragile as a soap bubble.

As milestones go, being told to take care of yourself as you age isn’t the worst. I should eat more “nutrient-rich” foods like lean proteins, veggies, and whole grains, the way they do in the magical, faraway land of ‘The Mediterranean.’ I should do squats, lift weights, and get eight hours of sleep.

I’m aware of my mortality, but also that slowing down and lightening up could add a few extra years. And who knows what I could do with those years? Re-binge all four seasons of Battlestar Galactica? I also need to accept that people will be younger than me, which isn’t their fault. My new optometrist is probably in her thirties, and my future boss at my first post-retirement part-time job is probably in kindergarten right now.

A few weeks after my physical, I messaged my doctor: I pulled my back out bending over to pick up a potato chip. “Ice and ibuprofen,” he replied.

John DeVore is an award-winning writer and editor whose funny/sad memoir about grief, friendship and jazz hands, Theatre Kids, is now available.