When it’s not my back aching, I’m aching for conversations like we used to have about love and lust

My Victor Chang Heart Health Check was held outside Bakers Delight at the local shopping centre. Nurse Roger did my finger prick and told me about his grandson while we waited for the verdict on my ticker.

I was enjoying myself. Makes me sound like a suck, but I love tests. Can’t resist an “Are you a genius?” quiz, would welcome a breathalyser around almost any corner. And – non-smoker, still in gym gear from one of five weekly workouts, have had Uber Eats twice ever – I anticipated excellent results.

There is a point in time when conversations seem to keep coming back to the same things. Credit: iStock

I was pretty much only doing the check because it was free, and my grandad Jack died of a heart attack at age 58. My age.

“Blood pressure – perfect,” said Roger. “Well done. Blood sugar … textbook.” Then, a thoughtful look. “Oh. Cholesterol. Above normal range.” Stop. What? As in, requiring medication? “Maybe. It’s up there,” he said. “I recommend you see your GP for a full blood work-up.”

And in the flash of a finger prick, I turned into the hot new thing: The mid-lifer obsessed with health.

For years, I had no time for general health quibbles, mired as I was in the menopause comedy. But that’s just a phase. It finishes and you go on. Now I’m part of something different: talking about the ravages of age, a shit-show that ends only when you’re toes up.

Everyone’s doing it. Surely, you are. Yesterday, our social conversations were about finding a partner, raising kids, career war stories, whether margaritas need sugar syrup. Now? All we talk about are bone density scans, whose statins are working better, colonoscopy prep tips. Land tax is the only real challenger.

“Oh, you’re on Lipitora? Made my muscles ache. Now I’m on some new thing, I’ll send the name.” “My sugar levels are erratic, so my doctor thinks I’m pre-diabetic.” “Is your orthopaedic guy taking new patients?”

That’s assuming we ever organise an outing to hash over these body betrayals. Choosing a venue? Harder than the Fibonacci sequence.

Nobody can hear any more, so it has to be somewhere quiet. Not dark, can’t see the menu. No pastry. Ever. Or sushi (white rice is a refined carb). And no stairs or air conditioning blasting. Can we eat at 5?

My husband is enmeshed in this with me. Our days start with comparing sleep stats. Always tired, we wonder if we simultaneously have leukaemia. We’re researching a high-protein diet and magnesium spray for our feet. We posted our bowel cancer tests back four days after receiving them.

One fantastic Friday night, our neighbour Bro came over with a portable blood pressure machine. Lachie and Lynne are our hip replacement gurus. My BFF Pies rings to discuss thyroid meds, trans-vision lenses and her pelvic specialist appointment: “I’m also having tests to see if I need one of those snorkel things for sleep.”

If we hadn’t already ditched the booze, the statistics would be sobering. In Australia, by age 45 almost 30 per cent of us live with at least one chronic condition – high blood pressure, arthritis, diabetes – and around the same number deal with two or more.

It’s the quiet undercurrent of this phase of life, reminding us youth’s glowy invincibility is as dusty as our sex drive. And for me, it’s not just the health challenges that feel bittersweet or the speed they’ve arrived.

Alongside the twinge in my back (something to worry about or another ageing quirk?) is an ache for olden day conversations. Ones about love and lust, or which city we’d live in if we could start over.

So my mission is to make our health manias something that connects us as much as talking about backpacking did. A cool little reminder to focus on what matters most – now.

Instead of sharing tales of bits falling off, we’re sharing vulnerabilities. We’re swapping advice not to impress but to help each other over unfamiliar terrain, listening to bodies that carried us around the world and made people.

Maybe that’s the silver lining. Solidarity. Still. Even if we sound like Doogie Howser.

Kate Halfpenny is the founder of Bad Mother Media and a regular columnist.

The Opinion newsletter is a weekly wrap of views that will challenge, champion and inform your own. Sign up here.