Fifty Is Not a Four-Letter Word by Linda Kelsey Page B

buttons, prolonging the process. My mother pulls
     away impatiently. “I’m not dead yet, Hope,” she says, then reaches out and cups her hand around my cheek and chin.
    “Oh, Mummy,” I say as the tears begin to pour down my cheeks, “please don’t die.”
    “Don’t be such a baby, Hope, my love,” she says. “You’re fifty, for heaven’s sake. How many women are lucky enough to reach
     the age of fifty and still have two living parents? And think of the upside: Now you’ll have Daddy all to yourself. Come on,
     Abe, I’m exhausted.”

The Best-laid Plans
    Get Maddy back on track
    Talk to Daddy about the future
    Try and square things with Mummy before she dies
    Make it up with Olly
    Have sex with Jack—or at least dinner and a movie
    I wrote this list at three o’clock this morning. I’m trying to wean myself off the pills, but no Zopiclone means no sleep.
     Since January, without the help of a little something to induce a reasonable approximation of a coma, I barely doze off before
     jerking awake with my heart knocking wildly against my chest, clamoring to escape. Jack assures me it is anxiety rather than
     an incipient heart attack. But I don’t find this especially reassuring. Anxiety feeds itself. And serious or not, the palpitations
     are frightening. They can strike half a dozen times before I eventually pass out properly around three a.m., sometimes even
     later. Which is why last night I decided to cut my losses and get up, make myself a mug of Ovaltine, and do something constructive.
     Hence the list.
    I’m definitely in denial about work, and I need an outlet for my pent-up energy. For the first few weeks after getting fired,
     I would compulsively check my answering machine and my e-mails after being out, even if I’d only popped out to the postbox
     for two minutes. Now I don’t bother with either. The offers haven’t exactly been flooding in since January, or even trickling
     in. I glance cursorily at the
Guardian
media pages on a Monday—there are lots of magazine jobs going in the United Arab Emirates. I’m thinking more Soho Square
     or maybe Mayfair. It’s not urgent, at least as far as money’s concerned. A big fat check has gone into my bank account, and
     my firing has been fiddled to look like redundancy, so I’m entitled to a substantial tax-free sum on the payout. As long as
     I don’t start buying bling or playing poker on the Internet for large stakes, I’m financially fine for the time being. Work
     can wait. There are more important things to think about right now.
    At three a.m. the list looked like the perfect antidote to anxiety—something that would give me back a sense of purpose and
     prove what a good friend/daughter/mother/lover I can really be. When I read it again at nine in the morning, the list looks
     preposterous, the wish list of a woman with seriously deranged hormones—or maybe Pollyanna. I’m no longer confident of completing
     one of these tasks successfully. Even dinner and a movie are looking like a bit of a long shot from where I’m sitting. None
     of which stops me getting straight on the phone.
    “Maddy, how about supper at Mario’s, just you and me, Wednesday, eight o’clock?”
    Maddy hesitates. “Hope, I’m not sure. It’s late-night surgery on Wednesday, and I’m exhausted. And as you know, I’m pretty
     useless company at the moment.”
    “That makes two of us. I’ll book.”
    “Daddy, it’s me. Hope. How about a round of golf? I’ll be your caddy, just like I was when I was eleven.”
    “That would be wonderful, but I can’t manage more than nine holes anymore. In any case, I don’t want to be away from Mummy
     for too long. Not with her so poorly.”
    • • •
    I have this problem with my father. I think he’s invincible. I don’t want to hear him saying “I can’t manage more than nine
     holes anymore.” It means he’s getting old, something I steadfastly refuse to acknowledge even though he’s eighty-one.