A few weeks ago I began experiencing some unpleasant, although fairly mild symptoms that seemed to be related to my stomach, vague as they were. A slight queasiness, akin to the something-like-carsickness of early pregnancy (oh my god, don’t even, I was not pregnant). Sharp-ish pains, only once strong enough for me to tell the children I was going upstairs to lie down, and they felt concerned enough that they brought me tea (angels, occasionally!) A general sense of simply-not-good from time to time, like when your system isn’t quite working properly.

Finally, recognizing that these not-extreme but persistent symptoms weren’t going away, I booked a doctor’s appointment, certain that it, and my inability to accurately describe these amorphous physical sensations would yield a diagnosis of: it’s all in your head - or, terminal cancer.

And yet, hallelujah, that is not what happened. My PA listened to my litany of complaints and immediately suggested a rather mundane, non-terminal diagnosis: acid reflux. Acid reflux, she said, might not always manifest the way you imagine and could, in fact, feel like what I was describing. Could be stress, she said, could be inherited (yes and yes). She prescribed a multi-week course of proton-pump inhibitor (generic Nexium) medication until my system recovered. She scheduled a follow up to ensure that this course of action was effective, and told me that after several weeks the regimen would have helped my body repair itself enough that I could likely ditch the drugs until presented with a subsequent bout of the same.

I was very happy for the quick answer and simple solution. I began taking the medicine once a day, first thing in the morning and my symptoms dispersed rapidly, reappearing here and there over the next couple weeks, but not in the continual matter I’d experienced pre-appointment.

This felt like magic, although I’m well aware it’s merely a success story of modern medicine. Furthermore, the solution she’d provided felt like magic, true. But it also felt like something else. A declaration, perhaps: you are getting older, and your body has some new “features.”

Because - and yes, I’m fortunate in this regard - it was the first time I was prescribed medicine for a condition like this. Not antibiotics to cure a bacterial sinus infection, or steroids to quell the ceaseless poison ivy I got a couple summers ago, but Nexium, a drug used to treat a condition I’d always associated with somebody older than me. One I’d always associated with my father, actually, who was plagued by this same problem and who, I assume, gifted me the genetic disposition referenced by my wise PA.

Standing barefoot in the wet grass one cold, early morning after the diagnosis, ensuring the dog didn’t slip out our degrading gate, I frowned at the now-familiar sensation (a mild burning that necessitated an extended sigh). “Dadddddddddddd,” I muttered out loud to the dog, to the birds, hopefully not to any early-rising neighbors. An accusation and a declaration of empathy, delivered to a posthumous recipient.

This was the first time, too, I had to think about possibly problematic habits, habits that my younger body would have handled effortlessly. Sipping coffee all morning on an empty stomach isn’t necessarily good for acid reflux, I was forced to conclude, noting that my father, too, employed this same pattern. These habits, good or bad, mark who we are, after all. So, maybe I’ll become a person who eats yogurt and fruit after just one cup of coffee, I decided. I both didn’t like and rose to the challenge.

I was listening to a podcast recently and something I heard has been echoing through my mind in the days since, something that, somewhere in the synapses of my brain, made sense of this recent coming-of-middle-age affair. The interviewee - an author who wrote a book about how we choose to spend the limited time have on this earth - paraphrased a question he’d heard posed by a Jungian therapist regarding the most important question we can ask ourselves when doing anything at all. Not: “Will this make me happy?” But instead: "Will this enlarge or diminish me?”

Will this enlarge or diminish me? The choices we make, the actions we take, the way we choose to spend our attention. These moments are the materials that craft our one and only life.

I thought about this just yesterday, watching Gabe (wild hair, tight black soccer socks pulled over shin guards, Sonic the Hedgehog bright blue t-shirt) spot his soccer team practicing on the field behind the middle school from where we stood in the parking lot on top of the steep hill that leads to the grass below. He put his hand up to his eyes, like a boat captain and sprinted down the slope, unafraid of falling (which would undoubtedly be my fate should I try the same).

Aidy, inspired, told me when I called her back to the car to head home, that she had to “do her exercises first,” and followed in the footsteps of her big brother, proceeding to run full speed down the hill and then in a large circle, galloping decidedly away from the sound of my protestations, quite literally illustrating an act of expansion, her circular circuits widening with each loop.

I paused. Will this enlarge or diminish me? Resting here, the former. Forcing departure on this finally spring-like evening was the habitual response, and, I think, the wrong answer. A soccer mom, on the edge of a field teeming with mini players; once a designation that felt constrictive to a younger, less experienced self. Now, an important role. One of many.

Will this enlarge or diminish me, I ask, holding my small white generic Nexium in the palm of my hand. Reassessing my morning routines. Ridding myself of the slow drag of minor symptoms, the acceptance of which means acceptance of uninvited but inevitable change.

I was lying in bed with J the other night, head on his shoulder, my favorite comfort eclipsing another busy day. Out of nowhere (although, considering what I’ve written here, maybe not out of nowhere at all) I said, faux-tragic, “My youth is gone.” And he replied, with total authenticity and a cheerful, resolute tone, gently correcting my labeling something a loss, when it was actually an invitation: “Well, I think it’s been gone for awhile.”

“Now,” he said. “We’re 44.”