Somewhere on the path of my medical education I had been told about the aches and pains of old age. I had made a conscious decision, as part of my determination to avoid ageism in my work, to ignore what I had been told in the interest of avoiding missing an important diagnosis in an elderly patient who produced vague symptoms. But, now I have entered the final year of my eighth decade, I have to concede that I do have aches and pains that do not feature in any textbook I have read. I am reminded that in my paediatric lectures at medical school I was told that teething in babies was symptomless (on the grounds that it was a normal process which could not produce symptoms), but in practice I was convinced many babies seemed distressed during dentition, having excessive salivation and flushed cheeks.
I hasten to say that I am not complaining (either in the ordinary or medical sense) but am merely curious about the nature of the feelings. If I wiggle my toes I seem to feel the tendons slide rather ungraciously through their sheaths; my calves seem to ache as I get into bed, and this sensation is not relieved by taking paracetamol. But perhaps the most intriguing sensation is the perception that I know at any given time how much energy I have to call on.
My late, dearly loved, aunt was the herald of this phenomenon. She attended my son's wedding (at which she danced) on the eve of her 80th birthday, and so enjoyed parties on two successive days. We took her home the day after her birthday. In going through her papers after her death, I came across her diary. The entry on the day after she returned home was one word: “Tired.” The entry on the following day was “Very tired.” I now know the feelings first hand.
Now it may be that my clinical skills have so atrophied that I am sick without realising it, but I don't feel ill. Perhaps I need to take more exercise or, worse, am developing a syndrome that I am not clever enough to diagnose. But until some doctor comes to my rescue, I think I am just getting old.