I used to think one of the worst things about midlife was . . .

Menopause.  You know, that intense heat that pulsates from your body and you feel like you’re about to burst into flames? That can be unnerving. I used to think that was pretty bad. Actually, I still do.

I used to think one of the worst things about midlife was . . .

My body. It feels as if it belongs to someone else, on someone else. Bulges where there used to be smooth terrain, loose skin that sags in the most unflattering way, breasts that have forever lost their perkiness in favor of less gravity-defying feats, wrinkles etched into my skin that are the roadmap of my life’s journey.

I used to think one of the worst things about midlife was . . .

Hair. No, I don’t mean the bouncin’ and behavin’ crowning glory type. I’m talking too much in some places, not enough in others. The single strand of hair that keeps sprouting from my chinny chin chin. The lack thereof in my eyebrows. I won’t even get started on the ears.

I used to think one of the worst things about midlife was everything that happened to me. Me. Dragging others into my vortex of aging wasn’t part of the plan. The unwritten rule was “I stay in my lane, you stay in yours.” Somehow, my 87-year old dad ended up swerving into my lane without putting on his turn signal. Isn’t that just like an 87-year old?

I used to think one of the worst things about midlife was getting older. It was all about me, but now I know so much of it is about my Daddy.

As I age, so too does James Streeter, my Dear Old Dad. My occasional aches and pains are not comparable to his. He has had one knee replacement surgery and, as time marches on, it’s clear that he needs another. While in the hospital, he developed gout. Ouch. He has survived prostate cancer, an illness that we, his five adult daughters, knew nothing about until after the death of our Mommy. He’s had cataract surgery (and he told me the other day the doctors removed his eye to operate on it, then plopped it back into the socket; yes, my Daddy can spin one helluva tale).

It’s been difficult for me to watch the man who, to me as a child, was the Black version of Superman. He may not have been faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive or able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, but he looked pretty good in a cape. That “S” on his chest could have easily stood for Super Streeter. His kryptonite was us, his daughters . . . all damn five of us. Our angst ridden years, our boy drama, our girl problems – he dealt with it like the loving father he was . . . and still is. Now, his kryptonite is aging.

The roles have been reversed. I worry about my Daddy. I want to make sure he gets to all of his doctor’s appointments on time. When he hurts, I want to hug him close and tell him everything will get better. I’m afraid that somewhere, out there, in this big nasty world, some unscrupulous character is waiting to pounce on him . . . to take advantage of him.

I’ve come to my Daddy’s house in Maryland to spend a week because I’ve been missing him. Yesterday, he left the house at 6:10 p.m. to go meet with the woman preparing his income tax return. Like he was a teenager out past curfew, I began to pull back the curtains periodically and peek through the window blinds just an hour after he left. I was looking for his familiar Buick Lucerne to come cruising down the street and glide into the driveway. It didn’t.

Panic was slowly creeping into my psyche. By 7:30, I began to imagine him crumpled up and doubled over in a motionless heap in the gutter, having been bludgeoned to death, robbed and relieved of his car by a senseless thug whose drug addled mother failed to hug him enough as a child.

Yes, this is how my imagination runs rampant.

By 8:10, after calling his cell phone and getting voicemail straight away, I was ready to call the police and declare him a missing person. Even as it was occurring, as I was knee deep in the building terror, I knew I was overacting. That, however, failed to stop my brow from furrowing with worry. I picked up the phone, dialed the first 9, then paused as I heard the security system’s robotic voice announce, “Front door,” just before the familiar “beep beep.”

Daddy was home. Crisis averted. This time.

I used to think one of the worst things about midlife was getting older. Now I realize that I’m not the only one getting older.

Daddy just left the house to go to his doctor’s appointment. I think I’ll wait a few hours before I start pulling back the curtains and peeking through the blinds.