Welcome to The Feral Elder by Valerie Hershfield. Our purpose is to share experiences and thoughts from folks considered “older.” We wouldn’t think of designating what that age is. We hope this column makes you smile, ponder, or just slap your head and say, “Hey, that happened to me!” And, just maybe, share your own thoughts and experiences.
Who is Valerie Hershfield?
A native Californian, I’ve lived in eight states in my 80 years, but the busiest were the 11 years in New Hampshire where I loved putting my journalism degree to work as a correspondent for the New Hampshire Union Leader. A correspondent covers every kind of news in his or her beat towns. I called it my “murder, mayhem and garden parties” job. At the same time, I juggled being an international tour director, a bartender, a stringer (case finder) for Judge Judy, and a volunteer EMT. I currently live in rural northeast Iowa with two cats and am a part-time docent for a local museum. Let’s share the ride!
By VALERIE HERSFIELD, InDepthNH.org
Unless you’re from the American South, or in the military or law enforcement, you were likely caught off-guard the first time another adult addressed you as “ma’am” or “sir,” implying you were – here it comes – OLD.
There are thousands of resources for taking care of ourselves as we age, but InDepthNH.org would like to offer a place where we talk about occurrences that just don’t happen to younger people, be they funny, thought provoking, touching, or perhaps just bug us.
I admit it. I live in “age denial” most of the time. Therefore, I’m shocked at every turn. I recall, as a 55-year-old reporter, sitting in a Danville selectmen’s meeting when they announced the agenda item, “ELDERLY housing for 55 and over.” I inappropriately and too loudly exclaimed, “YOU’RE KIDDING!” “It’s in the RSAs,” one of the selectmen murmured in my direction.
Now, I’m 80 and constantly tell myself, “Think gratitude. They mean well.”
The old 70 (or 80 or 90) is not the same as today’s 70 (or 80 or 90). Most of us don’t feel or act any older than our kids’ current ages, and, therefore, despise what we perceive as patronization.
Being of that “I can take care of myself” mindset, I recently had an MRI. “No, thank you,” I said a bit haughtily to the young male technician who attempted to take my arm after my being trapped in a torture tube for exactly 13 minutes of clanging, buzzing and banging.
My inside voice said, “What? You think I’m old?” The truth was with two Xanax in me, all I wanted to do was curl up in the corner of the dark quiet lab room for a snooze. But, no, stubbornness kept me upright until I slumped with relief and exhaustion into the passenger seat of my daughter’s car. Boy, did I show that guy. Another quote: “Pride goeth before a fall.”
While we’re in the medical area, don’t you just want to poke the doctor in her stethoscope when she starts sentences with, “As you age …” It may be true, but just stop saying it so often! This is the first time to mention this, but I bet there are others who also find it annoying, and that’s what this column is about – just airing thoughts.
Then there’s ambivalence (some might call it hard to please). You’re on public transportation when a young man immediately offers you his seat. Part of the brain might go, “Hrumph. I’m perfectly capable of standing. Don’t treat me like an old person.” However, if he doesn’t get up, you think “What the heck is wrong with you, jerk?” Or maybe that’s just me.
SUBMISSION #1
I recently traveled to France with my daughter, her husband and my closest friend. A few weeks preceding our journey I was suddenly afflicted with severe hip joint and lower back pain, but I was not going to miss the trip. My friend and I flew in and out of a different airport from my daughter, so we were on our own. I’ve been in the travel industry for more than 30 years, so I wasn’t daunted. However, my friend also had mobility issues. At the last minute I realized, walking through the airports was going to be painful, if not impossible – and isn’t the gate always the farthest one? So, I ordered wheelchairs. It worked beautifully; we were whisked through secret passageways, zipped through Immigration and Customs.