A woman your age . . . ” said the allergist. She continued speaking, but I wasn’t listening. I couldn’t. I was struck dumb by those words. Surely, she was talking to someone else in the room. Someone old. Not chic, well-groomed, hair-dyed, cool, with-it me?
But she was talking to me! Yikes, ouch and oy vey!
In any case, whatever her medical point, it was lost to me. I didn’t ask. I didn’t care. All I wanted was for the appointment to end and to escape. To nurse my battered ego.
Harrumph! A woman my age, indeed.
But the assault on my self-image didn’t end there.
Two hours later, I had a second medical appointment . . . with a cardiologist.
“Appropriate,” I thought, given my aching heart and soul.
We discussed the heart of the medical matter. Happily, it’s minor, easily treatable. But alas, once again, when starting to discuss treatment options, the doctor used that same dreaded phrase — “a woman your age.”
This time, I forced myself to listen. I had to. My heart literally was in it.
I guess I should have been relieved. I could have left the doctor’s office with a life-altering diagnosis of a serious, surgery-required ailment. So, yes, of course, I was grateful for that.
But still, this notion that doctors are treating — and seeing — me different because of my age is painful. It made me realize this not-so-subtle agism is happening a lot lately. People, not just doctors, are treating me differently.
For instance, when I go in and out the door at the local university journalism school where I work, young men now always stop, wait, and hold the door open for me.
At first, I thought, “How gallant. Young men in the West are so polite! So well brought up!”
Vain me, I even had the passing idea, and I blush to admit this, that they thought I was cute. Now, I realize with sickening clarity, they do it because I am old!
Oh, my fragile and frail vanity! Somebody please pick up the smashed-to-smithereens pieces of my ego off the floor!
Just the other day, my niece — only 12 years younger than I — was remarking that she had just caught up with a long-lost cousin of ours.
“He just turned 70. He sounded great. His voice was so strong and vibrant. And he’s still working.”
She repeated how great he sounded and yes, I do believe my doctor niece used the dreaded “for a man his age” phrase! I reminded her I’m 70 and that my husband’s 75 and that we both work. She said . . . charmingly . . . “There’s 70 and there’s 70. You’re the good 70. Not everybody is so lucky.”
The lesson of this tale? Well, actually, there are two:
Number 1: Do not schedule back-to-back doctor appointments. It is exhausting, and for women — and men — our age, potentially emotionally devastating.
Number 2: Do not kid yourself like I did. Seventy is not the new 50! It’s not even the new 60.
Again, I say, yikes, ouch and oy vey!
