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Topic: Ageism (8)
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Listen to Silvia’s story as you read it (below).
Silvia arrived ten minutes early, which meant she arrived exactly on time.
The clinic lobby smelled like hand sanitizer trying to impersonate oranges. A television mounted too high played a morning show with the sound off, as if even the building had agreed that some conversations were optional.
Silvia slid her gloves into her coat pocket and flexed her fingers once, the way she did before signing anything important.
Her hip had been grumbling for a month. Not screaming, not collapsing, just registering an opinion each time she stood up from a chair that was too low or climbed the two steps into the city bus. She had learned to listen to her body the way you listen to a neighbor who borrows your ladder. You do not panic, but you pay attention.
The reception desk was guarded by a clear plastic shield with a small slot at the bottom, like a bank that dealt in co-pays instead of cash. Behind it sat a young receptionist with bright nails and a headset that made her look like she was about to direct air traffic.
Silvia stepped forward and offered her insurance card through the slot.
The receptionist glanced up. “Hi, sweetie. Date of birth?”
It landed on Silvia’s shoulders like a damp towel. Not heavy, exactly. Just clingy.
Silvia kept her “cool.” At 83, she had discovered that calm can be a kind of strength. She smiled in a way that did not ask permission.
“I answer to Silvia,” she said, “or Ms. DeMarco. ‘Sweetie’ is available as an upgrade.”
The receptionist blinked once, then her mouth pulled into a reluctant smile. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
Silvia nodded, gracious but not fluffy. “No harm done. I’ve got a whole menu of nicknames people try out on me. Some are seasonal.”
The receptionist laughed, a quick little sound that made the air less sterile. “Okay. Ms. DeMarco. Date of birth?”
Silvia gave it, then watched as the receptionist tapped at the keyboard with the authority of someone other people almost always followed. A form slid out of a printer. It curled slightly at the edge, like it had already heard this story before.
“Just sign here, sweetie,” the receptionist said automatically, her eyes still on the screen.
Silvia lifted one finger, gently, as if raising it in a book club. “There it is again.”
The receptionist looked up, cheeks faintly pink. “Right. Sorry. Habit.”
Silvia took the clipboard and held it without signing. Her reading glasses came out of her purse in a small hard case that still smelled faintly of peppermint gum. She put them on and looked down at the page.
It was the standard consent form, the kind that tried to cover every possible future in one paragraph. Silvia had signed variations of it for decades. Still, she read it slowly. She had time. She was the person this visit belonged to.
“I’d like a copy of this,” Silvia said.
The receptionist hesitated. “We usually don’t, um, print extra copies.”
Silvia tapped the paper with her pen. “I’m not asking for your firstborn. I’m asking for a copy of what I’m signing.”
That sounded sharper than she intended, so she softened her voice. Not her request. Just the edges. “It helps me remember what we talked about. My memory is fine, but paper has a talent for staying put.”
The receptionist nodded, still smiling, as if Silvia had given her a good trick. “Sure. I can do that.”
As the printer warmed up, Silvia watched other people in the lobby. A young man in work boots scrolling on his phone. A woman with a stroller and the thousand-yard stare of a tired parent. An older man holding a cane like it was a formal accessory.
Silvia wondered how many of them had been “sweetied” today – and how many had swallowed the feeling without chewing.
The copy arrived. Silvia signed and handed the clipboard back.
The receptionist slid her a small stack of papers. “Here you go, Ms. DeMarco.”
Silvia leaned in a little, close enough that the plastic shield reflected both their faces at once. “Good!. Use people’s names. It changes the whole room.”
The receptionist nodded, more serious now. “I can do that.”
Silvia took her seat. The chair was too low, but she lowered herself into it with control, like a woman who had practiced getting up from awkward places her entire life. In her purse, she wrote a short note on a small index card she kept for moments like this.
“Sweetie” reply: “I consent to care. I do not consent to being minimized.”
When the nurse called her name, Silvia stood up with a quiet satisfaction that surprised her. The hip still complained but less loudly. Or maybe it was just that Silvia had raised her own volume in a way that mattered.
As she followed the nurse down the hallway, Silvia felt something that was not medical at all: a win, small enough to fit in a purse – sturdy enough to carry into the next room.
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Age: Our greatest asset!
Jim Hasse, ABC, GCDF retired, author of “52 Shades of Growing Together”
Weekly Stories About Insightful Aging
“It’s impossible not to love someone whose story you’ve heard.” - Mary Lou Kownacki
Stories about addressing ageism.
Stories about handling ableism.
Stories about thriving during the second half of life.
Accolade: “Love reading your stories. You never disappoint.” - Mary K.
How to use “My Latest Legacy Nugget” resources to share
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During the last five years, I’ve learned to more carefully select birthday cards, a medium that has historically reinforced stereotypes about age – both on the older side as well as the younger side.
Birthday cards have improved over the last 50 years in that regard.
So has our American humor. In 1965, I remember popular joke columns in business publications that could not get beyond demeaning women, non-whites, people with disabilities, and older folks. And sex from a male perspective was celebrated.
Maybe that’s why I resisted telling or publishing jokes within a business setting during my 45 years as a business communicator. Not funny. Not appropriate.
* When have you had the opportunity to show others how to constructively relate to older adults?