Category: aging

Technology Is Not My Friend

Sure, the Internet has a lot of benefits, but when you’re as technology-illiterate as I am, a simple email can cause a crisis. I recently got notice that my blogging service (if that’s the right term) was shutting down at the end of the month. I panicked because if I didn’t retrieve my 450 posts, they would be lost forever, and I had no idea how to save them.

Fortunately, I found someone who could help me save those precious posts, but now I’m struggling with setting up a new blog on a new service. It’s like learning a foreign language. The new blog pages are filled with strange symbols and words I don’t recognize. As my memory has deteriorated and as technology has gotten more complex, I’ve started to feel increasingly helpless. It’s not a good feeling.

I know that younger people are completely comfortable with technology. Maybe for that reason, it’s hard to find tech people who can help. Only we older ones need assistance. And when I do find guidance, I find that my language doesn’t match theirs; we’re using different phrases to describe the same thing, so I flounder, use long explanations to match their one word: “that thing where you start out and then after that you go to the next page. . . .”

Of course, I don’t know what I’d do without the Internet. Google has helped me translate my doctor’s medical terminology into something I can understand. When I need to research butterflies’ life cycle or how salamanders in a nearby lake survive in winter, the answer is at my fingertips rather than going through numerous books. What’s the number of annual visitors to Rocky Mountain National Park? Without the Internet, retrieving this information would take many phone calls, trying to find the right person, and many hours.

I’ve tried to keep up with the Internet, but as soon as I learn one new feature, another one comes along. It took me a long time to figure out what emojis signified and then to start using them. One I use frequently is the thumbs up, but I just read that younger people use this sarcastically, so now I’m worried that the thumbs up I recently sent my neighbor in an enthusiastic gesture will be misinterpreted.

I notice the withering look from the young checker at the supermarket when I take too long to figure out how to pay for my groceries. Where do I tap the bird emblem? Does it go up or down? I know I’m not the only older person who struggles with technology. AARP offers computer help, my hometown senior center has classes, and customers at the local Geek Squad are mostly seniors who need help getting their computers working. My cell phone provider, the one aimed at seniors, has customer service staff who talk kindly and slowly without condescension when I call with another stupid question.

Sure, there are seniors who can figure out the Internet with no problem, just like there are people in their 90s who still climb mountains. But I still print out my boarding pass because I’m haven’t yet set up the “wallet” on my cell phone.

Maybe it’s all relative. I think of my mother who, in her 80s, was given an iPad to play with and explore the Internet, maybe send some emails. But she was happy just to play Solitaire on her computer. That’s as high tech as she wanted to get.

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Becoming an Old Woman

For many years, especially after I turned 70, when people asked my age, I would always reply, “But I don’t feel 70 . . .  (71, etc., fill in the blank.) But over the past year, I suddenly started feeling old. Mostly I blame it on losing some physical abilities. The arthritis in my knees has gotten bad enough that I can no longer do the hikes I used to— such as climbing up steep trails to alpine lakes. Since my knee operation last April, I’ve slowly increased the distance I can go, but now I have to be satisfied with walks around the neighborhood rather than mountain hikes. If I try longer hikes, I get winded easily.

Meanwhile, my spinal stenosis is diagnosed as “moderate,” a common condition among older people, and now I’m careful when I lean over to garden or get dishes out of the dishwasher. I’ve crossed over some threshold—the one from moving effortlessly without thinking about my body—jumping on a bike or lifting a heavy load—to being careful. I’ve had to get rid of the image of myself as strong and capable of performing any task that was needed. 

I watch younger people bound up stairs without a thought, while I slowly take each step, planting my foot in the right position so not to feel pain.  “Careful” is my motto, followed by “slow and steady.” For someone who has always loved moving—hiking, swimming, kayaking, snowshoeing–it’s hard to adjust to a slower pace. And I’ve given up skiing altogether.

In an airport recently, arriving late one night, I found myself in a swarm of travelers apparently eager to get home. I tried to keep up with the crowd’s fast pace, but I feared that if I slowed down, I would be mowed over. With the world moving so fast, it scares me to travel now.

Just over the past six months, the arthritis in my hands has gotten worse. Every door handle is a challenge to open. Turning my key in the car ignition is painful, and so is typing–my physical therapist advises using voice-to-text. When I cut vegetables, I use a padded knife and try using my left hand instead, but it’s awkward and I worry about cutting myself. When I open a jar, I have to think first: would this hurt my right or left hand more? How do I avoid the most pain? 

I grow more crooked every day, even though I do exercises to combat that, like laying on the floor and stretching out my arms. I convince myself that I won’t be like my father, who, in his later years, was so bent over that he only saw the floor when he was walking. But then I catch myself in a storefront window and am surprised to see someone who resembles an old woman painfully stooped over.

When I get up in the morning, I slowly unfold my body, find my feet and then push myself up, feeling all the aches and pains that belong to an aging body. I walk to the bathroom holding on to the dresser to steady myself. I don’t bound out of bed anymore.

It’s strange to have to constantly think about how my body works, but on a certain level it’s comforting, because I’m taking care of my body—as lovingly as possible. I no longer move heedlessly or carelessly. When I feel pain in my hands, I massage them with cream or carefully exercise them. When my knees start hurting when I walk, I’ll find a way to shift my weight to lessen the load and pain.

When I look at my hands now, I see my mother’s, thin and gnarled. What arises is a tender memory of her, now gone five years, and tenderness toward my own aging body.

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Seniors Take to the Streets

At the recent “No Kings” protest, I couldn’t help but notice that one-third to one-half the people who filled the city park had gray hair. Nearly 50 years after the rallies against the Vietnam war, those of us who had gathered on campuses to yell “hey, hey LBJ, how many kids did you kill today” were now holding signs that said “Royal Flush, Dump Trump” and “I want a president not a king.”  Some of the younger people had obscene signs like the ones we used to hold in our young hands: “One two three four, we don’t want your fucking war” and “Make love not war.” But in our advanced age, our signs are less angry. We’ve calmed down and don’t feel the anger as much as the sorrow that the world has gotten to where it is.

Our generation was honed on some idealism: inspired by John F. Kennedy, Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King; Jr., and then devastated by their assassinations. We fought for women’s and minorities’ rights. I think some of us still carry that idealism in our hearts, only to see it threatened in front of our eyes.

Can we model that decency and idealism for younger generations? For the “No Kings” protest, residents of the largest senior facility in town, some in wheelchairs and using walkers, stood by the highway with signs denouncing the actions of a president who has arrogantly cut government agencies and workers, and now threatens to cut aid to seniors, the poor and disabled.  No wonder there are so many older people out there—we want to protect Medicaid, Medicare and Social Security.

But it’s more than just looking out for our own interests. At one protest last week deploring the administration’s cruel and random seizing of immigrants, it was mostly older women that lined the street with signs. Do women have more empathy, feel more the pain of immigrants being torn from their families? This is not to say that men aren’t part of these protests, but their numbers are fewer.

We seniors know that the world wasn’t always like this, where a president gets away with disobeying the laws we’ve lived with since our country was born. Even in the darkest days of the Nixon administration, we trusted that eventually truth and honor would rule. And it did. But I don’t feel that way anymore, and I’m guessing that a lot of people would agree.

I think many older people feel a responsibility to younger generations, even if we don’t have children. After all, looking at the world now, we can see how lucky we were to grow up and live in a time of plenty, where houses, cars and food were cheap, and jobs were plentiful. Our water and air were mostly clean, wildlife thrived in still open lands, and we hadn’t yet heard of climate change. We grew up in a world where community existed, whether through church, neighbors or workplace, and in a time before social media took over people’s lives.  

I like to think that if democracy can be saved, it will be by old women (and some men) bravely holding signs and shouting, “This is what democracy looks like,” even if our voices are hoarse, our legs wobbly and our backs stooped. Our hearts are still strong.

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