When I was employed as coordinator of hospital volunteers, I always enjoyed working with seniors but never considered myself one. The seniors never called in sick even during blizzards, dressed nicely, and I never had to confront them about body piercings.
As a child, I was always the youngest and shortest of my fellow classmates.
I was always asked for my ID at the bars well until my 30s.
I prided myself on my rosy Irish skin and youthful appearance.
After the hair cut I received at the time of brain surgery for Parkinson’s Disease, my previous auburn hair turned salt-and-pepper. Perhaps my hair color transformed me into a senior. Others looked at my hair, and not my face, and categorized me as chronologically challenged.
I went to a daytime exercise class a couple of weeks ago to discover that at age 57, I was the youngest by at least eight years. Most people there were old enough to be my parents. When the instructor introduced me to the class, all thirty said in unison, “Hi, Kate,” as though I was attending an AA meeting.
Everyone was sitting in their chairs as they exercised, except for the brief “cardiac” portion where people stood for ten minutes. When had exercise gone so slack?
I’m preoccupied with reading the obituaries these days, carefully searching for those who died from or with Parkinson’s Disease.
Isn’t it ironic that I was formerly perceived as very young, but now have the medical condition of an old woman? I wouldn’t have chosen to contact this old people’s disease at age 46, but I’ve always been precocious as I raced through life to the finish line.
When I was employed as coordinator of hospital volunteers, I always enjoyed working with seniors but never considered myself one. The seniors never called in sick even during blizzards, dressed nicely, and I never had to confront them about body piercings.
As a child, I was always the youngest and shortest of my fellow classmates.
I was always asked for my ID at the bars well until my 30s.
I prided myself on my rosy Irish skin and youthful appearance.
After the hair cut I received at the time of brain surgery for Parkinson’s Disease, my previous auburn hair turned salt-and-pepper. Perhaps my hair color transformed me into a senior. Others looked at my hair, and not my face, and categorized me as chronologically challenged.
I went to a daytime exercise class a couple of weeks ago to discover that at age 57, I was the youngest by at least eight years. Most people there were old enough to be my parents. When the instructor introduced me to the class, all thirty said in unison, “Hi, Kate,” as though I was attending an AA meeting.
Everyone was sitting in their chairs as they exercised, except for the brief “cardiac” portion where people stood for ten minutes. When had exercise gone so slack?
I’m preoccupied with reading the obituaries these days, carefully searching for those who died from or with Parkinson’s Disease.
Isn’t it ironic that I was formerly perceived as very young, but now have the medical condition of an old woman? I wouldn’t have chosen to contact this old people’s disease at age 46, but I’ve always been precocious as I raced through life to the finish line.