Yellow car syndrome

Someone came up with this funny phrase to describe a sudden hyper-awareness of something that you really hadn't much noticed before. For example, you buy a yellow car—and then, over and over, you are amazed at how many other people drive yellow vehicles, too. (We here in our home call it the "super-old Chevy Cavalier station wagon" syndrome... Or, we would call it that if we ever saw any other old Chevy wagons...)

I'm experiencing the yellow car syndrome myself these days; in the past few months, I've become extremely sensitive to the aging, frail population around me. I had already known that Pittsburgh was way up there on the list of cities with unusually high numbers of oldsters; I remember fretting about it in my single days. Yet suddenly, everywhere I look, I am visually accosted by the elderly, many of them struggling to complete simple daily tasks.

Now, I realize that this is partly because I have free time during weekday mornings in which to run errands, do shopping, and complete other household tasks. Of course I'm going to see more retired and infirm people then. (Weekends, on the other hand, are the time when you are inundated with babies and toddlers being dragged from place to place.) But my awareness isn't just age-related—it goes deeper. I am noticing crippled and gnarled fingers, bent-over spines, and people with walkers and canes. I even find myself counting the walkers, noting without trying just how many people around me require walking assistance. I am frequently arrested by just how many of the handicapped spaces are taken—sometimes all of them. Without trying, I notice a delicate white-haired lady at the grocery, trying desperately, with swollen, bent fingers, to open the clear plastic bag in which to put her produce. (Yes, I helped her.) It seems that everywhere, overnight, people have begun moving slowly, painstakingly, with difficulty.

And it's not just the older folks. I am suddenly, by way of association, aware of young people with physical limitations,too. We know a few people who have ongoing physical conditions, and now I find myself making note of similar symptoms and movements that would indicate that same or a related condition. I recognize the expression of pain on someone's face, the stiffness of joints that necessitates careful, gradual movements.

I'm sure my heightened sensitivity is related to my mother's failing health. I'm equally certain that my own advancing age, well into middle years at this point, might also be bringing home the point that these bodies of ours aren't meant to last forever. They are weak, and breakable. They can mend themselves in our youth and well beyond. But then? Those so-called golden years? Nature demands that we begin to deteriorate.

The most heartbreaking scene for me lately was a perky older woman pushing a younger lady in a wheelchair through Michaels craft store. There I was, inwardly kvetching about the traffic, and how I wasn't getting everything done that I'd hope to do, and how the sun wasn't out, grouch, groan. At that moment, the woman rolled her wheelchair-bound companion slowly past me, talking gently as she went. She reached for something on the shelf for her friend, placed it in her lap, and the recipient offered a barely audible, hardly decipherable word of thanks. I noticed how lovingly the elder woman responded, the kindness in her voice, the unhurried way she helped the other. I felt very small, and spoiled, and shallow.

It is good to be aware of this sort of thing. Good, because I can act when I see a need. Good, because I will appreciate my health, my body that still mostly does what I ask it to do. Good, because God has opened my eyes. I pray I will remember to be His hands to this growing number of opportunities. I hope I will remember to be thankful, and to act with gladness and obedience. Any of the folks I've been noticing could be, likely will be, me.

Wading in unfriendly waters

I have often thought that if I were to seek another career, a selfless one, it would be advocacy for the elderly.

(Of course, I'd much rather pursue music or art, the things that I really enjoy. But those pursuits would be for my own interest and enjoyment... which is not very noble. Sigh.)

I've spent a ridiculous amount of time lately "chasing my tail"—trying to set things right with our property taxes, making sense of the many statements coming from various medical suppliers, fighting for Highmark coverage of damage caused by my recent concrete face plant, and sorting through electric bills in order to discern who, exactly, is our supplier... I've racked up hours on the telephone, more hours reading and creating forms and documents, experiencing deep frustration and annoyance at every turn.

Through it all, as I make minute, circuitous steps toward reaching various finish lines, I think of older folks who are attempting to do the same awful work. People who, by and large, are not familiar with computers, and complicated forms, and the parking arrangements downtown. People who may or may not be able to read small print. People who often have even less money to work with that I do.

It depresses me to imagine that sort of scene. While sorting through countless medical statements, I keep thinking how many elderly people I know would pay them without a thought, even though most of them are EOBs (explanations of benefits) and not invoices at all. Incidentally, this theory of mine has been proven many times through conversations with the people who work for dentists, doctors, and utility provides. The workers have all confirmed what I suspected: that the older generation doesn't want to be beholden to anyone and will often pay a non-bill out of fear of penalty.

I'm sick when I picture these unfortunate folks enduring the nonsense I've been experiencing for months now. Grandmothers and grandfathers, gray-haired widows and widowers, grizzled old fellows who meet and drink coffee all day, and little old ladies who love their TV shows and hair appointments... I'm sure that they, too, are assaulted by the same amount (or more) of denials, threats, and misleading non-bills that befall nearly all American adults on a regular basis. And I cringe when I picture them pulling out the big ol' checkbook to pay, pay, pay these people so they stay in the financial clear.

I did a quick search to see if there are volunteer advocacy groups where a younger person can sort of "champion" an older person in need of support and help. I didn't really find anything. It seems that most of the advocacy programs are handled at a higher level (translation: government-run, which makes me run away), or controlled by a larger company that is already supplying something to the public in general (and therefore also to the elderly). And when I think about how much information I need to have to figure this stuff out for myself, I realize how personal a relationship would need to exist between the giver of such assistance and the recipient.

Maybe it's just a matter of reaching out to elderly family members, friends, and neighbors so they feel comfortable asking for help when it's needed. Would they ask? Would pride keep them from asking? Would they be offended if I offered to help sort through paperwork and online information? I guess I'd offer anyway if I thought help was needed, even if I feared insulting them; I'm a straight shooter, and I'd rather err by being too pushy than by keeping a respectful (read: unconcerned) distance.

There's at least one good thing about my possible future career: if I ever go this route, I'll know I'm doing it because I want to help people. God knows how much I despise doing that kind of detective work for myself and my family; I can't imagine that navigating the cesspool of services and information on behalf of someone else would be any more enjoyable. The only satisfaction would be achieving a good, fair, affordable end for someone.

P.S. On a lighter note, here's a nice little story about how today's youth can play a helpful part in assisting older folks.