Don't You Hate It When...

It's been happening all too often -- I'm getting mail and phone calls obviously intended for my late grandmother . . . or someone much older than I. Yesterday's mail brought this large print solicitation from The Scooter Store, with a helpful (and FREE)  Personal Mobility Assessment just for me! I mean, it had my name right there. It said I could complete it on my own or with the help of my caregiver or family member.

Care giver! What I want is a gardener. And though my knees are creaky, the scooter isn't going to be a bit of help to me unless it has four wheel drive and a dump bed. 

Oh, wait -- we have one of those.

I'm just being cranky -- but I resent the assumption that because I'm 68, I need large print, a scooter, and may need my caregiver to help me decide stuff.

Then there was the phone call on Tuesday -- a woman with a charming, motherly-sounding voice wanted to know if I was taking my diabetes meds daily.

What? I said. Why would I do that? And she muttered something and hung up.

This wasn't a wrong number -- she called me by name.  Again with the assumptions --  a person in my age group may well have diabetes. I suspect that had I said, Yes, I take them every day, she would have been quick to offer me a better price on meds.

If I had a cane, I'd hit someone with it. Instead, I'll quote Dylan Thomas --

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

As the old man in Monty Python's Holy Grail said, when they were trying to toss him on to the cart full of corpses. "I'm not dead yet!"