WE DON'T GET NO RESPECT!

As the late Rodney Dangerfield used to lament, we “don’t get no respect!” Waiting in a doctor’s office one day, I heard him say to a patient in the next room, “Doctor wants to know you had a good poop!” He wasn’t speaking to a three-year-old, but to a dignified old woman. Why aren’t doctors—and others—taught to treat the elderly as adults? The New York Times columnist Jane Brody refers to the problem as “elderspeak”—speaking to old people as if they were senile, stone deaf, or otherwise unable to comprehend normal speech.

For many years I was my mother’s caregiver, taking her to various appointments. Too often, a doctor or nurse would ask me questions about her, as if she were not even in the room. She was rightfully very resentful. Eventually my help became necessary, when she became obviously deaf and demented, but until that time she deserved more respect.

Physicians are some of the worst offenders; they seem to feel entitled to address patients of all ages by their first names, but expect to be addressed as “Doctor.” I have a hard-earned PhD, but am always called “Carol.” (One wonderful doctor, the late Jay Gershow, stood up when I first entered his office, and said, “I’m Jay.” I stayed with him for more than 30 years.) Not only the doctors themselves, but also their assistants and receptionists, use patients’ first names. Nursing homes today seem to do a better job of training their staffs in this respect—many of the nurses where my mother lived actually addressed her as Mrs. Beall, rather than Isabelle.  It was a refreshing change.

In stores, I’m sometimes called “Dear,” “Young lady,” or “Sweetheart,” even by much younger clerks. How can I respond without seeming like an old grouch? It is much like the quandary faced by women who object to sexist comments—they are ridiculed as being humorless or overly thin-skinned. Once a woman customer insisted on taking the items out of my grocery cart and putting them on the counter for me, ignoring my protestations that I didn’t need help. If I appeared frail, there might have been a reason for her doing so, but I look reasonably healthy and strong.

A related problem in stores is the lack of privacy. When I bought incontinence supplies for my mother, why weren’t they in plain wrappers? Why did I have to bear pitying glances from other customers in line who obviously thought the diapers were for myself?

I’m not getting any younger, of course. At the age of 75, I am beginning to feel, um, well ripened. Occasionally I am grateful when a strong young man lifts something heavy for me, or gives me a seat on a wobbling bus. I’m in no hurry to become decrepit, though. Please treat me with kindness but respect.