The Anxious Elderly I Never Saw Coming
When we think about pinning the label 'anxious' on someone, there's a very generic character that will come to mind almost immediately. Whether that image comes about through the conditioning that has been placed upon us by society or through the lack of information and understanding around mental illness that is still present in our society but one will suggest it was through no fault of their own, we all see this character.
You've already picked the gender, she's a female with the assumed pronouns of she/her without the question being asked. She's an adult, not yet old enough to be considered 'ready to make her own life changing decisions in life', but makes the decisions for a national company under the guise of the boss she works for because this woman can't remember what she wrote in an email thread she's got open right in front of her. There's the smell of a fresh haircut lingering as she walks by and you're eyeing her bangs wondering if she purposely went to the hairdresser to get them or needed an emergency fix from an at-home job. There's multiple pairs of earrings, some kind of dangly ensemble that screams 'pretty' or 'wishful' or even just plain old 'cute' as if that's the most exotic descriptive word that comes to mind when an object has no traces of the colour black. She's obviously got headphones in listening to some true crime podcast that helps her fall asleep at night like "My Favourite Murder" or "Case Files", unpacking the retelling of an infamous serial killer which she just remembered existed from her Netflix recommendations. There's a bunch of battered fingernails attached to her slim fingers, need I say more?
What i've described isn't always that far off, I mean, I did just write up a character profile of myself in the eyes of a stranger (minus the bangs, my hairdresser appointments are on schedule every six week and she will 100% yell at me if I ever come to her with an at-home job and surprise surprise people yelling makes my insides squirm). Yes, an early 20's caucasian female who has listened to a record 16 episodes of MFM in one day, makes her own fancy earrings and has to remind her 'Karen-esque' boss to reply to her emails, with 2 tablespoons of clinically depressed, a cup of generalised anxiety disorder, a dash of PTSD stirred up with polycystic ovarian syndrome because why not.
But in reality, it'll always be the things that people didn't notice on a first glance that will truly justify my diagnosis, and the same can be said for picking someone else out of a crowd who is quietly suffering from a disease that is the butt of every joke a white male who has never thought about anything other than remembering to keep their fly done up will ever tell you.
Her name was Adele. She was around her mid-80's styled with coordinated clothing, a blow dry hair-do, adorned in gold jewellery, sitting by herself outside a shopping centre Woolworths store, shaking like a damn leaf. I can only imagine how long she had been sitting there, eyes frozen on a spot on the floor with her hands manically asking for the attention of someone to hold. Her rings were hitting against the table of a fast food joint dinning area and the lady sitting almost a metre away had her back turned to her as if to block out the uniform tiny bangs of ring hitting table. Staff were cleaning tables around her, everyone walking by protected by their face mask and guise of catching corona to ever turn away from their phones to notice this poor woman.
My mother was the one who pointed her out to me. Heart on her chest, sadness in her eyes, a sense of familiarity surrounding Adele, she needed to go sit with her. Adele was having a panic attack, a mixed worry of being left by herself whilst her helper got her groceries, the Valium her doctor told her to take in the morning, a humming sadness of not being able to control her breathing and a little bit of embarrassment that this was happening at all. The last part is what got my mother the most. How can someone so fragile and in need of help or even just reassurance that this panic attack will end still be cautious of their appearance to others?
Words could not escape my mouth, my mother did all the reassured talking as we sat with her waiting for the grocery lady to come back. All I could do was rummage through my handbag to find a tube of hand cream, grab her shaking hand and slowly start massaging her knuckles and switch to circling her palm as if that would magically heal her nerves. It was the most hopeless I had felt in a long time. Adele had told my mother and I that she didn't want to keep us from our day and before she could even finish the sentence mum reassured her that we were not going to leave her alone in this state, that we both knew too much about going through panic attacks to leave someone alone to ride the wave. She was a sweet woman, telling us about her Jewish heritage, how she loved the area she lived in and the number of grandchildren she had, doing everything she could to keep her experience of talking to strangers as normal as possible. Once she felt more comfortable she'd ask whether or not we too have had panic attacks and with a nod of our heads proceeded to ask if we took medication (with the underlying question of "does it work?" being spoken with her tone rather than choice of words), a question I nod to shyly. She understood.
I've never seen someone her age have a panic attack before, let alone seen anyone at her age still experience the physical side effects to such a debilitating disease and I am yet to stop thinking about it. How can the stigma behind mental illness be so clouded by the rise of social media use and the lazy generation resurgence minimise the understanding and acknowledgement that a range of people are affected and continue to suffer through the mental and physical affects of suffering anxiety? How can the use of medication be hushed over phone calls from the haven of your home instead of an open conversation being had outside, screaming from billboards and radio ads like taking viagra? Why did the world only start publicising mental health statistics and labelling it a problem when a global pandemic begun? Why isn't this considered a global health issue?
As we say goodbye to Adele and her returning grocery purchaser, she looks dearly at my mother. Almost a thank you and thank goodness rolled into one glance. I couldn't help but look back to see if her hands were still shaking. They spasmed as she moved away from my eye sight. I wonder if next week when she needs groceries again, if she'll experience the same trauma. What if no one goes up to hold her hand?
Reassurance. Why is it so hard to ask for and yet the one thing we all need?
Lifeline: 13 11 14
Suicide Call Back Service: 1300 659 467
Headspace: 1800 650 890
Support Act: 1800 959 500
Much love x
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