Transition

Not a favorite word.

It used to be, back when I was changing from staying behind when my brothers got on the bus to joining them when I went into first grade. They always let me get on the bus first, then studiously ignored me the rest of the day unless I got into trouble.

It was still fun when I went from elementary school to junior high, when we seniors went solemnly up the side aisles of the gym to the strains of Pomp and Circumstance on our way into the future. To this day, I wonder why the procession is slow and somber when it should be a dance, as fun and musical as the decorated tops of graduates’ mortarboards.

I loved being an adult, and transitioning to marriage and motherhood, to postal worker and published author, to being nana and retiring from the day job. Did I love every minute or even every year of it? No. Did I look forward to what came next? Oh, you bet.

I even like being old, although I don’t enjoy the memory loss or the physical changes that come with it. I hate being referred to as irrelevant and being thrown into a generality with all the other boomers. It is psychological warfare to insist we are all the same when we so absolutely are not. Just as people don’t like or deserve to be pigeonholed when they are young, it doesn’t improve with age.

As we have aged, my husband and I have begun to accompany each other to medical appointments so that the non-patient can be the designated listener. Sometimes, our daughter goes along, too.

It’s a good idea. She doesn’t miss things the way her dad and I do. She often adds to the entertainment value of sitting in ERs or consultation rooms. I am glad that she and her brothers and all of their spouses care about us. I’m even glad they have their own texting exchange that we aren’t a part of,”so we can talk about you.”

Because it’s necessary.

I wish it wasn’t. In the biggest, most painful of ways, I wish it wasn’t. We never wanted them to have to do the heavy lifting for us--that was our job, wasn’t it? At least, it used to be.

Not until earlier this week did I finally begin to accept this transition, although I knew it was there. Friends and I talk about it, laugh about it, and are forever grateful for our families. But the truth is we don’t like it. We don’t like that it somehow makes us less in so many ways. I don’t like that I allow myself to feel that way.

But this week a very personable and I’m sure skilled physician came into a room with test results. While he was friendly to my husband and me, it was to our daughter he spoke. He didn’t act as if we weren’t there, but he was obviously unsure of our cognizance. Unlike our regular nurse practitioner, who just adds another listener in the group in the exam room and talks to all three of us, he said, “I will talk to you, and you can tell them.”

She didn’t have to, because we could hear him, but it stung.

We will ... at least, I think we will ... go into summertime soon. Although it’s beautiful, it’s not my favorite season because I’m not a fan of either heat or humidity. But I love the transitions between all the seasons. When things green up in spring, bring vivid color in fall, and when winter downtime comes with the comfort of blankets and sweatshirts and lush cold weather food--those are my favorite times of all.

As long as we’re not talking about politics, I don’t want to complain in this venue. The Window has better things to do, but it’s important that all generations be respected by the ones who come both before and after. While some of them require more advocacy than others, we all need it.

When you start a sentence with the words these kids today, don’t end it with recriminations and name-calling. When you say when I was your age, remember that often the past is looked at through glasses that distort the actuality of the way things were. When you say someone isn’t relevant, bite your tongue and back up. That’s a form of advocacy that can make changes land easier, cushioned by respect.

Because we are all relevant, even when we’re in transition.

Have a good week. Be nice to somebody.