Age Escapism

When I walked out of the geriatrics clinic that evening, I was still unable to erase from my mind the shocking encounter that I had just witnessed. I realized that I was simply a student and a mere shadow of a doctor, yet even so, I believed that I had seen something remarkable—a battle of acceptance against denial of age.

The patient had been sitting in the room like a blurred-out version of herself. Her airy, artsy dress with the stone necklace showed a hint of a hippie in her, but all the makeup and the fashionable hairstyle clearly were a defense against old age. I could envision the sheer perfection and allure she must have embodied in her youth, as her present appearance, though altered by time, continued to exude a timeless beauty.

As she narrated her chronic pain and fatigue, along with how she needed to “relax,” the emotions stirred in her account drew me in closer. It was not merely what she uttered but how she said it that amazed me. When she said there is “something pressing against” her, I thought there was more to what she was saying—a degree of helplessness, possibly in the very act of becoming old.

During the whole discussion, I did not utter even a word but violently wrestled with my own thoughts and questions as I listened to their comments. I watched how her complaints evolved, how she fidgeted with invisible bugs under her skin, how she desperately grasped at a supplement called “Nerve Survivor.” I began to feel that the physical complaints she had were just further developments of some other, more fundamental psychological problems.

As she cried, calling herself the “potential untreatable patient,” I became restless with an urge to take action. I was tormented by a thought: “What is it that you wish to feel?” It was a question that would allow me to plunge deeper into her being, but as a student observer, I held back. Would it be helpful or harmful? Would it be an intrusion?

She questioned why the pain was spreading to her hands, describing how she woke up with clenched fists and had to forcibly open her joints with the other hand. She said it was “really discouraging.” It wasn’t too long after when she said that she wished she could sleep more because she felt less pain asleep. Then she slipped, “If I could sleep all day, I would.” This worried me and moreover indicated a level of distress that my lousy question wouldn’t exacerbate. Mustering all my internal strength, I finally voiced the question that had been cooking and baking inside: “What do you want to feel?”

What she said next was illuminating indeed. She spoke of the time of no pain, before COVID, before the vaccine that she now bitterly recalls. She wanted to wear skinny stilettos, wanted to dance, wanted to go out with her friends again—everything she felt was already slipping from her. As I sat there and listened, I internally grieved with her for her loss. Still, I could not escape the extra sting of irony in this situation—she saw her pain as attributed to some particular misdeed, but I saw the battle with time; with age.

We talked and talked about things we have in common, and that is why we discussed dance, music, as well as musical theater. When she said that Les Misérables was her favorite show, I thought to myself that I could relate to her; we have a common tongue. Brought forth by the cue, I volunteered lyrics from the song “What I Did For Love” from A Chorus Line, hoping the words would offer different perspectives towards loss and love.

This encounter lingers in my thoughts, heavy with emotional and psychological significance, and therefore, I call it age escapism—potentially a derivation of gerontophobia. It was not the usual worries of isolation, disease, dependency, and death that she was scared of. She was scared of losing herself, persuading herself that an external force—the vaccine in this case—would erase her self-perception. The galloping hostility towards any pain in her movement or even the slightest discomfort in her body did not help at all in reducing her anxiety but instead increased it.

I find this case particularly interesting to analyze. How might it help in the understanding of the phenomenon and the prevention of more cases? Could it even lead to new paradigms for treating a disorder, if it exists? Or, let me go further and pose the question: Will it lead us to develop a greater acceptance of death—our death?

Surprisingly, though she believed that her case would discourage me from any consideration of being a medical professional, she was mistaken. It solidified my conviction in human interaction, in the need to look at and listen to a patient as someone and not as a set of pathological signs.

As I get ready to go to sleep, thinking about the events of the day, a last thought occurs to me: when treating the fears of patients about old age or death, all of us who are to be the healthcare providers must face the same fears. Perhaps that is where the real healing power lies: coming to terms with both life and death; with love and loss; with everything there is in this world and all that does not exist.

This meeting, even more than any book or lecture, has brought me to understand the interactions of the psyche and physique as well as emotions and experiences. It has further motivated me to be a physician who does not ever aim to only manage symptoms but to understand and address the entire individual—their fears, aspirations, and unacknowledged battles with the essence of being human.