Diary Entry
I need to see the doctor, but people just call me old biddy…
Old dear, you really shouldnt travel at rush hour, muttered a young lad with headphones, not even glancing at me. Youre in everyones way.
I was standing by the rail, crushed by strangers backs and elbows, and his words rang out so loudly the entire bus must have heard. My heart gave a jolt, and for a second it felt as if there was no air left. Not so much from the stuffiness (though the bus was hot and crowded) but from shame.
Hes right, said a girl glued to her phone. They get free travel and still insist on coming out at the busiest time. Ought to just stay home.
I gripped the handrail tighter. My knee was aching, my chest pinched, and now my head was spinning as well. I wanted to say something, to explain I had a nine oclock appointment, that I couldnt possibly get there any other way. That walking to the surgery isnt an option when every step is a challenge. That this isnt pleasure for me, standing crammed in with all these irritable people.
But the words died in my throat. I just looked down and tried to make myself smaller, less noticeable, as if I could simply melt away into the throng.
The Number 47 bus jolted at the lights, every shudder sending pain through my knees. Wakefield is up and alive early, and by eight every bus is absolutely packed. Of course I know this. I also dread these rush hour journeys. But what can I do? My GP could only give me a nine oclock slot, and Dr. Mary Stanford only sees her patients in the mornings.
Last night I spent ages preparing. Sorted all my documents: NHS card, proof of pension, hospital summary from my last test. Packed my pills, just in casecant go anywhere without my nitroglycerin. You never know. I sat on the edge of my bed, picturing the next day. Up at six to wash, dress, have a small breakfast. Out the door by half seven. The bus stop is only five minutes awayten, really, when every stair down to the street feels like a mountain.
Once Id have thought nothing of such a trip. I used to work too, up early, a regular on jam-packed buses. But it was different back then. People offered up their seat if they saw an older person. They didnt look at you with that irritation, as if venturing out at your age was some personal insult.
When did that change? I ask myself often. Eight years ago, when I first retired? Or was it when I noticed the suspicious looks at the supermarket? The way people avoid you in queues, the outright grumbling in public transport?
This morning I woke to my alarm. It wasnt even fully light. Dragged myself out of bed, my knee already throbbing, every movement costing pain. Splashed my face with cold water, hoping it would help. Made myself a weak cup of tea, choked down half a slice of toast. My stomach was tight with nerves.
Zoe Porter, my neighbour opposite, met me in the stairwell.
Where you off to so early, Val? she asked, holding her old Jack Russell on a lead.
Doctors. Got a nine oclock appointment with the heart specialist.
Oh, its a nightmare in the buses now, Zoe shook her head. Couldnt you go a bit later?
Only slot I could get, I sighed. And if I put it off again, itll be another month.
Well, mind yourself. People are so angry nowadays. Yesterday I saw a young man yell at an old woman in the bustold her to move because she was taking up space, and she could barely stand.
Her words hit home. I was already nervous, and now I was properly scared. But what choice do I have? My health matters. My blood pressure has been all over, my hearts been troubling me. Dr. Stanford said shed order new tests, maybe sort out my meds.
There was already a small crowd at the bus stop. Everyone plugged into their phones and headphones. Mostly young people, maybe fifteen or so. The bus pulled up rammed with bodies. When the doors opened, everyone surged forward. I got on last, squeezed myself by the door and clung tightly to the rail.
Disdain for the elderly starts with those looks. The way people gaze at you, as though you dont belong. As if your presence during rush hour is an insult to those in real employment.
The boy in the headphones stood beside me. Tall, sporty, backpack slung over his shoulder, eyes fixed on his phone. The bus jerked and I staggered his way.
Careful, he grumbled, not even taking an earbud out.
Sorry I said quietly.
Old dear, you shouldnt travel at rush hour, he said, louder this time, addressing the girl opposite. Youre in everyones way.
And there it was. Not even the words, but the flatness in his voice. The way he spoke about me as though I was just an obstacle, a piece of old junk.
Seriously, added the girl, thumbing through photos on her mobile. They get their perks, and then choose the busiest hour. Honestly, just stay home.
I could feel tears sliding down my cheeks, silent and almost unseen. I turned towards the window, pretending to look outbut all I saw was myself, thirty years ago, teaching my own son to offer up his seat to someone elderly. How wrong it felt back then if the young sat while a pensioner stood.
Whats happened to people? When did we stop seeing each other as humans?
Dont mind them, I suddenly heard a womans gentle voice. Middle-aged, tired-looking. Theyre not all like that, honestly.
I nodded, unable to speak. The words of thanks stuck, along with my tears.
The bus crawled along, stuck in traffic. More and more people pushed in at each stop, squashed so tightly I could hardly breathe. My head spun. My grip on the rail was the only thing holding me up.
Shell keel over next, someone grumbled behind me. Brilliant time to take a trip.
I closed my eyes. Counted to ten. Breathed slowly, as Dr. Stanford always taught: in through the nose, out slowly through the mouth.
The hardest part of riding the bus at my age isnt really the discomfort. Its the sense that youre unwanted, made to feel a burden, as though youve no right to be out and about when everyone else is trying to get to work.
Three stops to the surgery. I tried to focus on what Id tell Dr. Stanford: about my blood pressure, how my chests been tight, how even walking about the house leaves me breathless.
But my mind kept circling back to that boys word: old biddy. When did I become just that to strangers? Not Valerie Chapman, with a name, a life, and a right to respectbut just an inconvenience?
I remembered my mother. She travelled by bus in her old age as well, and someone always offered her a seat. Always. Even when the bus was heaving, someone would say, Please, sit down. She used to say it was improper not to. Thats how they were raised.
But now? Now the shame is just being seen on the bus during rush hour, once youre past sixty.
The bus jolted hard at the next light. I staggered, almost went down, and someones elbow jabbed sharply into my side.
Just stand properly! snapped someone, irritation plain.
I kept quiet. What could I say? That its difficult to stand when your knees shot? That my balance isnt what it was? That every lurch feels like Im about to fall?
Finally, my stop. I started inching through the wall of bodies towards the doors. People parted reluctantly, muttering grumpily.
You should get in place to get off earlier, said a woman loaded down with shopping.
Sorry, I mumbled.
Getting off the bus felt like a battle. The step seemed higher than ever; my leg buckled and I barely caught myself. The doors snapped shut behind me, as if the bus was eager to be rid of me.
I stood at the stop, catching my breath. My legs were trembling. My temples throbbed. I wanted to sit, but there was no benchmust have been cut to save on costs.
Only five minutes left to the doctors by foot. Normally, not much, but today it felt endless. I hobbled onwards, clinging to railings, steadying myself on walls.
The way older people are treated in public shows what a country thinks of its elders. Today, I felt the full force of that coldness.
The surgery was already crowded. I took my number from the self-check-in and saw Id have to wait another twenty minutes. I sat on a hard plastic seat by the window. Closed my eyes. My hands were still shaky.
Valerie Chapman? I heard Dr. Stanfords familiar voice. Opened my eyes. She stood there, folder in hand. Are you alright? Youre terribly pale.
Bit tired. The bus was rough, I tried to smile.
During the morning crush? Oh, I can imagine I get stuck in it sometimes myself, she said, sitting beside me. Checked your blood pressure yet?
Not yet.
Come along, no need to wait your turn. You look like you could do with a rest.
In the room, she sat me down and took my reading, then frowned at the numbers.
Thats a bit high. 170 over 90. What happened?
And suddenly I couldnt hold it together any more. I cried. Quietly, no sound, just tears rolling down, impossible to stop.
Valerie, dear, whats wrong? she asked, handing me a tissue, clearly concerned.
On the bus they said I shouldnt be there. That I was in everyones way, that I ought to stay home, I choked out.
Dr. Stanford sighed and settled on the chair next to me.
I know. A lot of patients mention this. It hurts, I get it. But you do know you have every right to use the buses? You havent done anything wrong.
I know, in my head I wiped my eyes but it still hurts. Their words, the looks. As if Im just surplus.
People are tired, irritable. They want someone to blame for their own discomforts. And its easier to fume at an elderly woman than question the system that packs us all in like cattle, she said softly.
It didnt used to be like this. People would offer a seat, not scold you, I looked out of the window. Whats changed?
So much. Weve all gotten harder, more self-absorbed, exhausted, maybe. Still, not everyones like that. Someone did support you today, didnt they?
They did, but everyone else I shook my head. What will I do next time I have to travel? Therell be follow-up appointments, blood tests, the pharmacy Where are pensioners supposed to go, if not the bus?
Youve got to keep going, Valerie, Dr. Stanford said. Dont let a few unhappy people scare you out of your rights. You are just as entitled to healthcareand public transportas anyone else.
We talked a while. She arranged the tests, changed my prescription, and promised to try and book me in for later next time, past the worst of the crowds.
Try to come at ten if you can, she said as I was leaving. Rushs eased by then. Ill put you down for that slot.
Thank you, I said, taking my forms. For everything.
I left the surgery at about eleven. The sun was out, warmer. The bus home was comfortablespacious, even a seat by the window. I gazed out at Wakefield, the town Id lived in all my life. The same place Id raised my son, worked at the biscuit factory all those years.
Bus trips to the GP have become a real ordeal for us pensioners, not just because our bodies ache, but because we face so much hostility.
At home, I made tea and settled by the window. Watched the playground, the benches outside my building. An ordinary afternoon. An ordinary life. Except something fundamental had shifted inside: fear had settled inthe fear of the next bus journey.
In the evening, Zoe popped round.
Well then, did you manage to get there and back alright? she asked, already filling the kettle. Want some tea?
Go on then, I nodded, taking my seat. Zoe, do you ever dread the buses? Arent you afraid?
I am, she poured the tea, so I try to travel after lunch, or when its really early and quiet. Mind you, Im always up at six anyway.
But what if you have to go at a set time?
Then I just go and put up with it. Whats the alternative? Taxis are too dear on a pension. Only the other day, remember that old lady in the trolleybus I mentioned? She was standing with a stick and a group of young lads just kept staring at their phones. She asked for a seat, and they snapped at hertold her she got plenty of perks, so what was she on about wanting their seat.
I sipped my tea in silence.
It happened to me today too I murmured. Told me I was in everyones way.
Oh for heavens sake! Zoe nearly spilt her tea. Where are we supposed to disappear to? We have timed appointments and cant always pick and choose. Hows a pensioner to stand up for themselves when even taking the bus turns into a battle?
Thats it, isnt it, I placed my cup down. I know Ive got every right, and that Im not doing anything wrong but it still makes me nervous. I dread that crush, dread hearing those comments.
I understand, she nodded. I wouldnt leave the house for a week after something like that. But then I think, should we just let them win? What, stay cooped up, turn into hermits? Not a chance. Were human beings too, and we have to live our lives.
Its just so heavy, all of it, I sighed. Once upon a time people respected their elders. Offered their seats. Now?
Times have changed, Zoe topped up her cup, people are just so angry, so rushed, no time for kindness. But if we lock ourselves away, it only makes things worsesocial isolation creeps in one missed bus at a time.
Arent you scared? I asked.
Always. But I still go. Because if I never leave, never go to the doctor or shopping, who does that help? Only does me harmIll get more ill, more cut off.
We sat quietly, drinking our tea as dusk fell and the streetlamps flickered on.
You know, I said at last, my GP told me today not to let those people break my spirit. That Im allowed to ride when I need to.
Shes right, nodded Zoe. We spent our lives working, building this country, raising our kids. Earned a bit of respect. If some dont get that, wellsays more about them than us.
I just wish I didnt have to live with this fear, I looked at her, Ill have to go again in a week for more tests, then again to pick up prescriptions, and so on
And you will, Zoe replied firmly. Because you have to. Just try to avoid the busiest times, if you can. And remember, youre not alone. Theres plenty more like us out there, all braving the same thing.
When she left, I sat at the kitchen table a long time. I kept thinking of that morning, the boys words, my own shame and helplessness, and the effort it took not to cry openly.
But I also thought about Dr. Stanfords advice. I really do have every right to go about my life, to get medical help, to travel the town. My visit to the doctor matters just as much as someone elses job or studies. I cant lock myself away, afraid of a sneer.
I thought of my mother. She wouldnt have hidden, shed have stood her ground and demanded respect. But times were different then. Were people different, or is it just me thats changedsofter, more vulnerable? I never used to be brought to tears by a strangers insult. Id have answered back.
But now, my strength is less, I suppose. Every tension, every conflict, takes it out of memy heart, my nerves, my whole sense of well-being.
I went to bed late, rolling the mornings events over in my mind. Imagined what I could have said to that boy, that I was ill, that I had no choice but to travel. But in my heart, I know it wouldnt have made a difference; people like that arent interested in explanationstheyre only interested in their own comfort.
I slept fitfully. Dreamed I was young again, gliding down the street, offering my seat to an older woman on the bus. She smiled with gratitude, and I felt proud to have done the right thing.
Woke up feeling heavy. The dream was so vivid I wished I could stay there, in a time when kindness wasnt rare.
But reality was still waiting. Another week until I have to brave the journey again to Dr. Stanford. Another bus ride, another chance of an insult.
This morning I washed, made tea, sat by the window. Watched the neighbours heading to work. I wondered which of them would complain about the elderly on the bus todayor maybe, just maybe, someone would offer a seat, see the frailty, and help.
I drained my tea, stood up, and gazed at my reflection. Sixty-eight, wrinkled and grey-haired, my eyes tired but questioning, determined, unwilling to give in.
Zoes words came back: We wont let them lock us up at home. Then Dr. Stanfords voice: Dont let them break your spirit. I realised theyre right. Life shouldnt be forfeited to fear of other peoples rudeness. I have my rights, no matter my age.
Yes, itll be hard. Yes, sometimes frightening. And maybe Ill hear those bitter words again. But the alternative is worsebecoming a shut-in, vanishing from my own town.
No, thats not for me.
I looked at my calendar. Marked my next appointment: 15th November, 10am. Leave at 9:15. Bring NHS card, pension proof, test results, medication.
Underneath, I added: If I get scared, remember my rights and the importance of my health.
Kept the note somewhere Id see it every day.
The next days passed as usualtidying, cooking, television in the evenings. Zoe called in each day; wed drink tea and chat about neighbours or the news.
Still, my mind kept drifting back to that bus ride. Every time I recalled it, my heart clenched. I longed to rewind and stand up for myself, but what could I have said to make them care? Im going to the doctor? Im ill? They wouldnt have listened.
One evening my son called. Tom lives in Bristol, phones me once a week.
Hows things, Mum? Health alright?
Im fine, love. Been to the doctor this week. I didnt mention the incident. Why worry him? He cant help from there.
Glad to hear it. Got enough pills? Enough money?
All fine, Tom. Dont worry.
We talked a bit about his job, about my grandchildren. I listen and think: he drives everywhere, has his own car, never has to battle buses. He cant picture what it feels like to be elderly, dependent on public transport.
After the call, loneliness pressed in. I sat by the window, watching the evening lights blinking on, the traffic rushing past, everyone hurrying home to families. To them, Im just another old woman, scared of the bus.
This is how social isolation starts. You dodgy rush hour, then avoid leaving the house altogether. One errand, then none. Suddenly, youre alone, cut off from everything.
I braced myself: I wont let that happen to me. I have a right to live, to travel, to seek help. Even if I must steel myself every time, Ill do it.
The evening before my next appointment, I prepped againmy documents, my meds, warm coat. It was getting chilly out.
I went to bed early, though I barely slept, going over the journey in my mind, picturing the bus, the crowds, the dread of those looks.
But what if someone is rude again? What will I say?
Perhaps nothing. Let them rant. Theres no point arguing; people who insult a pensioner arent open to reason. Sometimes, dignity is found in silence.
The day dawned. My slot was now at ten, less harsh than the rush hour. I got up, had breakfast, and left at quarter to nine. Zoe was waiting in the hallway.
Ill walk you to the bus stop, she said. Itll be easier together.
We took our time, me leaning on her arm. My leg hurt lessmaybe fear was dulling it for once.
At the stop, only four others waited: an elderly lady with a shopping trolley, a middle-aged man, two girls with phones. The bus arrived half-empty. I found a window seat.
Zoe waved me off. The ride was, well, normal. Nobody stared, nobody muttered. Onboard, even when it filled more, the mood was calm.
In the surgery, Dr. Stanford smiled.
Good morning, Valerie! Got here alright? She led me in.
Much better thanks. Less crowded, and everyone was polite.
Told you ten oclock is better, she checked my BP, 140 over 85, so much better. How are you feeling?
Much better. The pills help.
We sorted my tests, arranged my next visit.
Come again in two weeks, she said as I left, and remember, youre brave for not giving up.
Her words warmed me. I left feeling lighter. Yes, there will be hard journeys again, and perhaps more harsh words. But I survived. With Dr Stanfords advice, with Zoes support, with hard-won stubbornness.
The way home was peaceful. Plenty of seats. I watched out the window, feeling that bit more myself. Im not excess, I thought. Ive earned my place in this town, earned my dignity.
Back at home, I jotted in my notebook: Next appointment, 29th November. Bloods before. And then, Made it once; Ill make it again.
Zoe stopped by later.
Alright, love? Trip go okay?
It did, thank you, Zoe. Wouldnt have managed without your encouragement.
Nonsense, you did it yourself. I just walked you to the stop.
We sat and chatted, tea in hand, about nothing much. And I was gratefulnot to be alone, to have someone who understands.
Respect for the elderly in public doesnt change fast. But standing your ground, routine as it is, shifts the world just a fraction. Simply by existing, by not hiding, by reminding everyone: older people are not burdens or obstaclestheyre people.
Before bed, I looked at my note: Ill manage. Just three words, but it took all my nerve to believe them after what happened last week.
But I do believe them now. Life carries on, and my right to it hasnt expired just because Im sixty-eight.
Yes, discrimination on public transport is still a real problem here. People will keep grumbling, as if pensioners riding the bus is some cheeky indulgence. As if a trip to the surgery isnt vital. But until things change, Ill just have to keep living, keep going out, keep being visible. And remember, Im not the only one. There are more of us, and there are others who will support and understand.
Tonight Ill sleep peacefully. Tomorrow is another day, another journey, another challenge. But Ill face them. Theres no alternativebecause to shut myself away would be to surrender life itself.
I fall asleep, and I dream of a normal bus: I get on, no nasty looks, someone smiles, even offers a seat. I travel through my town, at peace.
Its only a dream. But maybe one day itll be true. Maybe one day, every pensioner will feel just as at home on the bus as everyone else.
Until then, Ill believe, hope and press on. Every day. Every journey. Every fearful step out my front door.
I woke up this morning with a touch of hope. Sunlight streaming through the window. A new day beginning. And I am ready to face itchallenges and all. Because I am a person. Because I have a right to my life. And I wont let anyone take that from me, not now, not ever.
