Over
55s, especially those with HIV, are forced to live in a no-man’s land:
too old for the young and too young for the old. What a waste, says Michael
Ratsey
I guess I’m fortunate; in fact it’s as good as it can
get. Everyone I know realises I’m gay because I live with another man
and we sign our Christmas cards from both of us. Most know I’m also
HIV positive and I’ve had little discrimination on either thing. I’ve
been told it’s because I’m conventional and don’t walk around
holding my partner’s hand.
I’m not normally one for moaning and complaining about my lot but I
am the same age as the BBC’s Grumpy Old Men. So what is it that pisses
me off? Being gay? Being HIV? No. It’s being 55.
I guess there’s no good age to be told you’re HIV positive and
when I was diagnosed eleven years ago I still believed I could do all the
things I’d always done.
I was oozing ambition, playing competitive sports and contemplating life-changing
career moves when suddenly I was retired on health grounds and categorised
amongst the 60-plus group. Great chunks of my culture, music and hobbies were
un-shareable with people who had no comprehension of Springsteen and NYPD
Blue. But these old folk accepted me, virus, warts and all. It was the younger
ones who fell apart and who made me feel so frail I ran back to the senior
citizens for safety. Well, back then it was a death sentence and the oldies
embraced me into their accepting, patient queue at Heaven’s Gate.
Employment is no longer an option. But what does the world expect a retired
man in his fifties to do? What does the world expect a gay man in his fifties
to do? Stop being gay? I’ve never been much of a club animal, even when
I smoked and drank with the best of them, so I don’t miss not being
catered for there. But don’t people realise that many of us can’t
just sit in a glaze at the television all day, finding a smidgeon of self-worth
from an odd stint in the charity shop if we have the energy and our bowels
don’t play up? Well, I do my bit - but hey, what d’ya know? Voluntary
work is generally done by people ten to 15 years older than me and although
I’m young and precious to them, they don’t welcome my ‘new-fangled
suggestions’ one little bit. They don’t want to know about computers,
email, eBay or downloads. No job satisfaction there then.
In the October 2003 edition of PN the interesting column ‘Ageing (dis)gracefully’
covered a key point centred on ‘Healthy mind, Healthier body’.
Although HAART has been shown to improve brain function of people with dementia,
especially drugs that cross the blood/brain barrier like AZT, it seems positive
people are more likely to experience depression and mental health problems
than those not HIV positive. I’ve known for some time that I had to
keep my brain working, especially when I was competing with the psychotic
dreams triggered by efavirenz. So what did I do? I sat down and wrote a book,
tailoring my energies to suit when to write. When friends said it was good,
I blasted the publishing world with it. And with my introductory letter told
them I was HIV positive. That got their interest. But then they learnt my
age.
I realised then I was in no man’s land: too old to contribute to the
young and too young for the old. It’s probably true I’m slower
to learn, especially with modern technology. But doesn’t time bring
automatic wisdom? The mere fact I’ve lived longer means I have more
history and experience than anybody younger than me and surely in that there
is knowledge? So what right has anyone to indicate I have little to offer
anymore? Ignoring us oldies is like letting an endangered species become extinct.
The gene pool is lost for ever and everything associated with it.
What makes me even grumpier is that I sometimes feel young people now have
the ownership of HIV, even though, unfortunately, it was my generation who
‘invented’ it. I suppose it’s often to do with sex and it’s
more palatable to think of young trimmed bodies entwined in Kama Sutra positions
than old wrinkly ones. Even the literature in the GUM clinic is on tattoos,
fast cars and fashion; and I do understand that safe sex propaganda must be
accessible for those most likely to need it. But I won’t give up. I
am a Capricorn and members of this elite company are constantly striving for
greater goals. We can’t help it. I go to sleep hoping a little maggot
in my head will tell me what my next goal is in the morning and it usually
does. Undaunted and unpublished I’ll still write another book.
