My handicap has aged me before my time. Cell phones, for example, have created a whole new problem for me. I suppose the fact that I have one at all makes me somewhat young. The fact that it comes with the five star alert system and free medication reminder does not.
The problem began when my old flip top died. Apparently, technology has advanced light years in the last 18 months. When did cell phones become so complicated? Me, at the phone store: No, I don’t care about apps. No, I don’t want to be able do four things at once. No, I don’t need to get on Facebook when I’m out. (I can’t see the screen well enough to know whose calling let alone post cute pictures.) I just want to make calls! And text. I can text. But the old school way – scrolling through the alphabet, hitting the same key multiple times. I don’t want a full-size keyboard with keys the size of bread crumbs.
And smart phones with touch screens are out of the question. I can’t make that smooth little swiping motion. For a while, I thought the voice recognition feature would be cool. Then I realized, with my voice the phone doesn’t even seem to recognize I’m speaking English.
I finally succumbed. I am now the not-so-proud owner of The Jitterbug. The phone for old people. I use the term “old people” with absolutely no qualms, because I’ve discovered that regardless of your age, “old” is always at least 10 years older than you. (And when I say you, I mean anyone reading this.) The possible exception to that may be my 95-year-old grandmother, who might finally acquiesce to being old, but who could probably run circles around half of you. (Well, maybe not run, but she could definitely trike circles around you — she puts in two miles a day on her tricycle.) Besides, while not as respectful as writing “older people,” using the term “old people” is just funnier.
So, I bought the phone for old people. And, in doing so, became the youngest person in the world ever to own one. It’s not the “I’ve-fallen-and-I-can’t-get-up” system, but it’s close. I actually have to push 5 and then the * key for assistance, but the idea is the same. You’ve seen the ads. Help for your mom. Or your dad. Or handicapped friend. You could hear the surprise in the operator’s voice every time I called to ask about speed dial (non-existent) or getting a picture onto my computer. (I still haven’t figured that out. The Jitterbug doesn’t appear equipped to handle such techy tasks.) But the loud and slow-speaking person on the other end was happy to try to add a pill reminder or nurse practioner call to my service. They’ll even have someone call in every day just to check on me! My luck, I’d miss the call while fumbling the phone and they’d call out the SWAT team.
I need The Jitterbug for it’s large, easy to read font and big buttons. What I don’t need are simple memory match games or a customer service number that always rings straight to a live person. Sometimes I just want to get down to business, not chit-chat about the weather down here in Florida like I’m just a stone’s throw from the nursing home. But, I haven’t found a happy medium. I’m too disabled for a smart phone and too with it for The Jitterbug. So, next time you’re cursing some automated system and praying to speak to a live person, just think of me being condescended to by a 20-year-old or being asked how many times I get up at night to go to the bathroom so they can assess my fall risk. One day, they’ll come out with a phone for middle-aged people called The Grasshopper, but until then, be careful what you wish for.
Amy F. Quincy Author/Freelance Writer 
March 16, 2014 at 11:04 am
I am all for the grass hopper. I have contemplated the Jitterbug…my fine motor skills are not what they used to be anymore with the RA and navigating a touch screen leaves me wanting to throw the phone.
March 16, 2014 at 5:16 pm
Very clever. I enjoyed it so much. So happy you are aware of “the old people stuff”. Actually some old people I know use the modern phones now. I am not one of them (yes, I am old but not one of the teckies) Is teckie a correct term or did I spell it wrong?
June 10, 2026 at 1:13 am
Hi Amy,
I just added Misadventures of a Happy Heart into the “Disability Memoirs That Refuse Pity” discussion group on Goodreads because I truly admire how you’ve approached the gap between what people expect from a stroke survivor and what you actually deliver. Your book didn’t just inform me. It changed what I believe about the difference between surviving and living well.
One thing stopped me, and I suspect few people notice it. A lot of people would consider what happened to you devastating. You do not share that view. In fact, you resent the word. When someone calls your life devastating, you push back. You say, “My life’s well lived.” That specific refusal to accept the language of tragedy is not stubbornness. It is a manifesto. You typed that sentence at nine words per minute using only your thumb and index finger. You did not have the luxury of wasted keystrokes. Every word you write has to matter. And the first word you chose to write about yourself was not “survivor” or “victim.” It was “well lived.” That is a declaration of war against a world that wants to frame you as broken.
You wrote this book for the person who has just been told their life as they knew it is over. But right now, those readers, the ones who need Misadventures of a Happy Heart the most, have not yet found it. They are searching for “how to live after a catastrophic injury” or “memoirs about disability that are not depressing” late at night, inside a waiting room, between shifts, after a fight they could not name. And they do not know your book is the answer.
Based on what I observed, I would like to prepare a brief visibility outline for you. No cost. No obligation. It would include:
Because there is a person like the one who just woke up in a hospital bed with no feeling on one side of their body. They are currently looking at a ceiling they do not recognize. Their family is crying in the hallway. Their friends are using words like “tragedy” and “so sorry.” And they are already tired of it. They do not want to be a hero. They do not want to be a lesson. They want to know if they will ever laugh again. They want to know if wiping out a display of Rice-a-Roni with a motorized cart can ever be funny. They do not know that a woman in Jacksonville, Florida, who types nine words a minute and walks her Pekingese at Memorial Park before dawn, has already answered that question. Your book might be the first time they see that a life with a wheelchair can be a good one. A kick-ass one, even. A well lived one.
I would like to send you this brief.
Would you be open to receiving that?
Best regards,
Maria J Evans
Book Marketing Expert