Staying in Touch

Although I am a HUGE advocate for communication between individuals, I must make a confession to begin this blog.  I HATE talking on the telephone.  Although it was the quickest means of connecting with friends and family during my younger years, I never quite clicked with this mode of communication.  Instead, I always prefer to talk with people in person (if possible).  Or write letters.  In fact, I still stay in touch with at least one old friend who resides in Colorado via "snail mail."  We were hall-mates in graduate school twenty-seven years ago, and even though I haven't seen her in twenty-two years, I can honestly say that I greatly look forward to seeing her hand-writing arrive in my Post Office box!

 

Of course, technology has advanced to the point of allowing people a number of different ways to stay in touch.  Rapid growth in cellular phone technology over the past several decades has certainly made talking on the phone much more portable, (perhaps even too much so, when you look at the statistics of traffic accidents caused by cell phone usage).  For a long time, I vowed that I would never get such a device, (just like I would never get a VHS player, or a DVD player, or a CD player, or an I-Pod), but I eventually gave in, and now find myself absolutely lost without it!  In fact, I don't even know the phone numbers of my closest friends and family members because they are all safely stored inside the tiny device.  Further advances in technology have now made even talking on the cell phone obsolete.  You can simply "text message" whoever you need to get in touch with.  No one talks to each other anymore!!!   This is painfully evident when you visit any local mall or restaurant or public facility, where you will most likely see a sea of heads staring down at their sundry cell phones busily texting away with their fingers... usually the thumbs!  And I must confess again!  I am now one of those text addicts! (Although a recent bout of trigger thumb with a subsequent surgery may permanently change that.)

 

Luckily, I have made peace with my computer, and have thus discovered the world of blogging.  It's a wonderful form of communication for me, and I immensely enjoy this story-telling method of sharing information with others, as the few of you who are reading my entries (THANK YOU!!!) have figured out by now. 

 

So... imagine my surprise during my first shift with "V" when I saw her chatting with her grandson, the very proud father of a newborn baby, on her I-Pad.  Not only were they chatting, but they were video chatting.  I don't even know how to do that!  There she sat, in her reclining chair (no "Prisoner's Sweethearts" on her feet that day!), verbally and visually interacting with her far-away family  members!  I was astonished.  And even a bit jealous.  I don't have an I-Pad, and even if I did, I doubt I'd be able to figure out how to use it! 

 

It was even more amazing to watch the expressions on "V"s face as she saw and heard her newest great-grandson!  Even as the precious newborn began to signal his discontent by letting out louder, then even louder, expressions of either being hungry, tired, or uncomfortable, the look of sheer delight and joy on "V"s face as she experienced this new life unfolding in front of her was a true wonder to behold.  The baby may have been miserable, but "V" was anything but!  I suspected that she never envisioned that in her lifetime, she would be able to experience such a magnificent means of staying in touch.

 

After "V"s I-Pad session ended, I was compelled to ask, "Did you ever envision that in your lifetime you would be able to experience such a magnificent means of staying in touch?"

 

"I didn't envision anything beyond what I was experiencing at the time," she replied with an answer that reflects the true meaning of "living in the moment."  She added, "I just went along with all the changes as they happened." 

 

"There sure have been a lot of changes in your lifetime!" I chirped in, and "V" answered with a simple smile and  knowing nod.  I quickly realized the irony of what I had said.  I've only been around for half a century, and have already witnessed remarkable changes in technology, particularly in the area of communication.  Multiply that by two, and you have the myriad of technological innovations that "V" has experienced being five years shy of a complete century.

 

During a subsequent shift with "V", I witnessed an eye-opening series of traditional phone conversations that brought to light the reality of what her daily life is like at ninety-five.   How she managed to maintain her generally sunny outlook during her efforts to stay in touch with old friends and family members was beyond me, and I felt great admiration at the way she handled a rather sad series of phone calls.  This is how they unfolded.

 

The first call was from the daughter of an old friend of "V"s.  The two women had belonged to a social club together, and had done a great deal of traveling, along with other members of the local community.  "We had so much fun together," "V" told me later on, tears brimming in her eyes.  "We went to Las Vegas, and Canada, and all sorts of places!" she added with a wistful tone in her voice.

 

I soon learned via the phone call that one of "V"s social club pals had been hospitalized for the past month and a half due to a series of illnesses.  "V" had the phone conversation on speaker phone, which is easier for her to hear due to some deafness, and I listened quietly as the daughter of "V"s friend described her mother's recent and rather sudden descent from living independently in her own apartment to sharing a room in a skilled nursing facility. 

 

"Mom" doesn't usually answer the phone," she explained to "V".  "During the week she is usually at some kind of therapy, and on the weekends, her roommate usually answers."  "V" appeared genuinely distressed at hearing what her friend had been through in the last several months, and asked, "Is there a good time that I can get in touch with her?"  The daughter suggested that later that afternoon might work, as it was a Saturday and not many activities were scheduled at the facility.  "V" also promised the daughter that she would inform another good friend about the situation.

 

"What's the phone number there?" "V" inquired of the daughter, as she tried to juggle the phone, address book, pen, and eyeglasses (which she did with amazing agility and grace!).  I signaled to her from across the room that I, too, had paper and pen ready so that we could accurately write down the number.  It took several repetitions on the daughter's part, but "V" finally confirmed the number.  "I'll give her a call later today," "V" promised the daughter, who expressed genuine gratitude for "V"s concern and ongoing friendship.  "It was so nice to talk with you," the daughter said with great sincerity, promising to get in touch again soon.

 

After the call ended, I could see "V"s demeanor visibly change.  It was as though the ten minute phone conversation had aged her by at least thirty years. and her whole body seemed to whither with the news of her friend's condition.  She looked weary, not in the way of a person who is lacking sleep, but rather the kind of weary that comes from hearing disturbing news one too many times.  I was sure that this wasn't the first time that "V" had experienced a phone conversation like the one she just had.  Far from it.  And it wouldn't be the last. 

 

"I have to let "L" know," "V" said in a somber but steady voice, breaking the silence that hung in the living room following the initial phone conversation. 

 

"Who is "L?" I asked, trying to gain some information to hopefully use in later, happier, discussions.

 

With a heavy sigh, "V" answered that she was another close friend from the social club.  "V" told me that although "L" lived in Florida now, they still stayed in touch regularly by phone.

 

"She's not doing too well, either," "V" disclosed, and I sensed a hesitancy in her voice about having to make the next phone call.  I wondered if these type of calls had become somewhat of a familiar, and troublesome, routine for "V".

 

"How old is she?" I asked, trying again to gain some information about the friend.  "V" replied that her friend was probably around ninety or so, but she wasn't' really sure.  "I used to be so good at remembering all the dates," she told me.  "Birthdays, Anniversaries, Communions..."  her voice trailed.  I suddenly realized that these were the dates she had devotedly bought cards for over the years, when she used to be able to drive herself to town independently.

 

"V" picked up her address book, which was sitting on the end table next to her chair, along with all of the other necessities she needed over the course of a day.  She looked up her friend's number, and dialed it.  Again, she put the call on speaker phone so that she, and I, could hear it more clearly.  I suspected that perhaps "V" wanted me to hear the dialog so that we could talk about it later.

During the second call, "V"s demeanor grew even more tired looking, and I could almost feel both a sense of reluctance, but also obligation, as she initiated the conversation.

"How are you doing?" "V" asked her long-time friend with a barely audible sigh that sounded as though she were bracing herself for an all-too-familiar response.

"Well... Not so good,"  "V"s friend started, as she began to list her various ailments and frustrations.

After patiently listening for at least ten minutes, "V" gently interjected the reason for the call, and disclosed the news about their old friend's condition. 

"Oh my Gawd!  That's awwwful!" "L" responded, and for some reason, her words sounded especially loud and drawn out.

After a brief discussion about their friend, "L" dropped a bombshell.  "Did you hear that "D" passed away?  The service is tomorrow."

I watched "V"s face carefully as she received this unsettling news.  Her expression twitched slightly, but remained mostly unchanged as she expressed her sympathy for this latest loss.

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said, adding that she doubted she'd be able to attend the service on such short notice.  "I'll keep her family in my prayers."

The conversation ended with "V" assuring "L" that she would get in touch with their Florida friend, then call "L" back later in the day to let her know how the friend was doing.  It was obvious that "V" played a very key role in making sure that all of her old friends continued to stay in touch, and I wondered if this was something she was comfortable with.

After "V" hung up from this second phone call, I waited a while before initiating any further conversation..  I sensed that "V" needed a few moments to process all of the news, and I wanted to allow her enough time and space to deal with her emotions.  I suddenly realized that my phone conversations, as few as they were, contained far less depressing subject matter.  Sure, there was an occasional call from a friend or family member about someone who was not doing well.  And there were also notifications about an untimely, or sometimes anticipated, demise.  But in no way were these communications part of a daily routine, as they were with "V".  "How horrible," I thought, "to be one of the sole survivors of an aging group of close friends." 

I decided to steer the follow-up conversation in a completely different direction, hoping it would break the heavy pall that hung uncomfortably in the air.

"So tell me about some of the trips your social club went on?" I asked "V", hoping to shift her thoughts to a happier time. 

My approach worked!  "V" began to come alive again as she described some of the travels that she and her club pals took.   The social club included men and women, and often times "V" and her husband would go together, along with the husbands of her other friends.  They traveled by bus, train, and air, and went to many exciting places throughout the country.  Their experiences sounded like a lot of fun, and "V" grew quite animated as she described some of their antics.  It brought to mind a bus trip I took three months ago to Atlantic City.  I was one of the youngest people on the bus (an extremely healing experience for someone who just received her AARP card!), and I could tell that there were a bunch of "regulars," mostly older folks who took the three and a half hour bus trip often.  The camaraderie between them was delightful, and I imagined "V"s social club travels in much the same way... full of laughter and friendship.  I described my trip to her, and she nodded affirmatively.  "That's exactly what it was like!" she declared with a smile.

Putting the phone calls behind us for now, "V" and I decided to have lunch in her sunny dining room and watch for the appearance of the hummingbird.   We saw lots of other local birds flit by across the early Autumn sky, but no hummingbird. 

"Maybe he's already headed south," I suggested, and "V" nodded slowly. 

"Many of my old friends and family moved south for the Winter," she said, "But my husband and I always found it beautiful up here in the snow," she added.   "The boys used to sleigh right down that hill," she pointed northward toward the end of her block.  There had been a big old house there, and the owners were more than happy to let all the local children enjoy their snow-packed slopes.

"Snowbirds," I chirped in.  "That's what they call the people who head south for the winter." 

"That's right," replied "V", still smiling. 

"V" has a warm, loving face with eyes that can light up with joy when she is truly happy.  To me, she appears beautiful and ageless.  I thought to myself that one of my goals in working with her would be to keep those eyes sparkling whenever possible.  With that in mind, I set up our afternoon activity.  DVDs of old comedy and variety specials from the 1950s!  "V" had specifically asked that I bring my laptop so that we could watch these shows, and I gladly obliged.  For hours, "V" and I were happily transported to an earlier, seemingly more blissful time when humor ruled the airwaves and laughter truly was the best medicine.  We enjoyed episodes of shows starring Johnny Carson and Jack Benny (featuring commercials for the brand new "Jello" dessert product), topped off by a Timex- sponsored variety special featuring Bing Crosby, Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra and Mitzi Gaynor.  "V"s eyes sparkled brightly as she watched them sing and glide effortlessly across my seventeen inch computer screen.  Boy was I glad I brought that with me, as "V" doesn't have a DVD player.

Around 3:30pm, "V"s expression grew solemn again, and she politely asked me to turn off the computer.  "I want to try calling my friend now."  As she carefully dialed the number to the skilled nursing facility in Florida, I echoed the numbers back to her so that "V" knew she had written them down correctly

She did.  The call went through, and within minutes, our happy-go-lucky journey into the 1950's was transformed into the stark reality of sharing sad news about old friends on the telephone.

On speakerphone again, I could hear "V"s friend detail her recent health struggles, which included a heart attack while she was already being treated for a different debilitating condition. 

Calmly and gently, "V" empathized with each difficulty that her friend shared, interjecting the dialog several times with, "I know.  I know.  It must be very hard."  And she did know.  "V" had walked this road many times with other dear friends, many of whom had now passed, and it was as though she went into auto-pilot mode when replying.

After getting in touch with her ailing friend, "V" fulfilled her promise to call "L" back to update her on the situation.  "Oh my Gawd!  That's awwwful!" "L" responded, and began to talk about her own health issues again.  "I know.  I know.  It must be very hard," "V" repeated.

After that phone call, "V" and I resumed our walk down memory lane with some Rat Pack members, but the blissfulness of our earlier stroll was gone, replaced by much heavier steps.  I could tell that "V"s mind was elsewhere, and that she was having trouble concentrating on the DVD.

"We could watch this again another time?" I suggested.  "There are four DVDs, and I can always bring my laptop.  It's no trouble at all."

"V" nodded affirmatively, and said that she would just like to read for a while.  This is something she does voraciously, and it can be a challenge for her daytime caregiver to keep up with obtaining large-print books from the small local library.  Most of the books were of a murder mystery or crime-drama subject matter, and "V" said that the stories were easy for her to follow.  I suspected that they were also a somewhat, but not completely, adequate distraction from being one of the sole survivors of an entire generation of family and friends.

Dinner time came, and it was rather short and simple, with "V" asking for leftover pasta and meatballs from the night before. 

"Are you sure that's all you want?" I asked, eager to try ands. whip up anything that could possibly cheer "V" up.

"No," she said sofly.  "This is fine."

After dinner, with "V" comfortably seated in her living room chair for the evening, the phone rang again.  This call was from "V"s one surviving brother, "B".  The two siblings, separated by at least a three hour car ride geographically, spoke at least once a week, and I had already observed some of their conversations during previous shifts. 

At the age of ninety, "B" was "V"s baby brother.  Growing up, she had been one of six children, with one sister and four brothers.   From the way "V" had described her childhood, it sounded as though all of the siblings had been very close, and maintained that connection throughout their lifetimes.  There were moves, of course, with many of the family members landing in nearby New Jersey and others relocating to sunny Florida and other warmer climates when they got older.  "B" was one of the Jersey group.  According to "V", there had once been quite a few relatives within a relatively close range of "B" and his wife, but that was no longer the case.  "B" and his wife were now the only members of the family still residing in that area, with most of the older generation having passed away and much of the younger generation having moved away. 

"It's not like it used to be," I heard "B" tell his big sister on the speaker phone.  He had used the same words in their conversation last week.  "It's just us down here now, all by ourselves," "B"s voice was melancholy, clearly longing for the good old days when the family was all together. 

"I know.  I know.  It's hard," "V" said to her baby brother consolingly.  "But what can you do?"

"Yeh," "B" replied.  "What can you do?"

I had heard this exact conversation before, and sensed that it was a familiar routine between "V" and "B".  And although the dialog was typically the same, there seemed to be a sense of comfort in its repetition and consistency.

"B" went on for a while about his wife's various health issues, as well as about how difficult it is to get good help.  "We had a housecleaner for a little while," "B" told his sister.  "Twenty bucks an hour we paid her, which is pretty good money!   And for two full hours"  "B" exclaimed, a hint of anger in his voice.  "And she would always rush through the work and leave early!"  He added, "It's hard, "V"... Very hard."

"V" continued to console her brother.  "You live too long, and you see too much." 

"You're exactly right!" "B" whole-heartedly agreed.  "You're exactly right!"

"I'm lucky, "V" added.  I've got very good people to help me here.  She went on to describe her wonderful weekday caregiver, as well as the nice woman who stayed overnights during the week.  "And now I have Lynette here on the weekends to keep me company," she added, smiling over at me.  For the first time, I felt as though "V" was coming to value my presence in her life.  I know I was certainly coming to value her presence in my life, more and more each week, and looked forward to many more weekends together.

"V" finished up her conversation with "B" just in time for her two favorite Saturday night television shows, two British programs on PBS, each half an hour in length, and interestingly, both featuring characters who were dealing with issues of aging, among some other more laughable problems (all of which would be resolved within thirty minutes, of course).  It seemed that a common theme in both programs was staying in touch with good friends and family members, and I wondered if that was what resonated with "V" when she watched both shows.  One show, in particular, featured a lead female character who often spoke with unseen relatives by telephone.  Having the relatives remain unseen seemed to be a clever plot twist, and it certainly kept my interest, not to mention "V"s.  It was very nice to see "V" relax and enjoy herself after a tiring day of not so good news. 

As I helped her get ready for bed that night, I commented to "V" that it must be very difficult to continually hear about old friends getting ill and passing away, as well as to be one of the last surviving members of what was once a large group of friends.

She sighed a little, then said, "You get used to it." Then she added, "I was always the one who helped everyone stay in touch."

And based on the phone conversations I had heard that day, "V" still maintained that role. 

"Is it hard to be one of the last survivors of your generation?" I asked as respectfully and earnestly as I could.

"Of course," "V" acknowledged in a soft voice.  "But I also get to see my new great-grandson thanks to that whatchamacallit next to my chair."  I knew she was referring to the I-Pad.  And I was very grateful to have watched her interact with the next generation of her family on the newest technological gadget designed to help people stay in touch (among so many other things). 

"V" smiled and wished me a good night, and I started to leave her bedroom so that she could read one of her large-print books for a while. 

"You know..." I began.  "You can read books on your whatchamacallit, too!" 

"Nah!" she said.  "I prefer the old-fashioned way." 

"Me too," I concurred. 

After that, I went upstairs to my bedroom away from home and made sure to plug my I-Phone into its charger so that I could stay in touch with my friends and family if needed during my shift.  And as I got ready for bed, I wondered, "What technological advances will I witness if I happened to live another forty-five years? 

The thought was too overwhelming for me, so I picked up my large-print book and read until I fell asleep.

 


 





 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



Prisoner's Sweethearts

"I'll wear the 'Prisoner's Sweethearts' today," announced "V", gesturing towards her sock drawer.  Her tone sounded somewhat proud, and her words were quite pointed and deliberate.

 

I was helping her to get dressed on a recent Saturday morning, and up until this point in our relationship, nothing she had said or done had confused me in the least.  "V" is a very dignified woman who knows exactly what she wants, as well as how to ask for it.   And at ninety-five, I believe she is entitled to live the Burger King way of life and have things "her way."

 

My look of bewilderment as I stared down at the sock drawer seemed to strike "V" as amusing, and she smiled as she clarified her request.  "The black and white ones, Dear.  Please get me those."

 

Looking down again, I surveyed the socks, all lined up neatly in rowed pairs organized by color and style.  I wasn't surprised.  "V" is very orderly, and truth be told, my socks are arranged almost exactly the same way.  Except that most of them are not ankle length, "hospital" socks.  You know... the kind with the little rubber grippers on the bottoms to keep the wearer from sliding across a non-carpeted floor.  I suspect that they come with experience, and I am entirely certain that I will earn many of my own "hospital" socks in good time.

 

Actually, they are very popular now among the non-infirmed population.  I remember buying a pair for "M" last holiday season at the local drug store, thinking that the grippers would provide her with a sense of safety as she learned to navigate the tiled areas in her new home.  I had chosen a pair that matched her pajamas, and for a dollar, I was quite proud of my purchase.  I pictured her face lighting up as she opened her stocking on Christmas morning.  Boy, did I call that one wrong!  I'll never forget the scowl the usually smiling "M" made as she looked at the "booties," or the adamancy in her voice as she declared that she would "never wear" such silly socks.  Definitely another woman who knew exactly what she wanted... and didn't want!  (By the way, I bought a similar pair for my own stocking, and when I opened my "booties", I was thrilled!)

 

I took what I would have referred to as "Zebra socks" out of "V"s chest-of-drawers, and carefully put them on her feet.  "V" prefers not to wear shoes unless she is going out somewhere, and this day was to be an indoor adventure.  It took a few seconds for the meaning of her description to dawn on me, but I quickly admitted my ignorance, and laughed along with "V".   There are a lot of interesting phrases and terms that "V" uses that are not part of my generation's terminology, but usually I've heard them before.  "Prisoner's Sweetheart" was a new one, and perhaps could be explained by the fact that "V"s late husband had worked for many years in a nearby correctional facility.

 

What was even funnier to me, and something that "V" did not know I was chuckling about, was the fact that the black and white skid-proof booties did not match the rest of her ensemble in the least!  "V" chooses her own clothing every day, as she should, and the weekend outfits are generally quite casual.  They also tend to be very plain and solid, like the peach-colored cotton top and light blue denim pants she had picked out for today.  The prim and proper initial image I had of her was now turned topsy-turvy!

 

"That's quite a fashion statement!" I jokingly told her as she headed for the dining room table, ready to start off a new day of conversation and companionship.  Flamboyancy did not seem to be her usual style, and I couldn't help but point that out to her once we were seated over breakfast. 

 

"I know," she replied, "but I like them!"  Case closed.  End of discussion.  Nothing else needed to be said on the topic. 

 

I could completely understand the desire to wear clothing that was to one's liking.  A significant portion of my growing up years took place during the 1970's, and I had suffered through some of what I consider to be the most hideous fashion trends EVER!!!  I still cringe when I look back at school photographs in which the kids, including ME, are sporting bell-bottomed pants (often pant suits!), pitifully patterned plaid shirts (and skirts), and worst of all, shag hair-cuts!  Ugh!  What was society thinking of at that time?  Never has there been an era when articles of clothing were so poorly conceived... and mismatched!

 

Then again, this is just my perspective based on what I was forced to wear in my youth.  Everyone has a perception that is based on their own life experience, and I was soon to learn what a difference, a decade... or two... or ten... can make! 

 

When I shared my woeful description of my school-days attire with "V", I got no sympathy whatsoever.  "I didn't think those clothes were so bad," she said rather surprisingly, thus peaking my interest to hear more of her perspective from a very different era indeed.
 

I had already seen some striking black and white photographs throughout "V"s home in which she was wearing the fashion that was "all the rave" at the time.  Many of "V"s pictures reminded me of my Grandmother when she was younger.   I remember thinking how fabulous Grandma looked in her "Flapper" clothes, as she always appeared to be poised, posed and perfectly precocious in some of the shots.  That's what "V"s photos reminded me of, and I told her as much.

 

Now it was her turn to groan.  "Ugh!" she sighed, and I sensed that a revealing truth was about to be uncovered.  "Do you know how uncomfortable some of those clothes were?" she queried, drawing out the word uncomfortable in an agonizing way.  "And the corsets!  They were the worst!" she continued, a visible pain growing more and more evident in her expression.  "I couldn't wait to get out of those!  I felt like a prisoner!" 

 

This statement shed a whole new light on the "Roaring Twenties" for me, as well as a serious reconsideration of the phrase "don't judge a book by its cover."  No wonder all the women from the 1800's always looked so miserable!   Imagine what they had to wear under their clothing?  Layer after layer after layer of the most uncomfortable linens imaginable?  Double Ugh!  I don't think it was much better for the men, either, judging from their similar sour countenances.

 

I could empathize with the feeling of being a prisoner in my own clothes.  Especially when I looked at those 1970's polaroid photographs!  Perhaps it is something that every generation must endure, although I would safely say that the element of choice that today's young people have in their wardrobe options is far more broad than any generation prior! 

 

I asked "V" about the fashion changes she had seen in her lifetime, and she just smiled and said there were "too many to remember."  I would imagine so.  During the course of our weekend together, "V" and I watched some classic romance movies on television that spanned from the 1934 Clark Gable/Claudette Colbert gem, "It Happened One Night" to the 1992 Richard Gere/Julia Roberts "modern" classic, "Pretty Woman."  "V" and I were absolutely amazed by the changes in women's clothing over the span of sixty years, as well as by the fact that a film about a prostitute falling in love with a millionaire and living happily ever-after could be shown on the ABC Family Channel!  Now there was a deafeningly loud and perhaps all-too-clear statement that times have definitely changed since "V" was a young woman.  At least as far as the media is concerned, that is.

 

During the commercials, we were of course treated to another endless array of advertisements aimed at, you guessed it, female fashion.  At least this was a change from the infomercials we had suffered through the weekend before on how to look younger, or, if that wasn't possible, how to survive looking and being older!

 

"V" has a wonderful habit that I need to adopt in my own life.  She turns off the sound whenever a commercial comes on.  It doesn't matter what the commercial is for.  Weight-loss products.  Hair growth stimulants.  Becoming a "Fashionista!"  The volume goes down to zero instantly!

 

We had to laugh at the painful visual images of one commercial in particular commercial.  It was supposed to be an advertisement for a new fall line of shoes.  But all "V" and I could see were heels.  Nothing but heels.  Some of them at least four inches high!  With women actually walking in them!  Both of our mouths hung open in a mixture of horror and fascination... kind of like watching a train wreck. 

 

"I wonder if these women feel like prisoners in those shoes?" I asked "V" quite earnestly.  She shook her head back and forth, and sighed a sound of relief.  "V" looked like the picture of contentment from the comfort of her reclining chair, black and white socks sticking distinctively out at the end of her outstretched, age-weary legs.  A very lovely site to behold!  Good for "V".  At ninety-five, she was finally having it "her way!"

 

There are so many aspects about aging that are extremely painful and quite difficult to endure, many of them robbing a person of their dignity and freedom of choice.  But happily, being able to wear soft, fuzzy, slid-proof "Prisoners' Sweethearts" that do not in any way match the rest of your outfit certainly did not appear to be one of them.   Good for "V"!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photos - 5 Years Shy of a Century

A Nation Celebrates




A Timeless Message

A Family Undivided



 

 

Five Years Shy of a Century

One of the first impressions I had of "V" when I met her is how absolutely wonderful she looks for her age.  Not in a million years would I have thought she was ninety-five years old.  Seventy-five maybe.  Even Eighty perhaps.  But NOT five years shy of a century! 

 

And I make sure I tell her that every single time I see her. 

 

Aging is one of life's greatest mysteries, although people are continually trying, with varying degrees of success (and failure), to unlock its "secret."  Human beings are fascinated, often to the point of obsession, with how to minimize the natural effects of the aging process.  Advertising is a true testament to this, as mass media sponsors endlessly bombard consumers with commercials for an endless array of products and devices designed to either slow down or better cope with the visible and inevitable signs of aging.  BIG emphasis on the "visible."  People do NOT want to look old!

 

Yet growing old is also one of life's certainties, as well as a great equalizer.  Over the years, I have worked with many different groups of people, including the developmentally disabled, who, by the way, are a genuine joy to serve.  Whenever I placed one of my "folks" in a day program for the elderly, I was struck by the fact that they looked and acted no differently than "regular" senior citizens" who also attended.   Diseases are non-discriminatory.  Dietary restrictions don't just limit themselves to the "normal" population.  And the same forms of entertainment are enjoyed by everybody!  Sing-alongs.  Old movies.  Bingo and other card games.  Picnics in the park.  Holiday-themed parties.  Ice Cream Socials. (Especially Ice Cream Socials!)   Etc., etc., etc... 

 

During my first weekend of working with "V", I broached the subject of her looks very tentatively, knowing how sensitive some people are in this area.

 

"Do you mind if I ask you something?" I queried ever-so-gently, knowing that the question could offend her, but hoping that it wouldn't. 

 

She nodded affirmatively, and having been given the green light, I continued cautiously.  "How do you look so young?"

 

"V" smiled, and shrugged slightly.  "I don't do anything special," she replied, looking down shyly.  I sensed a distinct modesty in her voice, and from what I had already learned about "V"s childhood up to this point, I knew that she prided herself in speaking and behaving "properly" at all times, as her mother had taught her to do nine decades ago.   

 

She also sounded somewhat flattered by the question, which she had probably been asked dozens of times by other new caregivers.   "V" knew that, compared to a lot of people her age, she was in excellent health and did indeed look quite youthful.   A year or so earlier, she had fallen down the basement steps and broken her neck.  Months and months of rehabilitation followed, and "V" was exposed to many individuals who were recovering from other musculoskeletal issues, among other serious health problems.   Anyone who has ever spent time visiting or recuperating in a Rehabilitation Center knows that it can be both a highly inspirational experience, as well as a deeply depressing view of what it's like to lose one's independence.

"V" had persevered during her recovery, however, and had finally been able to return to her own home after a lengthy absence.  With some conditions, of course.  The fall had permanently weakened one side of her body, and she now had to use a walker to get around the first floor of her house.  And she was restricted from going down to the basement and up into the attic, where many of her treasured belongings were stored. 

After ninety-four years of taking care of herself, "V" now relied on other people to help her get dressed and undressed, pick up groceries and household supplies from the store, clean her home, and without a doubt the most difficult of all, prepare her meals for her. 

"I drove up until last year, when I fell," she told me proudly one afternoon when we were sitting in her living room.  "Of course, I didn't drive very far.  My husband did all of the long trips when he was alive."  Nevertheless, I thought, "V" was still able to drive into the local town to get anything she needed, such as prescriptions, a half gallon of milk, plants from the nearby nursery, just to name a few.  I realized how lost I would feel without the ability to transport myself independently to and from wherever I needed to go, as though a vital part of me had disappeared forever. 

 

 "V" continued, "I miss the card store the most."  Although this was not quite what I had anticipated her saying, I began to empathize completely as she described her reasoning in greater detail.  "I had six brothers and sisters (only one brother still survived), lots of nieces and nephews, cousins and friends," she told me.  "And of course the children.  And the grandchildren  And the great-grandchildren."  She smiled as she spoke the last sentence.  "They all have birthdays, and some have had graduations and weddings and births," she added, saving a more somber occasion for last, "and deaths, of course."

"I used to be able to stand in the card store for hours, reading all of the sayings, making sure I found just the perfect ones,"  "V" went on, a deep melancholy in her voice.  My heart went out so completely to her at this moment, and I tried to comfort her with my weak comparison.  "I know exactly what you mean.  I'm the same way."  And I am!  Really.  I described to her how my teenage son would moan and groan and frown and fidget through the process of me trying to find "just the right card" for a particular person.   Sheer torture!  "V" laughed, but then went on, still a bit of sadness in her voice.  "Now I can't walk very far, and I certainly can't stand for a long time." 

Then, she gestured to the end table next to her reclining chair.  On it, were pens, scraps of paper, a portable phone, a flashlight, the TV remote, the AC remote, hard candy, an address book, a book to read, glasses to read with, a box of tissues, and an assortment of other necessary items all crammed into one very busy space.  "Most of what I need is right here, and I'm grateful for that," she said.  "But..." I sensed something very important would be added to the list.  And I was right.  As I followed "V"s eyes around the noticeably neat and tidy living area, I knew what she was going to say.  Before "M"s mind had been swallowed up by her Dementia, she used to say the same thing to me as she looked around her long-time home.  "But... I can't keep up my own house anymore, and do the things I used to," she said in a near-whisper, straining to hold back tears. 

I looked around the same area, yet in my eyes, saw nothing but neatness and tidiness.  Every single item had a place.  Assorted figurines were all arranged beautifully on their shelves.  Family photographs were all displayed lovingly on the mantle and tabletops.  The furniture was dusted, and the carpet vacuumed.  The curtains appeared clean and fresh.  The only area that wasn't impeccably neat was the end table next to "V"s chair, and I felt a lump form in my throat as I weakly replied, "At least you have caring people to help you take care of your home."  I knew this was small consolation given the circumstances, yet I could think of nothing more comforting to say.

"V" suddenly smiled as she, too, surveyed her living environment.  "I'm lucky to be able to live here, in my home," she said with sincerity.  "And to have people like you come and help me."  I felt a bit awkward hearing this, as I was the newest member of the caretaking team, and hadn't really been on the job very long.  The fact that I worked weekends, however, did give me the unique opportunity to spend a great deal of quality time alone with "V", thereby getting to know each other quite quickly

"I'm lucky, too," I added, also with sincerity.  "I get to meet wonderful women like you who have lived remarkable lives and touched so many others along the way."  She looked a bit embarrassed, and I added, "Seriously!  It's true!"  I thought of the all the happy times I spent traveling the globe with "N" while we watched TV Land.  And of course the many treasured moments I'd shared with "M" literally up and down the Eastern Seaboard.   I really am lucky to be a caregiver!

"V" and I spent a lovely day together after this discussion.  We walked around the first floor a few times, "V" giving her legs some exercise, but also, I suspect, checking to see that everything in her home was "in order."  She directed me in watering the plants, telling me exactly how much to give each precious one.  After that, I stumbled through preparing dinner, and "V" supportively, and perhaps even sincerely, told me that it was "very good."  We chatted some more, then watched an "old" (yet not nearly as old as "V") movie on television. 

At bedtime, I helped "V" get into her nightgown.  Ever modest, she turned off the light during the process of undressing.  In the glow of a small nightlight, I could still see that even unclothed, nothing about this amazing woman looked ninety-five years old.  Once she was clothed again, "V" put on the touch lamp near her bedside.  "I'll probably read for a while," she told me, and I made sure that her crime novel and reading glasses were within her reach, along with a glass of water.  Across the room, on her dresser, was one half of a baby monitor.  The other half was upstairs where I slept, so that I could hear "V" if she needed anything during the night. 

After she put her hair net on, I saw "V" look across the room at the dresser, then quickly turned away.  "Don't worry," I told her.  "The monitor is on."

"That's not what I was worried about," she said, laying down with a sigh, clearly weary from a long day.  She pointed at the dresser, and sighed again.  "That's not me in there."  A bit confused, I looked across the room and finally noticed the large mirror attached to the top of the chest-of-drawers.  "V" went on, "It's hard to look in the mirror anymore, because that's not me."  My heart ached for her having to live through the process of aging for five years shy of a century.  I thought of all the times "M" had walked by a mirror, seen her own reflection, then asked with utter confusion, "Who is that?"  "Maybe," I wondered, "It's better not to remember who you were."

I took "V"s hand gently and told her, "You look absolutely beautiful to me!"  She shrugged off the compliment again, and for the first time ever, I think I fully understood the phrase "Beauty is in the Eyes of the Beholder."  To me, she was stunning, and I could only hope to look that young if I lived to be her age.  "Good night, Dear," she said, and I knew this was my cue to leave.

Once upstairs, I stopped in front of another old chest-of-drawers.  On top, were some old, black and white photographs.  The eight by ten picture of  a very attractive young woman caught my attention.  She was dressed impeccably, and was also wearing a very broad smile.  There was a definitive sparkle in her eyes, and no one needed to tell me who it was.

It was "V", perhaps sixty-five or seventy years ago.  "To me," I thought, "You look just as beautiful today as you did back then, if not more!"

And I vowed to tell her that first thing in the morning, and every single time I see her!






 

"V" & "M" - Two Beautiful Birds

"V"

"M"

Across the River

Looking West - The Hudson River, Kingston-Rhinecliff Bridge, and Catskill Mountains

Walkway Over the Hudson - Commemorating the 400th anniversary of Henry Hudson's journey up the mighty river



The Franklin Delano Roosevelt Mid-Hudson Bridge

Getting to Know "V" - You Can't Go Back

It wasn't very long into my acquaintance with "V" that mealtimes became clearly established as excellent occasions to share stories from our pasts.  As each breakfast, lunch, and dinner passed, "V" and I found ourselves lingering longer and longer at the dining room table.  This, I hoped, would help build a bond between us... and also help me to move forward beyond my memories of "M" so that I could fully enjoy a new and fulfilling relationship with an equally wonderful woman.

 

During breakfast on our sixth Saturday morning together, "V" and I were enjoying a cup of coffee (hers black and mine loaded up with non-sugar tasting sugar substitutes).  We had already finished our cereal (hers plain and mine weighed down with sweeter-than-sweet sun-drenched raisins), enjoyed our toast (hers buttered and mine smeared with Smuckers' Rasberry Jam, because with a name like that, it's got to be good!), and I was just about ready to start clearing the table.

 

"What's the hurry, Dear?" inquired "V", a concerned look on her face.  "Sit down.  Enjoy your coffee.  We'll chat a while longer." 

And with that most welcome of invitations, a new pattern was quite pleasantly put in place.  After breakfast was going to be the time for us to enjoy our longest, deepest, bond-building conversations. 

 

This new pattern met with no resistance from my end.  I was still very much mourning the departure of "M" from my life, even though her advancing Dementia had limited the depth of our talks significantly the last time I saw her.  Still, we had always enjoyed the hours after breakfast as a time for chatting over our tea about flying and sailing and critters and such.

 

The content of my conversations with "V" are quite different in nature, understandably, as she is quite clearly cognizant for a woman of her age.  In fact, even though I've only known her a month and a half, I've already begun to think that her mind and memory work MUCH better than mine!  I can't imagine my recall being anywhere near that good if I'm blessed enough to live another 45 years!

Slowly, but steadily, "V" began to open up to me about her background during our after-breakfast, hummingbird look-out chats.  I was pleased to learn that her family and mine shared a similar background... our ancestors settling in the Bronx after emigrating to the United States from Italy around the turn of the twentieth century.  It turns out that our families lived in nearby neighborhoods, and as she spoke of her childhood and early adulthood years spent there, I was reminded of tales that my mother told me about growing up in New York City's northern-most borough.

It sure sounded like a friendly place.   Everyone seemed to know and look out for each other in a neighborhood was like one big extended family.   Kids played in the streets together, and were able to walk safely to and from school.  Afterwards, they were welcomed into the homes of other families, almost as though all the children were interchangeable.  Values were definitely different than they are today, somehow simpler yet so much more solid, and people felt a true sense of community in a way that seems almost impossible in today's technological world. 

I could hear an slight air of longing for the "good old days" as "V" spoke of these times, but also a strong sense of gratitude for having grown up in such a close-knit and caring environment.  These qualities were carried with her and her husband when they, like so many other city families, relocated to the then sprawling and largely farm-like suburbs.   In "V"s case, the couple settled in a rather isolated little town because of her husband was transferred to a job near there.  To hear her tell it, the little town soon became a close-knit community, as other families also settled there and began to raise their children. 

"V"s quaint country home is located on a dead-end street, and during the time that her children were growing up, she described the neighborhood in very much the same way as the one she grew up in.  A strong sense of community bound the families together in a way that doesn't always exist anymore.  The children all played together, everyone knew each other, and families were always welcomed into each others' homes.  There were church socials, town meetings, and other local events that drew people together and helped form a different, but nonetheless valuable, type of extended family.  People could count on each other to be there, whether it be for a celebration or a crisis.

"All of the kids would always end up at our house," "V" explained with a smile.  She talked proudly about being a stay-at-home Mom for a number of years before going to work at the local school district.  And even then, the hours of her job made it possible for her to be home when the children were through with school.  She described her backyard as being a football field, which was the favorite sport of the all the local kids at the time.  And as we looked out the sliding doors of her dining room onto "V"s property, the Hummingbird feeder dead center in our view, the image grew clearly visible in my head.  The yard was wide, filled with nothing but well-maintained green grass, bordered by trees and shrubbery on one side, and a rock wall on the other.  It really did look like a football field of sorts!

As "V" described the way her two sons played in the backyard with the other neighborhood children, I began to think of my own childhood.  Come to think of it, I grew up in very similar surroundings, only my sprawling suburbs were way on the "other side" of the Hudson River.   And even though the Hudson is nothing like the "Mighty Mississippi," it can certainly hold its own in terms of its distinctiveness and division.  Not to mention absolutely astounding beauty.  People on the Eastern side rarely interacted with people on the Western side, at least not until the many beautiful bridges of the Hudson Valley were built.  And even then, it was as though a great chasm separated two very different societies, a situation which still seems to exist today, although perhaps to a lesser extent.

I shared with "V" that like her,  my mother also worked in the local school district, returning home shortly after my sister and I got out of school. And although our rocky, terraced corner yard looked absolutely nothing like a football field, the adjacent street served as the playing field for the kids in my neighborhood.  Except in my case, the game was baseball.  And I was the only girl on the team, my younger sister preferring to watch from the sidelines.  Luckily for us, it was a somewhat isolated street, with not a lot of through traffic to endanger our safety, or interrupt the game. 

Although many of the similarities between "V"s story and mine stopped after the backyard football field of her children and the baseball games of my own childhood, one thing was happily becoming evident.  "V" and I had a lot in common in terms of our family heritages, and I was thrilled that this was helping to solidify the bond beginning to grow between us.

"My husband and I went back to our old neighborhood once," "V" told me during one of our after breakfast conversations.  "I wanted to go," she said, "but he didn't."  I asked her why, and her voice became almost inaudibly soft.  "He knew it had changed, and he wanted to remember it the way it was."  She went on, "I was persistent, though, and we finally went back."  Her voice actually drifted off as she told me how the area had severely changed, and not for the better.

I suddenly recalled my Grandparents, who I greatly adored, in a memory that I hadn't thought of in at least thirty years.  They described a visit to their old neighborhood in the Bronx in much the same way as "V" just had.  I shared this with her, hoping she would know that I could truly relate to her own story in some way. 

She looked at me then, our eyes connecting, and I knew in my heart that she did.  At that moment, I felt completely comfortable and at home with "V", and decided to tell her about about how I had left my home town on the Eastern side of the Hudson Valley as a young adult to live on the West Coast for ten years.  Upon my return, I sadly discovered that my own home town had turned into a commuter nightmare, the once forested hills filled with tree-less rows of manufactured houses that all looked the same.  "It wasn't anything like I remembered it!" I exclaimed.

"V" nodded understandingly, and we shared the first of many laughs that sixth Saturday morning of our acquaintance.  Even though the Bronx neighborhood she grew up in and my own hometown in the suburbs were two distinctly different places from very separate eras, I knew that both of us could empathize with the other about how it felt to "go back."  Although the cement in the bond between "V" and me was becoming much stronger, I also somberly realized that I couldn't go back to the relationship I had with "M".

But I could share it with "V" by telling her some of the adventures I'd had during my travels with "M".  The two of them could meet, so to speak, and in that way, all our lives would become indelibly intertwined.  Plus, I could also continue writing stories about "M" in this blog, keeping her and her stories alive and well for anyone who is interested in reading them.

I greatly look forward to forging ahead in getting to know this magnificent ninety-five year old woman named "V", with her own unique history full of delightful and enlightening tales just waiting to be told... and read. 

I am on the "other side" of the river now... and I know that this is exactly where I am meant to be.










 



Across the Foothills to "V"

View from "V"s Back Porch

Catskill Mountains of the Hudson Valley



Mid-Hudson Bridge on 9/11/13

"V"



Hummingbird

If I had to choose a creature to characterize my new friend, "V", it would definitely be a Hummingbird.  Not because of its tiny size or delicate features (which isn't to say that "V" doesn't have delicate features, too!).  And certainly not because of its incredible speed!  "V" is ninety-five years young, and although she scoots around quite capably with her walker, I suspect her speedy days are long since behind her (although she did tell me that she was still driving up until a year ago!)

 

No.  The Hummingbird connection comes from other, more distinctive qualities, such as gracefulness, caution, and modesty.   These are attributes that are not often encountered in young people these days, at least not in my experience as a case manager and all-around "people" person.

 

Something about the way "V" carries herself, with a distinguished dignity that has been finely developed over ten decades, reminds me of that resourceful little bird.  "M" had some of those qualities too, but in a much more noticeable, larger-than-life way, which is why she was my Great Snowy Egret!

 

I first met "V" about a month ago.  The timing was amazing!  I was contacted to interview for the position the same day I learned that "M" would not be remaining in The Woods.  I've come to learn over my lifetime that everything that happens, both the good and the bad, does so for a particular reason.  And even though I may not know exactly what that reason is right away, in time, I come to understand it very clearly, if I keep my eyes open.

 

"V"s entry into my life, however, couldn't have been a more clear-cut case of one door slowly, sadly shutting while another one happily, hurriedly opened.  I mean literally.  Within three days of interviewing for the position of full-time weekend caregiver, I had my overnight bag packed and was headed over the Mid-Hudson Bridge to the other side of the Hudson Valley in my little blue Honda Fit for my first stay with "V".

The drive is a beautiful one, with breathtaking views, and I always enjoyed meandering my way through the windy roads of the Catskill Mountain foothills.   My scheduled weekend shift allows me the opportunity to see the sprawling area  both at sunset (on the way to work on Friday evenings), and shortly after sunrise (on the way home on Sunday mornings).  Words like spectacular and stunning do not even do the route its due justice!

"V" was very sweet during my first meeting with her, but also a bit shy.  She seemed to defer to the opinions and questions of her daughter-in-law, son,  and daytime caregiver, all of whom were doing the interviewing.  I could imagine how uncomfortable she must have felt, having a series of strangers coming into her long-time home, where she had quietly lived alone since her husband had passed.  I tried to put myself in her shoes, which she had jokingly pointed to, calling them her "clodhoppers."  She also pointed to her walker, saying, "I don't get around as much as I used to, so I just stay in my socks around the house."  I looked around and noticed that no one else was wearing shoes either, and quickly deduced that the proper protocol for the tidy, well-kept dwelling was to go shoeless.  I looked down at my interview "clodhoppers" and felt my only qualm of the interview.  Strike one!

There were no more missed balls during this meeting, and the job was thankfully offered to me later that evening.  I was thrilled.  "V" seemed like a lovely woman, and I very much looked forward to getting to know more about her in whatever timeframe she was willing to let me do so.  And although I was in the midst of grieving the loss of my relationship with "M", I was nonetheless excited for this new opportunity to become a meaningful part of someone else's life. 

I arrived for my first shift about half an hour early, and was given a very thorough run-down of what my caregiving duties would entail by "V"s daytime companion, "R".  Not only did she walk me through the entire three story residence ("V" only used the main floor), but she wrote everything out on an extremely detailed list.  Great!  No stones left unturned!  At least I knew what I was getting into rather than being surprised later on with a task that I wasn't so sure I could handle.

Like my very first task, for example, which would be to prepare a healthy dinner for "V" who, I was informed, very much enjoys eating.  "Yikes!" I thought.  We may share an Italian heritage, but I had clearly missed the boat when it came to cooking.  "V" was nothing like my non-cooking cohort, "M", who delighted in our mutual inability to prepare meals.  Luckily, my fears subsided when I realized that I was always able to prepare healthy meals for "M" in spite of my clumsiness in the kitchen, and even though I wasn't Julia Child, I could get by well enough.  I just needed a disinterested, non-judgmental audience like "M", and I would be fine.

Or so I thought.  Over our first meal together, "V" and I began chatting, and one of my brilliant ice-breaker questions was, "What would you have studied if you'd been able to remain in college?" In talking about her background, "V" had already revealed that she had to leave school because of money and the war, which wasn't uncommon for women at that time.  Her answer almost knocked me out of my chair!  "Cooking," she said with a slight smile.  Strike two!  "M" had no idea how to cook, so it didn't matter what I made.  But this woman had way more than an inkling.  So much for a disinterested, nonjudgmental audience!

But "V" helped me feel at ease right away, and my fears subsided.  I knew everything would be just fine between us during that first dinner.  As she carefully, and ever so neatly, ate her food, "V" made no judgmental comments or criticisms.  "This is very good," she said softly.  And everything about her body language and expression indicated nothing to the contrary.  I quickly learned that for "V", it wasn't what she was eating that mattered the most.  The real importance of any meal is to have someone to share it with, someone to chat with, casually and comfortably.  And "V", much to my delight, was extremely easy to converse with.  She was polite, soft-spoken, and considerate, and meals together were soon to become my favorite time with her.

The view from her dining room helped to make the atmosphere quite comfortable.  The cozy, maple colored furnishings were brightened by the sunlight shining through a large sliding glass door which opened up onto the back porch.  This, in turn, unveiled a scene distinguished by gloriously glowing green fields and deep, lush woods.  In the distance, some of the mountains could even be seen.  It was as serene a setting as I've ever experienced, and a perfect way to enjoy a meal.

Almost dead center in the middle of the back porch hung a red plastic hummingbird feeder.  There were also a few chairs, an un-opened umbrella, and three potted plants, but the feeder looked like the centerpiece for it all.  "V" told me that her daytime caregiver had just purchased when the two of them went on an outing to a fancy home supply store.  "I can't believe all the things they carry there," "V" told me in sheer amazement.  "If I was younger and had my checkbook with me," she confided, here tone almost one of embarrassment, "I'd be in big trouble!"

I smiled and told her, "Me, too!  Except that I am younger and do have my checkbook with me," adding that I got into my own big trouble during the springtime, when all the plants were first put on display after a long, bitterly cold winter.  "V" laughed as I shared with her some of my over-buying antics, and we agreed that maybe next Spring, we could go to the nursery section together.

Then she pointed to the hummingbird feeder.  "We just got that today!" she said happily, a sparkle in her eye.  "I do hope the they come," "V" continued, a sense of longing in her voice.  "They are such beautiful little birds!"  We discussed their delicate features, and their incredible speed, with "V" having no idea that my first impression of her had been that of a hummingbird.

We ate our meal slowly, chatting throughout, both of our heads continuously turning towards the sliding glass doors to see if our little friend had arrived.   By dessert, I could see that "V" was disappointed by the hummingbird's lack of appearance, and I tried to distract her with some more tales of my amusing antics.  It worked somewhat, but her heart was set on attracting the little creature to her home.

It was beginning to grow dark, and I began to clear the table (slowly, of course) while "V" continued watch outside.  Suddenly, she exclaimed in a barely audible voice, "There he is!"  (And yes.  An exclamation can indeed be uttered in a barely audible tone, and I had just heard it!).  Sure enough, a lone hummingbird was perched on the feeder, cautiously looking around between each drink, perhaps trying to protect his new found treasure.

"V" was quite satisfied as we left the dining room that first evening to relax in the living area with some books.  And I felt very at peace.  Any doubts I had about working with and getting to know "V" were alleviated by the fluttering flight of that tiny little creature.  I was exactly where I was meant to be, and "V" was meant to be a new and very special friend.







 

When One Door Closes...

Sunset Sparkling on Adirondack Lake

Beachside Bridge at the Gulf Coast

The Sun Descends on "M"s Home

An Ending... or a New Beginning




Up, Up and Away



A Storefront Near The Woods



A Daily Visitor to the Camp

Ready for a Rollover

Charlotte, NC - On my Way to Visit "M"



The Last Waltz?

Last week, I had the opportunity to spend some time with "M" in her long-time home.  "M" hadn't been there in almost a year, and during that time, her daughter had lovingly made some much-needed repairs to the residence, including brand new paint for the entire interior of the house and a lot of work on the plumbing!

 

I had not seen "M" since my last trip to her new Gulf Coast home over six months ago, and I was overwhelmed with joy at being able to see her again.  Originally, the plan was for me to go up to The Woods, where I would join "M" and her daughter at the family camp.  I had anticipated that I would spend two separate weeks with her in this magical setting during the month of August, and was very much looking forward to hearing her share more memories about the times she spent there.

 

Sadly, this visit was not to be.  "M"s mobility had deteriorated to the point where it was difficult, as well as dangerous, for her to safely walk between the beloved buildings of the camp.  Additionally, it was cold!  The type of cold that, although well-fought off by the flames of a continuous fire kept burning in the main camp's beautiful stone fireplace, nevertheless chills the brittle bones of a ninety-one year old woman.  Mother Nature, as we well know, can be quite unpredictable, and this was one of those times when late August in The Woods was destined to have a cold spell.  Ironically, not long after "M" and her daughter returned to her home in lower New England, a hot spell was not far on their heels. 

 

I have to admit that for the first time ever, I was a bit nervous about seeing "M" after all those months.  This was the longest period (six and a half months) that I had ever gone without spending time with her, and I was worried about the "deterioration" that had taken place.  Questions raced through my mind, the most disturbing of which was, "Would she know me?"

 

My answer was confirmed during the first of three visits with "M" at her home.  After a warm greeting, which included a big hug, I asked the dreaded question:  "Do you recognize my face?"  "M" smiled in her usual joyous way, and my worries faded.  But only briefly.  I could soon sense a difference in "M", and knew what her reply would be before she even spoke the words.  "I'm sorry, but I don't," she told me, shaking her head back and forth in apology.  "That's okay," I assured her, gently patting her shoulder. 

 

It was hard to hide the hurt I felt inside, but I put on my bravest face.  I was confident that by the end of the day, however, she would begin to recall our "girlhood" friendship.  "I'm an old friend who has come to spend some time with you."  With those words, a glimpse of the "M" I had grown to know and love became quite visible, and she clapped her hands together, excitedly exclaiming, "What fun!"

 

There she was!  My beloved "M"!  I knew in my heart that whatever happened during this abbreviated time with her would unfold exactly as it was meant to be. 

 

There were three visits in all over a two week period of time.  "M"s daughter and I arranged the days that seemed best for me to be with her, and I was grateful for each and every one of them.  My goal was to give "M"s daughter a respite so that she could work on a project for her job.

 

As I reflect on these visits a week later, they initially appear to be rather uneventful.  We had tea in the mid-morning, while we conversed about memories from "M"s past.  As was our pattern, "M" would start a sentence, and I would fill in the blank with the name of the person or thing she had in her mind, but couldn't quite "catch" the words.  "Wow!'  she said several times.  "It's amazing that you remember that!"  I didn't tell her that it was not a very difficult task, having heard the tales many times before.  These wonderful stories were forever etched in my mind and heart. 

Lunch was around noon, give or take a few minutes.  The usual fare:  a sandwich, some fruit, a glass of water or milk.  Followed by some cookies shortly afterwards, as "M" and I again sat down to exchange tales of her past.  Although "M" was clearly tired after lunch, she attempted to stay awake (I think the cookies had a lot to do with that!), and generally succeeded.  Although offered a chance to lay down for a rest in her beautiful sleigh bed, "M" chose to stay up.  It was as though she didn't want to miss a thing, and it dawned on me that this was how she led her entire life.  Not missing a single beat.  "What a glorious approach to one's time on this planet," I mused, vowing to maintain the same approach throughout the rest of my own lifetime!

 

"M" was no longer able to walk around the lush green grounds of the home she treasured, a typical activity after lunch, so we sat in a pair of matching chairs in her living room.  I asked her if they were obtained during her father's antique furniture business when she was a young girl.  "M" had a faraway look in her eyes, and did not answer.  In fact, most of her responses were not as quick as they had been six months earlier, and it appeared difficult for "M" to remember things without my prompts. The undeniable and all too devastating signs of her Dementia were taking their tragic toll far too quickly than I'd hoped. 

 

"We look like two peas in a pod!" I joked, trying to lighten up the situation.  "M" laughed, and asked if I remembered when we were girls back in school.  "Yes I do," I replied, a stroke of melancholy starting to play on my heartstrings.  "Those were wonderful times," she said, the faraway look still visible.  "Yes they were," I agreed, glad that she was now recalling our "connection," but sad that it took half a day to do so.

 

"I have an idea!" I exclaimed, jumping up from one of the matching chairs.  "Let's listen to some music!"  "M" loved to listen to classical music, and her former son-in-law, now caregiver of the home, had generously provided us with a wonderful selection of songs to entertain us.  Knowing that "M"s favorite were the Waltzes of Strauss, I put the tape into the cassette player (Yes!  Cassette Player!  Other people treasure their ancient technological equipment as much as I do!) so that we could enjoy the tunes together. 

 

Listening to this particular tape had become a favorite activity of "M"s, having begun about nine months ago during our Autumn stay in her home.  As the music flowed through our souls, "M" and I were able to look out of the living room's many large windows.  This day was actually cloudy, but I believe that "M" saw far beyond the gray into the bright blue skies that blanketed the beautiful green surroundings.  As I looked into her eyes, I wondered if she was flying far above, dodging the clouds with playfulness and delight as she sat in the cockpit, totally in command of the plane's destination.  And, of course, she would be doing rollovers!  There was nothing she enjoyed more while up in the air than successfully completing a rollover!  I closed my eyes, and tried to picture her completely in control behind the wheel.  It wasn't a difficult image to conjure up.  There have been times that I actually feel as though I'm flying too, just by listening to her!

The structured, third tempo music brought out another side of "M" that had also first emerged last fall.   She liked to conduct the waltzes!  One, two, three... One, two, three.  Both arms up in the air moving in many different directions.  I suspected there was no special rhyme or reason to her motion other than sheer enjoyment.  Like the pilot of a plane, here she was, in sole command of the music.  Everyone in the orchestra was playing to her direction, looking to her for guidance and leadership.  She seemed completely in her element, and seeing her that way warmed my heart.  I also decided to join her!  If she could conduct her own orchestra, then I could certainly command one, too!  After all, that's one of the qualities that we shared from day one of our relationship.  We were two women who proudly marched to our own drummers!

By the end of our third interpretation of the "Blue Danube Waltz," it was time for me to gather my things and head out.  I lived seventy miles north of "M"s home, so I wanted to get a jump on the usually heavy traffic.  My shift was over.  My mission through.  As "M"s daughter wrote me out a check for my time over the three days spent with her Mom, we heard "M" ask the question I had been dreading all day.  "So when will I see you again?" she asked me, hoping (I like to think) that it would be sometime soon. 

I had no answer, nor did her daughter.  There was no answer.  "M" would be going down to her Florida home with her son in a few weeks, and a caregiving system had already been put in place there that did not include me.  And understandably so.  I lived a thousand miles away!  And there were as yet no plans for her to return to her Northeastern home. 

I couldn't speak.  I wanted to say so many things to her before I walked out that door, mostly to thank her for the joy she had brought to my life during the past three years.  And the inspiration.  Before meeting "M", I was unsure what direction my own life would take next, having just closed the door on a path that led the wrong way.  "M"s presence in my life had opened that next door, and beyond it was a bright future filled with elderly individuals who all had a very special story to tell.  I knew in my heart and soul that I wanted to hear as many as I possibly could, and share them with others!

I kissed "M" on her beautiful white head, admiring her Great Snowy Egret gracefulness one more time, and walked out of "M"s door in tears, not uttering a word.  The word "goodbye" did not want to come out of my mouth, and I decided not to force it.  Besides, I would sound like a blubbering baby. By the time I climbed into my little blue Honda Fit, the color that "M" so adored, I was a weeping mess.  I wondered if I would ever see my beloved "M" again, but knew I had to get the thought out of my head.  No one knows what the future will bring, and life is best lived by staying in the moment.

It was time to let go and move on.  And I already knew in which direction.  As is always the way, another door had amazingly opened for me just as "M"s was closing, and it was time to build a brand new relationship with my new friend, "V", who will soon become featured in many of my blogs. 

Don't worry.  "M" will live on.  There are many more stories that I have yet to tell, and as they come to my mind and heart, I will gladly, and gratefully, continue to share them with you.