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" 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!
"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!
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