Old ladies

I have a new best friend. She lives across the street from me, she is 89 years old, her three granddaughters are among the smartest and most accomplished young women on earth and she has been going to my church since 1942. I knew none of these things until I talked her into letting me visit Friday evening, lemon poppyseed bread and stewardship intention form in tow. I was only planning to be there twenty minutes, thirty minutes at most, but at the hour mark she asked if I wanted some coffee and I had to say no, I was supposed to be home half an hour ago because we're having friends over. Turns out she walks five blocks to catch the bus every Sunday and has to leave directly after communion to catch the next one home. And, well, that's ridiculous. We live across the street. So we drove her to church on Sunday and sat next to her and gave her a hug at the kiss of peace and that's what we'll probably be doing for the next dozen Sundays and the dozen after that. Bet she's glad she let me visit, eh?

Now. Let it be said that I am not feeling particularly saintly, feeling irritated, as I do, about hauling an 89-year-old lady to and fro on Sundays. It's definitely going to interfere with our spontaneous after-Mass coffee hour and dim sum plans, not to mention the odd Sunday or two when we can't possibly get ourselves out of bed and half-heartedly promise to go to the seven o'clock service. On the other hand, 89-year-old ladies should be driven to church, dropped off at the front when it's raining and promptly taken home without a second thought. My 84-year-old grandmother never learned to drive and she's all I could think about during my visit (although my poor grandmother is certainly not bragging about her brilliant PhD candidate granddaughter who speaks three languages and works overseas for Peace and Justice, I assure you.)

I used to think I would work with elderly people. For all my social traumas involving small talk and strangers, I've never had problems getting old ladies to chat (though most of them, it should be said, wouldn't care if you had the conversation skills of Animal, they'd talk your ear off.) I spent a summer changing sheets and cleaning up after breakfast at an assisted living center and my senior year of college doing much more disgusting things than that for six or seven elderly women at an adult family home. I quit that job because I happened to be working for the Bride of Satan and found a less, uh, manual job in another downtown office building. I missed my old ladies though, even the crazy ones and the frighteningly sick ones. 

Eventually I hooked up with a local organization that paired people in the community with retirement and nursing home residents. I was paired with a woman I'll call Bev who lived at a city-funded retirement facility just blocks away from my waterfront office. I pictured a sweet fuzzy old lady like my grandma or Ann, my favorite (and least crazy) resident at the adult family home, but Bev was a sprightly Alzheimer's patient with a blond pixie cut and a sailor's vocabulary. She wore a monitor on her ankle and wasn't allowed out by herself. I'd go visit her for an hour on my lunch break and most of the time we'd take a long walk. It was the same route every week, but Bev never got tired of the furniture stores and the smells from the Thai restaurant and if it was nice weather and I had some cash, we'd eat ice cream cones on the waterfront. She'd hold onto my arm and we'd walk at a snail's pace, but I always got tired before she did. She asked me the same question every week: Did I have a nice man? And every week I would say: Oh Bev, you remember, I have a boyfriend. Even when this switched to: Oh Bev, you remember, I'm married, she never remembered. I think she even met Phillip once or twice, but I was always that dark-haired girl who came to rescue her from the stuffy boring packed-with-old-people building to take her outside where there was fresh air and all kinds of people and everything to look at. I'm not sure if she ever called me by name, but after the first couple of visits her face would positively gleam when she saw me walk into the lobby. She'd immediately head for the elevator to get her coat.

I had to stop seeing Bev when I stopped working downtown. I wasn't able to commit to seeing her on a regular basis and I felt so guilty telling the volunteer coordinator I wouldn't be there anymore. I still feel bad about that. I hope they sent someone else to take Bev outside.

Anyway it appears I have a new old lady, if I want her. Not that she needs a new best friend. She has family nearby, three future Presidents for granddaughters and all her wits about her. She needs a ride to church, which we are happy to provide, but I'm excited to have met her. When I'm bored at home with a baby, maybe I can walk across the street to her house and talk to a grown up, even if I have to hear about the granddaughter traveling across Europe before she starts her teaching position at the fancy East Coast university.

Comments

[Christina/Mrs Broccoli Guy]

I think that right there made the home visits worth it... what a neat thing to find a new "grandma" right across the street! We also like to just "go and do" after church so I can understand your reluctance on that part... but hey, you can always drop her off and then go out, right?

[Katie Ann]

Hello, new visitor :)
My husband and I 'adopted' and old lady when we moved here. She's cranky, spirited, works full time at 72 because she has no family and nothing to do, and she's not very nice (although she always means well, she's just rough). It was tough at first but now we love her. We will be moving out of the state in 2 weeks and I'm really worried about her.

[Angela]

This is such a sweet, albeit hilarious, post! I can only imagine all of the stories you're going to have once you're done with your visits. Maybe you and Phillip can just get a big van and start busing people to and from church. That can be part of your pitch--ooh, and you could even do it while you're driving to save time! ;)