Saturday, March 15, 2014

The woman in the crowd

 
photo credit

I find her as I usually do, the tv turned to the home shopping network, images of big sparkly rings on display. I clear a space in her only chair and scoot as close to her bed as I can. She flashes me her bottom row of front teeth, her only teeth at this time, and I know she still hasn't received her dentures. 

"How are you?" I ask, and she shrugs, turns her face back to the tv.  Into the silence, she hacks a gargled, raspy cough, her mouth opening like a baby bird.  "I've got a cough," she says, finally, and I can barely understand her without her teeth. 

She had this same cough two weeks ago, and I ask her if it's possibly turned into something worse? But no, she says she has emphysema, too. I didn't know.

She asks what I've been up to, and I struggle, as always, to know what to say. I'm horrible at small talk when it's about myself and I don't feel comfortable telling her what's going on in my life. I tell her about the trees turning toward spring, about the sunshine of the past several days, about beginning the season of Lent leading up to Easter.

"I can't hear you," she barks. I try to project my voice and feel more self-conscious doing so. 

I've been coming to visit her for a year and a half now, and it's as if I'm no more than three inches closer to knowing her than I was when I started. I can't seem to reach her, though there are moments when I see her smile and I know she's happy I came, even with the halted conversation. 

I'm not accustomed to connection being this difficult. I have sometimes prided myself on my ability to draw nearly anyone out, eventually, but this one feels like a failure. No matter how much interest I show in knowing about her life, how much encouragement I offer or questions I ask, she seems as reticent to talk about herself as I. Even I would be willing to talk more about my life if I sensed she wanted to hear it.

I try to find common ground as I maneuver generational and personal differences. I hide my inward cringing each time she refers to gay people as The Gays, with a wrinkled nose, or black people as Coloreds, as if she were speaking of another species. She's said no less than twenty times how much she hates long hair on women and I feel a twinge of anxiety when I visit her with my short hair growing longer.  She tells me the woman who lived next door to her here in the nursing home, the one she didn't like who would wander into her room and pick up her things, died recently. She sounds relieved, and I don't know what to say to her. I remember that woman with the long white hair, so sweet and confused, and how her daughter visited her and as I watched them shuffle along the hallways, I thought of my own mom - how that could be her years down the road - and it made me want to weep.

I'm trying not to watch the clock, but it's just above the tv, and sure enough the time is passing slowly. My heart is quickly sinking, the longer we sit in this heavy silence.

And finally, a piece of her reaches me through the noise of this crowd of negativity: "I just feel yucky."

I turn to her and lay my hand carefully on her soft, bruised arm. This woman, who has no one to visit her except a niece and myself; who lays in bed all day, every day, uncomfortable and in pain; who cannot see the light of day from where her bed lies in this gloomy hospital style room; the only real thing I know about her is that she is unhappy and alone. That the past, for her, is quite possibly no more than a painful reminder of what life is no longer, the future is hazy, and the present is not worth speaking of.

I'm here, my hand on her arm whispers through the crowd. I see you. You're not alone. 

Maybe this is all the conversation that is really needed, and I am learning to see through the crowd to the woman here, in the bed beside me.

. . . . . . . . . . 

Joining up with Lisa Jo for another Five-minute Friday post that is not five minutes, per usual. The prompt today is "Crowd."

9 comments:

  1. A friend and I visited a woman for four years, all through college. I remember it was a LONG time until we were sure she even wanted us there (although she had signed up for visits). Slowly she warmed to us, I think she needed to be sure we would keep coming back. This has been a yucky day for me and your words, 'I see you. You're not alone,' comforted me, even as I imagine your continuing presence comforts her.

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    1. Oh, this is encouraging to hear, Kelly. I know it can take a long time to build that rapport, but I forget it in these long stretches, too.

      I'm sorry it's been a yucky day for you. I'm grateful my simple words have comforted you in some way. I'm praying for you, for the comfort of presence, too, in the midst of the yuckiness. For the hand of God on your arm, in whatever form he may come to you today.

      It's always so nice to 'see' you here.

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  2. beautifully written Amber, with tension and desire so palpable. xoxo

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    1. Marla, what a treat to have you here. Thank you for your kind words and a huge hug back to you, friend :-)

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  3. I admire your willingness to show up for her despite the discomfort. I think you are right, sometimes the most poignant and important conversations are the ones without words that are spoken in presence only.

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    1. Thank you, Karmen. It seems I know this, and still I get so uncomfortable and doubt this in the moment. It is presence, I agree, that can speak the most poignantly. May I learn how to be a more willing, patient and loving presence-giver.

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  4. btw I get to be your FMF neighbor this week. So excited to get to sit next to you. =)

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  5. such a lovely story... even though it is a hard one... i don't know if it will get easier, but i just wanted to say thank you for visiting her, for sharing time and space... my grandfather recently died leaving my nana alone. she can be brusque and hard to so many... but as my nana i always see the soft and the hurt and the scared and the lonely underneath. she lives far away - and i can't wait to go spend some time with her in a few weeks.

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    1. Richelle, thank you for sharing this. You're right. We don't always stick around with people long enough to see past the brusque and hard to "the soft and the hurt and the scared and the lonely underneath." I'm glad you see this in your nana, and I'm happy you get to spend time with her in a few weeks, loving on her. I can only imagine how much that is a balm for her heart. Blessings to you.

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