DeDe and I were spectators that night.  We sat by DeDe’s bed on a Sunday evening waiting for her meal to arrive.  While we were waiting, we could not avoid seeing the preparations being made for one of DeDe’s roommates, Mrs. Iris Cooper.

The nursing assistant was fussing over her while another man looked on.  The nursing assistant, a young man wearing a bright blue medical shirt and pants, was brushing Mrs. Cooper’s hair.  “Hey, I want to do that!”  Iris broke out in her Southern accent.  She had often told me she was from Alabama.

Reaching behind her back with a fragile looking hand, Mrs. Cooper took the brush and began dragging it strongly over her white hair.  She was able to get the wisps down, but once she grasped all the hair in one hand she found she still had the brush in the other.  She could go no further.

I guessed the man looking on was Mrs. Iris Cooper’s son.  He appeared to be in his early to mid-thirties.  For all his youth, he stood somewhat bent over, he body seemed tense.  He had a jacket slung over one arm.  That was when I was reminded that it was Easter Sunday and Mrs. Cooper was most likely being helped to be ready to go out for a good, Easter super.

The nursing assistant, smiling, managed to politely collect the hairbrush back into his hand and at the same time gently fasten Mrs. Cooper’s hair back with a fushia colored elastic band.  As he spoke to the elderly woman, his voice rang out in a high pitch and moved through his range creating a melody.  “There you go, Mrs. Cooper, now you are ready, I just had to fix the elastic!”  His fingers moved quickly, nimbly.

Just as the assistant finished his work, a voice came over the intercom system.  A person was being summonsed.  I recognized the name being called–It was the name of the young man here aiding Mrs. Cooper in his blue medical outfit and his melodious voice.

To this day, I cannot write for you or pronounce the name of this man who’s fingers so gingerly fixed Mrs. Cooper’s hair, but what he told me when I first came to the center is that his name means something like Tuesday Ocean in another launguage, but that there is no direct translation of the name into English–his name in English is simply unexplainable.

Having heard his name over the intercom, he left his position and exited the room.  As he dashed away, he smiled at me brightly and nodded.  I nodded back.  This was our custom.  Then he disappeared.

From the time I first met him, we had developed this way of communicating:  I would walk down the hallways of the eldercare facility and he would duck in and out of rooms like a little bird–always returning the bright smile and nod.  I never saw him act poorly towards anyone.  I asked DeDe about him one time and she said, “Oh yes, he does quite well, but everyone has their moments, you know.”  Miss DeDe was so honest.

I was just recalling DeDe’s words, when Iris Cooper’s son began to wheel Iris towards the door of the room she and my DeDe shared.  Not long before this night Mrs. Cooper had had a bad bought of illness;  A nasty cough had left her weaker, her mind fuzzy, so it seemed.  I had not been around her for some time because she had been in and out of the hospital.

I was surprised, then, when she greeted me and said, “Com ‘ere, you gotta know how to greet family folk!” I did not know at first if she was talking to me or her son.  Obviously, turning her gaze on me she said,  “Give me some su’ga!” And, quite amazingly, as her son brought her close, she bent forward in her wheelchair and kissed my cheek.  Both her eyes were almost closed now since the time of the illness.  One eye, the right eye, had  almost completely been put out from when she was five, she had told me–but that’s another story.  Despite her state, the peck on the cheek that she gave me was strong, enthusiastic.

I looked up at her son.  He looked like he had run several miles although he had just traversed the twenty-five feet that made up the widith of the room.  “You must be her son,” I said, “I’ve heard so much about you.”  At that his eyes grew wide.  I noticed circles around them.  “All good things!” I said, quickly.  Mrs. Cooper and Miss DeDe laughed a little.  Mrs. Cooper’s son laughed, too–well, he chuckled.  I’m not sure he was enjoying this moment.

I heard from Mrs. Cooper at one time that her son,”Well, he was in a band and they traveled down to South America.  Yeah, he was there for a good, long while, mak ‘in music.  Now he’s up in S’atle Washington building a house with his father.” That was how the story went.  She never denied it, although sometimes it went differently…

Still with his shoulders slouching and his slow gate, the son exited the enclosure.  He seemed relieved, somehow, as he slipped through the doorway because he raised his head for a moment.

Another nursing assistant, this time a woman all in yellow, brought DeDe’s dinner.  DeDe starred at the food.  “See,” the nursing assistant said to me, “You have to help them a little bit.”  Then she pulled two straws out of a pocket and stuck one through the plastic wrap covering the milk–the other through the juice cover.  She said to my DeDe, “There you go.”  And then she peeled back the fresh banana and placed it in Miss DeDe’s hand.  DeDe smiled.  I had learned early on how much Miss DeDe likes banana.  “Thank-you,” said DeDe, genuinely, to the assistant and smiling.  After the woman went out, DeDe looked at the banana with interest and started to eat her dinner.  As she ate more banana, I helped her by peeling it down.

I was starting to wonder if all DeDe was going to eat that night was one piece of fruit.  Then I heard a voice over the intercom.  They were calling the man, Tuesday, again.  There he was now in the room with Mrs. Iris Cooper’s closet door flung open and there he was delving into it’s contents.

An older woman, hugging a stack of papers in her arms appeared beside the man in bright blue.  I recognized her–she was practically the only physical therapist that I knew of around the place.  She stood very close–too close, I thought, to the man and spoke in his ear in a low, serious tone.  I could not hear her words, but by reading her lips and looking at her face she seemed to be saying something like, “You have to_____.”  And then her voice trailed off.  She seemed to be directing him.  Then it came to me that she was the one each time speaking over the intercom.

Having delivered her message, she was gone–carried away in her leather shoes with staunch heels.  Tuesday, having pulled out a pink and aqua sports jacket from the closet, ducked out of the room using his spry legs.  The night air was cold and Mrs. Cooper was going to need a warm wrap.  That is what had come over the intercom.

My DeDe again sat looking at her food.  I often wondered what she thought about…There was still a pile of macaroni salad and a tuna sandwich waiting on her plate. Gradually, she started to take bites.  “It’s not too bad,” she said.  I broke off pieces of the tuna sandwich and she had some of that.

We sat together, side by side, for some time–at times I told her stories about my life with my sister and her family.  Sometimes we just sat quietly, seemingly lost in our own thoughts, but together.  She always loved my stories and thought I was so funny.  When she spoke, she made me laugh, too.  When we sat together, not talking, there was a silent kind of connection that I didn’t have with anyone else.

I regretted the end of the day.  It meant going back to life, back to my home, and preparing for the next busy day.  I finally pulled myself away from Miss DeDe.  “Okay, little mama, I will see you on Friday.”  That is always how I addressed her because the staff often addressed the women residents in this way–as ”little mama”.  “”Okay,” she said, “Thank-you for com’in.”  My DeDe, like Miss Iris has a Southern accent–New Orleans to be exact.  She is a real urban girl.  “Thanks for having me over to your pad,”  I responded.  And DeDe laughed.  “I enjoyed your comp’ny!”  That’s it.  That’s all she would say.  To me she was a very mild mannered person.

I started going from DeDe’s quiet, darkened room, down the hallway towards the eldercare hospital’s main entrance.  The flourescent lights in the hallway hit me, forcing me to squint and blink my eyes.

Still in my own world concerning DeDe and the home, I drifted past the entrance to the front dinning room.  I really liked, for some reason, marking every one of my visits in the front door log book.  Maybe someone, someday, would discover just how often a visited there.

As I passed the front dinning room, I saw inside, many residents collected around their small tables taking part in their meals and I saw a blue flash.  It was the man, Tuesday.  I caught a glimpse of his face.  There was that quick, friendliness always present in his demeanor…I wanted to thank him…I wanted him to know the effect he had on the home and all the residents there.  I turned away towards the log book, saying nothing.  He was not looking for thanks.  Thanking the man, Tuesday, would be like trying to explain to him–something, unexplainable.

Marianne Sweel MA Human Development

She seemed to have an interesting coping mechanism; She danced wherever she went.  I entered the front dinning room in the small elder care hospital that day and took my usual place at the table with my good friend, Dee Dee Johnson.  There, in the room, was Titania, dancing.  Backwards and forwards, side to side she swayed.  Many other residents in the room were calling out to her in loud voices.  One woman said, “Titania, get out of the way!” Another woman spoke out, “You’re blocking the television,  I can’t see!”  Titania seemed rather upset by these expressions.  She responded by putting on a very long face.  And she gave a retort which she gave to just about everyone in her vicinity when she was perturbed;  She commented, “No, no, no, no.”

Without any forewarning, I felt a sharp prick on my back.  I turned–there was Titania.  She seemed to be looking to me for solace.  I smiled at her, said her name, and then turned back to Miss Johnson.  But Titania held her position.  She would not stop touching my back.  Now, when she did, she smiled a little and perpetuated her remark, ”No, no, no, no.”  Her eyes penetrated me, as if pleading with me for help.

I didn’t know exactly what to do.  There were times when I simply went and got the nurse to come, but  for some reason, I did not go and call the nurse that day.  The nurse could usually be found stationed in the room–perhaps they had stepped out for a moment.  I longed to help Titania, but also, I knew I had become an object of her interest and I felt I needed to be released from that much attention.  I searched both internally and externally for what to do.  Finally, I reached into my over sized purse and rummaged around for something  to give her.  I don’t know what I was looking for–something with which to comfort her? Something with which to calm her? Something to somehow fill an emptiness inside her? Yes, that was it.  

I found a blank piece of paper in the back of an old address book and a red pen.  I ripped out the piece of paper and wrote on it, “I love you, Titania.”  I offered the note to her and when she stretched out her hand, I placed it into eager fingers.

Titania looked at the paper.  Then she starred at it.  I read each word to her slowly and carefully, ”I love you, Titania,”  I said.  She continued smiling at me with that slight smile, and yet, she still repeated, “No, no, no, no.”  She just stood swaying by my side, clinging to the slip of paper and looking at it.  She seemed stuck.

Knowing that it was almost lunch time, I thought to help Titania settle down by going to her regular seat for ”supper” as the residents liked to call the meal.  I had learned from the nurses–I had watched them many times as to how they worked with Titania.  There was just one way to persuade her to do her daily routines:  One had to dance with her. I did not see any nurses at that moment–there were just the other residents and me.  I realized, then, that Titania and I had developed a good re pore over the year or so I had been visiting the elder care hospital, so I took a risk:  I danced with Titania.

The Dancer and I grasped hands facing one another.   Hand in hand, arm in arm, we swayed back and forth, back and forth, side to side, side to side until we reached her lunch seat.  Her place lay at the first table where one entered the dinning hall, on the left.

Still dancing, Titania and I had just reached Titania’s seat in the corner when Titania starred at the note again and these words came out of her mouth, “My parents never loved me…”  Then her voice trailed off.  I had rarely ever heard Titania speak.  I was in awe–I was saddened and I was awe.

The staff  began to bring the lunch trays with their little red dome tops covering each plate.  They brought Titania’s.  She sat  wriggling in her seat–dancing as she ate and in her hand she clutched that tiny note.  She clutched the note all through lunch and she kept that slight smile on her face the entire time.  They say that Titania is very old, but with her little smile, her repeated, “No, no, no, no”, and her dancing, Titania will always have a very childlike place in my heart.  I wrote on that page that I love Titania; I do–and I always will.

Marianne Sweel   MA Human Development

Lizzy, sitting in her black wheelchair, tried to grab on to one corner of the table where Dee Dee, Mrs. Bealey, and I were gathered for lunch on a Monday morning in the eldercare hospital.  To me, Lizzy appeared perpetually worried;  I often wondered if that was what had created the elaborate pattern of lines and wrinkles covering her brow, face, and neck.

Dee Dee stared at this sudden neighbor.  I turned to Dee Dee and whispered to her, “It seems like she’s trying to see someone or something out the window.”  Lizzy struggled, squinting and peering forward towards the large glass pane that lay on the other side of the table where we were sitting.  Mid-summer had arrived and the tree directly outside the window was wrapped in colours of pink, purple, and maroon.

“She’s always tryin’ to sit at this table.” Dee Dee said, sounding both  matter of fact and somewhat irritated.  Lizzy now had her hands on the arm rests of her chair.  She pushed her body forward with her arms, lifted her head up, and craned her neck forward as if expecting someone to come walking down the street.

Then she let herself down with a sigh.  She seemed to have let go of whatever she was anticipating.  Moving her chair back to the center of the room, she put her head down as if mulling something over.  Then she said in my direction,  ”Hey nurse! Can you call my brother? I need you to call my brother.”

There were no nurses in sight, just Dee Dee, Mrs. Bealey, and me.  Mrs. Bealey was sleeping in her wheelchair.  “I’m not a nurse,” I said to her, regretting that I could not help her immediately, “But when the nurse comes in, you or I can ask the nurse to call your brother.”  I wanted to reassure her that she could do something herself about her circum- stances.  Yet, many times a resident would mistake me for a nurse or a therapist and ask me to do something;  I had learned to be quick and explain what I could and could not do so I would not get overwhelmed by a resident or mislead one.  ”I just need to talk to my brother.  Why can’t you call my brother?”

Lizzy, then, went right up to Mrs. Bealey’s chair and started to grasp something hanging on the back of her chair.  At first, only Dee Dee understood what she was doing.

Almost all the residents have a sensor on the back of his or her chair that sets off an alarm if the resident becomes unsafe in some way:   Reasons for setting off the alarm may be if a resident slips down in his or her wheelchair, trys to stand up on unstable feet, etc…  The sensor is a small white box with a red light in the middle and hangs on the patients right hand, back side of the chair.  The sensor notifies the nurses with a loud “beep, beep!” in an emergency as those mentioned above.

Lizzy reached up and took hold of Mrs. Bealey’s sensor.  “How do you dial this thing?” She said.  Dee Dee laughed.  “She thinks it’s a phone.”  I looked on surprised.  I had never seen anyone like Miss. Lizzy before.  She seemed so desperately lonely–my heart broke for this lady.

“I need to call my brother.  How do you dial this thing!”  Lizzy’s plea was urgent.  Mrs. Bealey, stationed in her chair in front of Lizzy, slept on.  Dee Dee just laughed, “It’s not a telephone!”  She called out.  Dee Dee was not so empathetic some times.

“Oh,” Lizzy said, and put her head down again and slumpted over in her seat.  She seemed so unfortunate, so lost, and alone.  It was as if there was some big void within her that she could not fill.  I wanted to comfort her.  Misguided, I searched the room to find something to distract Lizzy, to take her mind off her deep discomfort.

As I searched around the room for something to give Lizzy, it came to me that at one time Lizzy must have been a very keen person, full of vitality;  Whenever I observed Lizzy in the home, she frequently went around chatting to herself and hunting about for something–something to sink her mind into.  When I came up with a book or magazine for her, she always seemed intrigued, at least for a short time. 

Not letting another moment slip, I discovered a newspaper on the piano.  When I placed the paper in Lizzy’s hands, she did not make eye contact with me, she just stared at the paper and responded, “Thank-you,”  in a low, flat voice.  Her response seemed automatic, almost robotic as if she knew that was what one was supposed to say upon receiving something.  She began to puruse the front page.

I’m sure the glasses Lizzy wore were intended to permit her to see clearly and yet she drew her face down very close to the paper.  She made her glasses almost touch the page as if to help her study it intensely.  I began to think I had achieved something clever and I was getting ready to revel in my success when Lizzy suddenly shot again in my direction, “Can you call my brother?”

I simply could not stop her.

I learned first hand from Lizzy a crucial part of human nature:  On the one hand, Lizzy, like so many of the residents, have so little.  They have few past-times,  hardly any possessions, and very simple meals.  But what they desire most as they sit there in the hospital, often just seeming to watch life go by–what they want are not things to do or material gifts.  As they near the end of their lives, they long to be in relationship, specifically with the ones they love and the ones who love them.

Marianne Sweel   M.A. Human Development

In the back of my mind, there was one adversary from my past that I longed to come to terms with.  He was someone from the time I was in middle school, who, after speaking some particular words to me, surprised me so completely that I missed my opportunity to answer him.  Years after he had emitted his judgemental words, I still wondered, “Was there something I could have said to deflect his words and erase their sting?”

Finally, during one short visit to the eldercare facility, I found the words to speak.   Those words now grab me like an anchor and buoy me up from within.

In many ways I was struck by the source of these fortuitous words.  They did not come from preachers, counselors, close friends, or  family members.  The words that I had so longed for came from a seventy-one-year-old woman who had entered the home about a year earlier because she had suffered a stroke.

Grasping her walker, Sadie Hutchinson moved herself into her usual seat at the table where Dee Dee Johnson, and I were already seated.  My chair was pushed in front of one corner of the table in between Sadie and Dee Dee.  Sadie began her story:

“You see that woman over there?” She said, pointing to a woman sitting in a wheelchair in the hallway adjacent to the door.  “She used to be a real spit fire until I kind of mellowed her out.  She used to be really bad.  Now she just has her moments.”

“How did that come about?” I asked, as casually as I could, but really anticipating her response.  “What I do when she comes at me is that I just throw it back at her.”  I expected that the example she was about to show me was going to be the model of vindictiveness.

“One day,” Sadie said, “when she came at me, I just looked her in the eye and said:  “You are my friend.  I want you to be my friend and my friends don’t treat me like that!”  Her eyes flew open wide when she said this and the whites of her eyes became prominent.  Her words were pointedly strong and stern as she spoke out.

Her words resonate within me frequently.  I like to practice them while I’m walking down some road by myself or alone in the morning brushing my teeth.  I am often startled by how confrontational the words were and yet I believe when Sadie spoke she sincerely cared for the woman.  She still does.

My personality highly contrasts Mrs. Hutchinson’s–I tend to avoid confrontation and have to return to the person or sitiuation to resolve an issue after considering the incident for some time.  But on that day, in the center, I believe I became more like Sadie.  Her words became clothes I could put on.  Only thing is about these clothes–they became like armour for me–armour that protected my heart and was to cover me in times to come.

“Above all else, guard your heart, for it is the wellspring of life.”  Pro 4:23

Marianne Sweel  MA Human Development

Mrs. Gloria Bealey cried tear after tear as I sat down at the table where I so often had lunch with Miss Dee Dee  Johnson and her.  The tears on Mrs. Bealey’s face flowed so freely that the worn Kleenex in her hand was not able to stop them from reaching her chin.  I reached into my purse and offered her fresh one.

Nurses came by now and again to inquire of her state, ”Mrs.Bealey, why are you crying? Are you crying because you wanted your daughter to come?” I looked on for some time not knowing what to do.  I was torn between wanting to comfort her and allowing her the space to work out her own feelings.  Dee Dee broke into my thoughts, “I hate to see my friend cry.” She said.  I was surprised because this was the first time I had heard Dee Dee express concern for her room-mate.

I looked at Dee Dee.  When I looked into her face, she seemed to be saying to me, as she did many times when I visited the center, “Why don’t you go ahead and do something about this!” So, I began praying to the Lord, just inside.  I turned to Dee Dee.  “Do you mind if I pray for Mrs. Bealey?”

Dee Dee Johnson had been raised in the church and she acknowledged that she believed in God, but it was hard for me to determine at this point how deep her Christian faith went.  I never intentionally tried to push my beliefs on her or anyone at the center.  I always tried to be respectful.  I didn’t want to offend Dee now.  Miss Johnson looked at me half serious and half jokingly and said, “Sure, she needs all the prayer she can get!” And she smiled that warm, wry smile.  This was Dee Dee’s way–to mix her very own flavor of humor into everything.

I turned towards Mrs. Gloria Bealey.  Her eyes were mostly closed as the tears flowed down.  “Can I pray for you Gloria?” “Yes, please!” She said and nodded vigorously.  Gloria Bealey was an extraordinary lady in my estimation.  She was one who could see God working even in simple things.  She still prayed a blessing over her mid-day meal.  For someone who was rumored to be in her late eighties, her faith was inspiring to me.

I rested my hand on her right arm which was closest to me and I began to pray:

Dear Lord, Thank-you for Mrs. Bealey.  Thank-you for the faith you have given her.  I pray that you would bring her family here–her daughters–and that you would show her all the good friends she has here.  But most of all, Lord, I pray that you would be with her now.  I pray that you would fill her and comfort her with your Holy Spirit.  Comfort her with the comfort only you can give.  In Jesus Name, Amen.

Mrs. Gloria lifted up her head and responded, “Thank-you, Babe.  I feel better already”  But, she continued to dab her eyes.  Then, something came to me.  I went and did something I had learned only recently by watching my sister and brother with their children–my niece and two nephews.  I went down the hall to Mrs. Gloria’s room and took from her bed her huge cloud leopard stuffy that lay on top of the covers.  I picked it up and made my way down the hall to the dining room.

I put the stuffed animal in Mrs. Gloria’s lap–head resting on her chest.  She opened her eyes, suddenly, smiled, and hugged the animal.  “Oh!” She said.  The lunch carts filled with trays could be heard coming down the hall.  One of the nurses came over in time and tried to put Mrs. Gloria’s long white bib on.  It drapped over the leopard.  “Can you eat like that Mrs. Gloria?” Yes,”  She said to the nurse.  And she sat in her chair the whole time, calmly chewing her meal.

When she was finished eating, she fell into a deep slumber there in her wheelchair.  As she slept, she sat hugging the large leopard and on her face was a pleasent, serene expression.  That time, I believe I was the one who was comforted.    

Marianne Sweel  MA Human Development

For years, I have had this desire to go into nursing homes and involve the elderly in meaningful activities:  singing, arts and crafts, and just listening to their stories.  After my first visit at Christmastime to the elder care hospital related to our church, I sensed I was being given an opportune time.  One day, before church, I approached the man who led the music outreach to the elder care hospital.  The group he organized visited one Sunday a month, bringing hymns to the people and offering prayer.  I asked him if there was a way I could go to the nursing home facility and simply visit with the residents.  He told me that not many people visited the center and so the staff and residents would most likely be more than happy to have me there.

Christmas had come and gone at the hospital and where there had once been snowflakes and snowmen on the walls they were now  just bare, beige walls.  I thought if I brought flowers to the center that would be my contribution to bringing some color to the place.  I called ahead to make sure the staff was alright with me bringing flowers and they seemed pleased.  When I arrived, I felt conspicuous walking back and forth from my car carrying pots of tiny, pink tea roses.

I left one potted plant on the entry way table where visitors signed in.  And, I left one tea rose on the piano in the dinning room that was just to the left and around the corner from the entry way table.  Then I made my trek down the long hallway to a large room that was used both for recreational activities and meals.  As I made my journey down the hall, people started looking at me and smiling.  I entered the functional room to see the surrounding walls lined with people in wheelchairs.  One woman was standing at the end of a long table in the middle of the room about to push a bowling ball towards some pins.  I stopped.  The recreation leader who was directing the activity looked directly at me.

“Who are you here to see?” He asked.  “I’m here bringing flowers for both the residents and the staff.”  I said.  “Oh,” he said, “You can put them over there.”  He pointed to the piano against the wall in the far corner by the windows.  “Thanks for doing that.”  He said.  “Sure.”  I said.  I weaved my way around the bowling table and placed the flowers on the piano.  I then went back to the doorway from where I had come in.  That’s when I saw her:  There was a woman in a wheelchair near the door where I was standing and her face was turned towards me.  She seemed to recognize me.   I remembered her name from the times I visited with the church music group–DeDe Johnson.

She sat in her wheelchair in a relaxed manner and gazed about at everyone calmly.  On her face was a slight smile that added to her serene and pleasant look.  Her gray and black hair was neatly brushed back in a ponytail and she peered at me over large glasses.  I waved at her across the distance.  She smiled at me and waved back.  When she waved, she moved each finger like someone playing the piano.  How would one describe the expression on her face as she waved at me? Amused? Yes, that was it.

Suddenly, from one end of the room, the recreational leader announced in a full voice that bowling was over and that lunch would soon be served.  The room was so packed with various chairs that only the swiftest and ablest could make their way out.  DeDe Johnson was one of the few who was ambulatory.  Hands on the wheels of her chair, DeDe quickly began to push herself out of the room and down the long corridor where I had just come.  I stood by the door watching her.

I made up my mind to follow her;  Fortunately for me, she got caught up in a traffic jam with a couple other wheelchairs. “Are you going to lunch?” I asked Miss Johnson as I caught up with her. “Yes.”  She said “Do you mind if I come along?” I said.  “Sure.”  She replied.  Her answer was to the point but warm.

The nurses had to come along and sort out the wheelchair melee, clearing aside the blockage.  DeDe continued with me by her side.  We came around a corner and into the entry way hall.  She seemed to know exactly where to position herself–directly across from the the dining room entrance.

I looked around the hall for a chair to sit on.  Finding none, I crouched next to DeDe on her right side.  I found that this was the way I could get my tall frame down to the level of the residents in the nursing home.  As I bent down, DeDe and I began our first conversation.  “Do you remember me?” I asked her hopefully.  “I came here a couple times with the church group.  One time I came you were visiting with your niece.”  “Yes, I remember you.”  Miss Johnson said  “Do you remember my name?” I asked. ”No.”  She said and smiled a little.

I was to learn from DeDe, later, that she didn’t remember most people’s names in the facility and that it was necessary for me to tell her my name each time I arrived.   I sounded my name out to her carefully hoping it would register for next time.  She just looked at me with that amused smile.

“So what do you think you’ll have for lunch?” I asked.  She looked at me over her bi-focal glasses and smiled, pursing her lips together.  Overtime, I was to become very accustom to that smile.  “Oh, whatever they give us.”  She answered.  When she said this, we both laughed and then there was a long pause.  I was not expecting this much humor from a person in a nursing home.  But, then, I was learning that DeDe was not like a lot of people in nursing homes.  In fact, she was not like anyone I knew.

I was on to another subject:  “What do you like to do? I mean, do you have any special pastimes like sewing or cooking or working with flowers?” I asked this because I liked doing these things.  I was part of a culture that was based on doing.  We prided ourselves on our achievements and it had become a national obsession.  I thought DeDe, sitting quietly in her wheelchair, would be itching to do something.

“My mom could sew and cook.  I tried to do like my mom but I never could.”  Miss Johnson stated.  “So what did you do?” I mistakenly persisted in the same vein as my previous question.  Dee Dee Johnson’s answer, then, came as a complete surprise:  “Try falling off a four story building.”  She responded.  Her response was both serious and totally flippant.  

I stopped myself in mid-response.  I was sure she was joking.  There was no way, at that time, for me to know whether she was making the whole thing up or not.  “What were you doing at the top of a four story building?” I finally blurted out in amazement.  “I was looking out the window!” She said this to me as if it was her defense, but also, quite strangely, she seemed to be laughing at me just below the surface.  She smiled that slight smile that I was coming to know.  Then she returned a steady gaze which said defiantly, “You know this is true.”

I was starting to realize that she had had a great accident, but I still had many questions:  “How did you survive? I mean, what did you land on?” I noticed that my voice was rising.  “I fell on my arm.”  DeDe seemed amused by her plight, almost triumphant.  I was in shock.  “You are lucky you still have your… head!” I said this both with humor and gravity.  I had taken up DeDe’s joviality because it seemed to be the perspective she desired.  She seemed to regard what happened to her with acceptance and humor.  There was nothing she could control now about her past except the way she looked at it.  The account, if indeed true, was truly an amazing accomplishment.

I turned to her and regarded her with deep lovingness.  “Can I tell you somehing DeDe–Don’t ever fall out of a four story building again!” As I said this, my eyes smarted with tears and yet we both nodded and laughed.  DeDe was so funny.  She made me laugh.  And yet evidently it had cost her dearly to bring me and everyone else she met such humor.

Now the residents, that is, the ones who could move themselves. began wheeling themselves into the dining room.  Miss Johnson and I sat watching two nurses pushing a tall cart with many shelves down the entry way hall.  They stopped just short of the doorway which opened to the small dining room.    When the cart stopped, they began removing food plates on trays from the shelves.  Each plate was covered with a little red dome to keep the hidden meal warm.

Even though I knew DeDe was perfectly able to move, once everyone else had wheeled themselves in, a nurse came over to where we were and guided DeDe’s chair to a place at a table.  Was Miss Johnson receiving special treament because she had a guest?

The room contained only four small square tables each covered with a red and white checkered table cloth.  I was to learn in time that each resident had his or her own place at a table.  DeDe’s place was at a table furthest from the door by the only window in the room.  When she sat at her table, DeDe Johnson could view the street, sidewalks, trees, houses, and gardens.  After a short time of knowing DeDe, she and I came to agree that DeDe had the best seat in the house.  In Spring the trees that lined the street held lovely pink blooms, but now the trees were bare because it was Winter–late January to be exact.  The sun that day was trying to break through.

I pulled my chair up next to DeDe and she continued her story:  “I broke my arm, I broke my back, I broke my leg.  I should have died then.  A lot of people would have choked and died already.”  She continued.  I was looking straight at Miss Johnson at that moment.  Instead of eating the green beans that were in front of her, she was sticking out her tongue  and acting like she was choking.  Her tongue, being exposed, looked funny, because it was green from the beans.  I tried not to laugh.

“You don’t know what you can go through until you’ve gone through it.”  She said in a serious manner.  “Now for me it’s just extended time.”  I wondered in suspense what she was going to say next.  “I’ve been through________!!!” She said.

A man who I knew was there visiting  his aunt.  He sat in one corner eating his lunch.  When DeDe made her statement, he came over quickly and spoke to me:  “You’re her friend,” he said, sounding exasperated, “Did you hear what she said???” I answered him, “I don’t see a sign anywhere saying you can’t speak French.”  “Didn’t you see that sign over there…?” He pointed above the little nearby piano behind us.  Upon it were simply some decorations left over from Christmas which was now passed for over a month.

In those early days, DeDe had a propensity to swear and I never chided her.  I knew it was not my place to try to change her.  If she chose, God could change her, but I would not force what I believd on her.

“I’ve been through H_____!” DeDe said this now as if possibly trying to tone down her earlier comment.  And then she said, “In a way it was a good thing that it happened, I was living my life too fast.”

“I understand.”  I said.  And I hoped my reply sounded truly empathetic.  But I knew I would never know exactly what it was like to go through her accident and to be her.  I also knew there was more to her story than what she had told me so far.  There always was.  But in DeDe’s case her use of expletives gave her away.  I had enough sense at that moment not to try and get more out of her.  Her business was her business and that was fine with me.

The nurses came to clear away the  lunch trays.  It was time for me to go.  DeDe and I began to wrap up our conversation.  “What are you going to do the rest of the day?” I asked Miss Johnson.  “Sit around and watch people.”  ”Oh,”  I said surpised, once again.  “That’s about all you can do around here.”  She said.  “You like to watch people?” I asked, my eyebrows raised.  “Yeah, people are funny.”  She said.  And then she added, “I like being here.  You learn about people.”

“Do you have any friends here?” I inquired.  “Some,” she said, “”You have to be careful who you talk to here.  You can say something and they can totally turn it around.”  And then I said something that surprised me:  “Sometimes some one wants to go from point A to point B and you just happen to be in their way–instead of going around, they’ll just go right through you.”    And then DeDe replied along the same lines,  “Yeah, they’ll go right across your line.  They won’t pay any attention to it.”  DeDe responded and I nodded.  DeDe and I seemed to have some things in common.

Then I made a motion towards a lady coming near us in the dining room.  She was walking, swaying her body from side to side, slowly.  As I observed her, I realized that, actually, she was dancing.

I then expressed to DeDe that when the church group came, this woman had an incredible propensity to dance to the hymns brought by the group.  DeDe put in, “Yeah, she like to dance.  She like to shake the boo-tie!!!”  DeDe laughed.  I noticed how people entertained her–unfortunately sometimes at their own expense.  I just looked at this woman.  I thought she was amazing in her own way–such a free spirit. 

Sitting with DeDe, we looked out on the street with the bare trees and the gray light streaming in.  The sun was still trying to break through.   I thought about DeDe’s life experiences.  I considered the way she lived in the nursing home. and I thought about how they were not too different in many ways from my own life experiences and living in the outside world.  There were congruent life lessons to be learned as people navigated through their lives, even at different ages, and marked similarities in what people said and how they acted.

Marianne Sweel  MA Human Development

I do not know exactly why this woman’s body had chosen to form in this fashion.  But I found her lying prone in a kind of wheeling bed as I began to visit the eldercare hospital.  When I met her, I believe she had not been able to propel herself for a long time.  Yet she seemed perfectly happy.  December meant Christmastime, but Christmas in the home was a little different than in the real world.  What was similar was the music the church group, including myself, brought to the center that day.

I tagged along that day, having just joined this particular church group.  I arrived at the eldercare hospital with a long standing member of the church and he, like myself, liked to be prompt.  This was an incident where being on time definitely paid off;  I got to sit next to this woman in the carrier, Rita S., who unbeknownst to me, would be the lead singer for the day.

She lay in the wheelchair wearing a crimson, velvety dress, and a matching hat that was turned up all around.  On her feet and legs was a small, yellow and orange, batique quilt.  I was drawn to her most by her round, warm face, dark skin, and her accent–her wonderful Southern accent.

The drummer was assembling his drum set and testing it out.  He banged on each drum in succession.  “Shatta Rasta Hilda Hen!” Rita shouted.  I learned in time that this was an expression Rita had picked up somewhere over her lifetime and was a way of signaling to everyone that a preacher’s sermon had been stunning.  “Amen!” Rita continued.  And she shook her whole body.  It was more of a wiggle.  I never found out if Rita S. was Christian in the entire sense of the word, but I did learn that she knew tons of hymns.  It was as if somewhere deep inside her lived the memory of these old, old sacred songs.  I was about to see her gift in motion for the first time.

I introduced myself.  She shared her name with me.  She said, “I used to work here!” “Did you?” I answered.  “What did you do?” “Oh, a little bit of this and that.  “And I used to take care of babies!”  Then she asked me what my name was again and I told her.  “You’re just beautiful, Babe,” She said.  When she spoke she smiled really wide and her eyes laughed and rolled back in her head.

The drummer was now ready.  The young man from our church who was going to support the residents in their music hour sat at the piano, microphone ready.  “He’s just cute as a button, I think–that man over there,” She said, referring to the piano man.

The music rang out–the traditional Caroles that some call Christmas music.  The First Noel seemed to go on forever.  Rita S.’ voice could be heard over all the voices in the room, including above the sounds of the musicians from the church.  “Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel–Born is the King of Israel!”  A young woman from our church group got up and sang “Oh, Holy Night”.  She had what I would consider an operatic voice–high and rich.  It stretched to the ceiling and seemed to arch above everyone in the room.  The song appeared to be one that Rita S. did not know, so for a moment the younger singer did not have to compete with her.

The last song the piano man led is naturally one of the most endearing songs of all the Caroles:  Silent Night.  Many people are aware that generally there are three verses to the song.  The music began.  Rita S.’ voice filled the room–her voice full of passion.  The piano man announced the different verses as they appeared on the wall with the help of a video projector:  “Silent night, Holy night, all is calm all is bright, round youn’ Virgin…”  Everybody was singing, but everybody seemed to be listening to Rita.  I mean, how could they help it? She went on full of vigor and confidence as if singing with her whole body– there in the carrier.  The musician at the piano tried to call out more verses.  But Rita just kept singing the first verse.  They tried to sing “Sherpherds quake at the sight.”  But she just kept on singing.  Her voice was booming with complete joy.

I didn’t want to leave her side, but I had promised I would go and visit my sister’s family and I had agreed with the gentleman I came with that we would only stay an hour and a half.  He was waiting for me.  I kissed Rita S. good-bye and told her I would return.  I have never seen anyone like Rita in my life.  When I returned home at the end of the day, I reflected on the experience of meeting and being with Rita.  I thought to myself, being a singer too, “I hope when I get to be Rita S.’ age and lay in my carrier, that I can carry myself with that much gusto–and not be concerned about what others think as I project the only verse I know.  After all, the lead singer is always right.

Marianne Sweel  MA Human Development