There once was a young woman named Bernita. She was petite and outwardly demure, her only physical landmark a prominent, aquiline nose. She was a widow and a mother to three grown men. A surprise baby born to her late in life–age forty-five, to be specific–turned her progressive, the wife of a man that gave her no choice in the matter. In public she was tight-lipped; in private, a fiery freedom seeker. Her eyes were still soft and kind, but a mere question could stir up every strong opinion that bubbled just below the surface.
I met her when she was ninety-six. She was fascinating, a sharp and witty time machine. She wore a wig and lived with three tuna-fed cats that defecated regularly on her green carpet, especially when visitors like me stopped by the house. It didn’t matter; she couldn’t smell it or see it. The housekeeper would take care of it in a week’s time. At least there would be fresh vacuum lines. The stagnant odor found a home in the plastic covered gold couches, the gilded, framed cross-stitch “Mother” poem, the dusty shelves of knick knacks. I made it a habit of removing all outerwear–coat, hat, gloves–before entering the front door. Three hours every Tuesday could pick up an aroma that no washing machine could shake out.
We had a general schedule we followed. I would find her in her sitting room, perched atop a hernia donut cushion in a blue recliner. Her feet were always up and she waited for me to release the footrest–she couldn’t reach it on her own. We chatted about the weather and news while CNN blared on the TV not three feet away. After a bit Bernita would remember to turn the volume down. Then she would pat my hand and with a twinkle in her eye say, “I thought we might go for ice cream today.” I’d load up the walker and tuck her in my passenger’s seat, taking care to buckle her gently.
She was almost a doll to me. I had worked for many seniors before her, but she seemed especially fragile and precious. I had the privilege of accompanying her to the manicurist, where they trimmed her nails and plucked her facial hairs. We remained proper–chin whiskers are a pesky matter, not a laughing one. We made trips to the hearing aid specialist and the mall. One day, Bernita convinced me to get my ears pierced. She sat proudly in her wheelchair at Claire’s while I got my first studs. I didn’t care to wear earrings–I just did it to please Bernita.
We traipsed through K*Mart for hearing aid batteries and birthday cards, me bent, fumbling over the controls on the store’s electric wheelchair. She was too busy shopping to bother with learning how to steer it herself. Once a month she would pick up a new compact of powder foundation, classic ivory. The exact foundation I used. Bernita and I, we had the same pale skin and covered our blemishes with chalk dust.
We’d drive to Coldstone, taking our time, smiling at each other over bowls of ice cream, reveling in a regular Tuesday afternoon. Then return to the house for Yahtzee at the formica table. We played hours and hours of it, so much that I dreamed about rolling Yahtzees with Bernita chuckling softly.
I would hug her one more time and leave, incredibly frustrated. What was I doing with my life? I was twenty-four years old with a college degree. How, exactly, could this Yahtzee and manicure nonsense possibly be any good for my future job prospects? Weren’t other twenty-four year olds starting businesses, repping companies, slaying med school, making money? Where was the future in senior care? Even the specialist at the hearing aid place tried to recruit me to work for her!
I couldn’t reconcile it; I loved Bernita. There is nothing holier than holding life gently, treading the space between breath and death. I helped her bathe, I changed her sheets, I organized her closets with the team bowling shirts from 1961. She never asked for me to make a moment special, she just didn’t want to feel lonely on a Tuesday this side of Heaven. Who knew how many Tuesdays she had left.
It really didn’t have anything to do with moving on and up, these three hours a week with Bernita. She couldn’t have offered me a reference or even a line on my resumé. But she let me enter her humble home. She let me in on her whole world, chin whiskers, ear wax, donut pillow, cat poop and all. By just being Bernita, I had to match her pace, an agonizingly slow, seems-like-we’re-not-accomplishing-much-here-today pace. I learned to enjoy eating my ice cream melted. I improved my dice rolling technique.
Bernita made me realize it’s okay to be human. It’s okay to need people. It’s okay to get old.
Those are all pretty good lessons to learn early on, I think.
