It is more than the small things
It was early, close to 10 a.m. when I entered her room.
I introduced myself, “Good morning, my name is Ann. I’m a volunteer and my first job is to make you more comfortable while you are waiting.”
It took her a bit of time to respond, moving her bandaged head slowly, she said in a small voice, “I’m fine.”
Truthfully, she didn’t look well.
She had that overwhelmed look that is a combination of anxiety and loss that you often see in patients who are alone.
She was pale, her hair in wild disarray. Her hands shook as she moved them across her blanket.
I didn’t know or ask her name; had no idea what her complain or diagnosis — these had little to do with why I was there.
I sat down next to the bed and began to chat.
“Well, you are in the Emergency Room and I’ll bet that you didn’t plan on that today,” I said.
She managed a small smile.
“I don’t know what happened. I got up to get a drink and the next thing I was on the floor,” she said.
Gesturing to a lavalier around her neck.
“I pushed this thing and the EMT’s arrived. I think the super let them in.”
“That has to be frightening,” I said.
“Ya think?” she laughed.
We continued our conversation talking about her where she lived, how she moved to her apartment five years ago after her beloved daughter with whom she had lived for ten years, had passed away.
My son-in-law sold the house she said, matter of factly. “My son helped me find my apartment.”
She had five children and we talked with some animation about their successes in the world.
“You know, it seems like yesterday when they were young, when I was young. There’s a me that lives in my head that can sit on the floor, that can walk for miles, run up the stairs after little ones. We used to take trips to Myrtle Beach. The whole family. I prefer that woman to the one that is here in this bed,” she said. “Will you hand me my purse?”
She rummaged in the handbag and retrieved her wallet, pulling out a picture of her family some years ago.
“That’s me there,” she pointed to an attractive slender woman surrounded by family. “Look at that head of hair. So thick that I complained. Now, I can count the hairs on my head all 20 of them,” she laughed. “Next week, I’ll celebrate my 91st birthday. If I make it. Never thought I would make it this far.”
“Well, an early happy birthday. Maybe I can fix you a special something when you are ‘ok- ed’ to have some food?”
She had 11 grandchildren who she named off with no hesitation.
Most live out of state, she added.
“I used to call but they were never home. I write to them, but they are so busy. People don’t write letters or answer them now-a-days,” she said.
Two of her children still lived in the area.
“With busy lives,” she said. “I forgot my glasses — not that I intended to have them with me under these circumstances.”
She asked me to dial her son’s number, “I think I should let them know I’m here. The nurse said that I’m going to be admitted to the hospital. My boys would be upset if I didn’t let them know.”
I dialed the number, gave her the phone and told her that I’d be back later.
It was less than a half hour later that I was asked to escort a gentleman to her room.
It was her son and the look on her face bordered on the beatific when she saw him.
I stopped by just before leaving and the transformation of my almost 91 year old friend was astounding.
I told her so.
“You look so much better. Did you put on some make up?”
Her color was so much better. Even her hair, which bothered her so much, looked newly coifed.
She laughed. “I forgot my makeup today!”
Recently I read a statistic that said that 28 percent of Americans over 65 live alone.
Circles of friends and acquaintances had narrowed because of retirement, moving, death, declining mobility, etc.
These Americans had few if any others with whom to share a meal, a confidence or a celebration.
Asked about this isolation, beyond the lack of friends and relatives, many commented that isolation also comes from being patronized and discounted by their existing connections.
For some, getting older, means accepting a kind of ostracism, becoming an outlier, annoying interruptions to busy lives.
They are Oliver Wendell Holmes “Last Leaf.”
In fact, loneliness, real or perceived has been identified as a risk factor for declining health.
So, if my 91 year old friend, if I may use that term, did feel and look better, I’ll bet that it was the addition of the best medicine ever — the presence of her son.
It’s a small thing to bring a warm blanket, an extra pillow, to sit and chat when there is no one else, and, sometimes it’s more than a small thing.
