“Is that you, Megan?” Evelyn would say in her gruff voice.
“Yes, Evelyn, it’s me,” I would answer, lightly touching her shoulder.
When I was a young child, I would always go with my mom to work. She worked at an assisted living home I would go there almost every day to avoid being home alone. Sometimes friends would come with me during the summer to the home and they would be afraid of the people. I didn't see why they were so afraid of getting old. We were only five and six years old. The people at the home were all my grandmas
and grandpas, all equipped with their own unique stories. I never got bored there. There was an adventure to every story.
There was one lady in particular that will be engraved in my memory for as long as I live. Her name was Evelyn. She was blind and confined to a wheelchair. I remember how she would just scream at the top of her lungs at all the CNAs, including my mom. I would stay outside her door while my mom would help dress her and get her ready for the day. I still could hear her. “Don’t touch me!” she would scream, but with some more profanities mixed in with it.
She also would push and push the call button just about every ten minutes just to ask what the time was, even though she had this really cool watch that with the press of a button would tell her the time. I knew she wasn't mean, she was just afraid and alone, and afraid of being alone, like me when I had to stay in my big house all by myself.
For some reason she was never this way with me. She was always so calm and happy when I was in the room. Every morning that my mom would work I would come and stand outside Evelyn’s room until my mom got her dressed. Then I would come in and get her a hot wash rag ready for her to wash her face. It was always the same, as soon as I would walk in she would know who I was instantly I was the only one she did this with. I never could figure out how she knew it was me, if she had memorized my steps or it was my smell. Still, to this day, I have only guesses to go on.
Then, we would go down to the dining room for breakfast the whole way down I would hold her hand as my mom would push her wheelchair. Then each time I would have to tell her that she had to let go of my hand so we could go into the dining room. Each time there would be a weak squeeze, an action to make the connection last longer even if it was only for a second. Then we would set her in her spot, the table closest to the kitchen door. I think she liked sitting there so she could smell the aroma coming from the kitchen. The cook would bring out our food and set it in front of us. I would commence on telling Evelyn exactly what was on her plate while I’d cut her food up for her. She was a messy eater, but how could one blame her. Just try blindfolding yourself while you eat. I tried it once, I made an even bigger mess than she did.
Often I would go read to her, she didn't care that I couldn’t read very well. She just enjoyed having a young person there who wanted to spend time with her, so she wasn't so alone and so afraid. I would mainly read her Dr. Seuss books. She liked hearing the rhymes and the fluent rhythm of the words. I remember when there was a funny line she would let out her signature low chuckle which would usually end in a cough and the placing of her tissue to her mouth. I would always stop and glance up just in time to see her smile fade. I would then work my way up her face to her plump, round, speckled nose, then to her cloudy eyes. I would stare into her mysterious blue gray hazy eyes and she would stare right back into mine even. Though I know she couldn't actually see mine. I would ask her “What was so funny?” with a joking giggle or chuckle because her answer was usually the same each time. She would just seem to grin and say, “Oh I'm just trying to imagine what a Wocket must look like” I would go on to try and describe it to her telling her that “It is a small brown cartoon, a skinny bear- type of animal that could fit in your pocket.”. Her eyes would shut as she would grin and say, “My that must be a small creature”.
Each time as I started to pack up to leave she would ask me, “ Dear, would you tell me the time?” I would reply with a grin. “It is 3:20.” Then I would go over and say. “ You remember that your watch will tell you?” simultaneously, I would click the button on her watch. Then it would chime out it its monotone electronic voice.”It is 3:21 P.M.”. She would then ask me what the sun looked like that day. I would tell her. He was out shinny bright in the blue sky, tinted red from the smoke, or muffled and dull from the cool gray winter clouds. Then I would give her a light squeeze and say my goodbye.
Giving the gift of my time and presence gave me more satisfaction than anything I have done in my life. I was there to tell her the time, where the sun was at in the sky. I want to spend my time helping others. Others who it seems no one else wants to love.