Irene
She woke at 2 a.m. She arose, and with the aid of her walker made her way to the bathroom. Only, before she got there her leg went out, her left leg. Collapsing, as she has done before. Her daughter, as she has done before, made the call for an ambulance, doctor’s orders. Whenever she fell, this woman of 96 years, she was to go to the hospital, as you never know what may have happened with her bones.
The ambulance came to the front door, not the back, as had been requested. They came silently, no sirens were required at that hour. When they arrived she was conscious, her bones undoubtedly sound, but orders are orders, and so she went. By the time her daughter arrived at the hospital, she was gasping, no longer conscious, bones were not the concern, it was something else. Blood was flooding into her brain; a stroke. At 6:10 a.m. she passed from this world, and even at 96, this was not expected.
Though she used a walker, and her hearing was shot, she had a strength that was visible, palpable, and her mind was all there, and frustrated that her hearing, vision, and physical ability was not able to keep up with it. She was curious, wanting to know the comings and goings around her home, a place she had lived for 70 years. “Is she home?” I heard her asking one of the aids that came regularly to assist her as they sat on the porch, referring to me. I am thankful that I heard this, and that as I lay in bed I had the sense to get up immediately, dress, make coffee, and open the door to our shared porch. She was there, sitting in the sun, seeming pleased to see me even though in truth she knew very little about me.
We conversed about the weather, coffee (she only drank it every other day), and the trials of settling into a new place. A few days later she and I talked again, this time through the screen door, I let her do most of the talking, as she was having difficulty hearing me. It was in this conversation that she told me about her husband, and his wonderful garden, and that new house up on the hill, how it was ugly, how in the wintertime it was ugly here, no leaves, nothing to hide the new houses that weren’t there when she first moved here. She reminded me of how it takes time to settle in, that you can only do a little at a time, you do what you can.
Today as I sat talking and listening between tears with her daughter, out in the full sun on the same porch, I was told that this same strong woman, her mother, had said of me “We got a good girl next door. Bobby got us a good girl.” Bob is her grandson, a friend of mine. Coming from this woman, who has lived this long, and as I learned in conversation with her daughter, has had some very hard times in her life, this means a lot to me. It’s something I really want to live up to. I learned many other things in that conversation, both about Irene and her daughter, their relationship. I learned more about Irene’s husband, of French descent, effusive and warm, marrying a woman of German descent, abandoned early in life and a bit of a stoic. How his warmth touched her and balanced her and secured her. How on their wedding anniversary, October 28th, they will be together, again, finally.
The sadness I have over not knowing her better. The plans I had, that I shared with her daughter only a week ago, of making arranged visits so she wouldn’t be lonely, she told me of her loneliness that day through the screen door, the boredom, the time to fill, now that her hands and eyes and ears weren’t so good. I never had the chance to arrange the visits. I will no longer hear the local radio station blasting out the window, or the wise patina of her voice, regardless of what she was saying.
All of this written through a flood of tears and wine. Irene, who decided to stay on this earth for almost a hundred years. Yesterday Bob was here with his wife, cleaning up the front yard, his Grandma wanted all that bramble cleared up. This evening he stopped by, and as we sat on the couch he quipped, “Yeah, she knew she was going and wanted that yard cleaned up before she left” I followed, saying “We gotta clean up that front yard, ‘cause they’re gonna come to the front door to get me!” We both laughed a lot after that.
I had to write about her. Gratefully I can say that I knew her a little. There will be no wake, only a funeral. Her request, "I don’t want anybody gawking at me.” Her life, complicated, quiet, complete. May peace follow you, Irene, may the new houses disappear, may the garden ever grow, may the lilacs bloom eternally.
The ambulance came to the front door, not the back, as had been requested. They came silently, no sirens were required at that hour. When they arrived she was conscious, her bones undoubtedly sound, but orders are orders, and so she went. By the time her daughter arrived at the hospital, she was gasping, no longer conscious, bones were not the concern, it was something else. Blood was flooding into her brain; a stroke. At 6:10 a.m. she passed from this world, and even at 96, this was not expected.
Though she used a walker, and her hearing was shot, she had a strength that was visible, palpable, and her mind was all there, and frustrated that her hearing, vision, and physical ability was not able to keep up with it. She was curious, wanting to know the comings and goings around her home, a place she had lived for 70 years. “Is she home?” I heard her asking one of the aids that came regularly to assist her as they sat on the porch, referring to me. I am thankful that I heard this, and that as I lay in bed I had the sense to get up immediately, dress, make coffee, and open the door to our shared porch. She was there, sitting in the sun, seeming pleased to see me even though in truth she knew very little about me.
We conversed about the weather, coffee (she only drank it every other day), and the trials of settling into a new place. A few days later she and I talked again, this time through the screen door, I let her do most of the talking, as she was having difficulty hearing me. It was in this conversation that she told me about her husband, and his wonderful garden, and that new house up on the hill, how it was ugly, how in the wintertime it was ugly here, no leaves, nothing to hide the new houses that weren’t there when she first moved here. She reminded me of how it takes time to settle in, that you can only do a little at a time, you do what you can.
Today as I sat talking and listening between tears with her daughter, out in the full sun on the same porch, I was told that this same strong woman, her mother, had said of me “We got a good girl next door. Bobby got us a good girl.” Bob is her grandson, a friend of mine. Coming from this woman, who has lived this long, and as I learned in conversation with her daughter, has had some very hard times in her life, this means a lot to me. It’s something I really want to live up to. I learned many other things in that conversation, both about Irene and her daughter, their relationship. I learned more about Irene’s husband, of French descent, effusive and warm, marrying a woman of German descent, abandoned early in life and a bit of a stoic. How his warmth touched her and balanced her and secured her. How on their wedding anniversary, October 28th, they will be together, again, finally.
The sadness I have over not knowing her better. The plans I had, that I shared with her daughter only a week ago, of making arranged visits so she wouldn’t be lonely, she told me of her loneliness that day through the screen door, the boredom, the time to fill, now that her hands and eyes and ears weren’t so good. I never had the chance to arrange the visits. I will no longer hear the local radio station blasting out the window, or the wise patina of her voice, regardless of what she was saying.
All of this written through a flood of tears and wine. Irene, who decided to stay on this earth for almost a hundred years. Yesterday Bob was here with his wife, cleaning up the front yard, his Grandma wanted all that bramble cleared up. This evening he stopped by, and as we sat on the couch he quipped, “Yeah, she knew she was going and wanted that yard cleaned up before she left” I followed, saying “We gotta clean up that front yard, ‘cause they’re gonna come to the front door to get me!” We both laughed a lot after that.
I had to write about her. Gratefully I can say that I knew her a little. There will be no wake, only a funeral. Her request, "I don’t want anybody gawking at me.” Her life, complicated, quiet, complete. May peace follow you, Irene, may the new houses disappear, may the garden ever grow, may the lilacs bloom eternally.
posted by Black Egg at 9:30 PM
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