Viola

Last night as I was half a half a block from my home stopped at a light, I saw an elderly lady, perched on a rock on the corner, wearing a short sleeve top, elastic waist band pants, and white sox without shoes. A kind 30-something good Samaritan with child were kneeled down talking to her. I quickly surmised her plight: lost and unsure of things. In the next two minutes, I drove to my home, ran into the house, grabbed one of the 19 boxes of new high end shoes with great support favored by my late mother (I had no idea they were even in her closet until recently – and here I was buying her shoes), and grabbed one of my mom’s comfortable button up sweaters that are sitting in a huge mountain of clothes that I have yet to deal with. I walked across the street and up to the people. By now the man was calling 911 on a cell phone. I knelt down and nicely introduced myself, and asked her name. She said that her name was Viola W. I told her that she must be cold and asked her if she would like to have a new sweater. She looked into my eyes with such relief and thankfulness at my crumb of kindness and said “that would be very nice of you". So we put the big bright blue sweater on and buttoned it up. By now I was already almost crying, as the look she gave me, is the same look my mother gave to me every time I did the least little thing for her, for the last months of her life. I asked her what size shoe she wore. “Oh...8 ½ to 9” she replied. I opened the box of new shoes – size 9. I put them on her. A perfect fit. I asked her how old she was – she was unsure of the number, but knew that she was born on July 14, 1922. I asked her if she was lost. She replied with some confusion and distress that she was looking for her house, but was lost. I asked her where her house was. She replied with confidence that she lived on 30th and Stevens, about three miles from where we were. I asked her if she lived in a home with lots of people: I was thinking "adult group home", which is where I assumed she had wandered away from. She said that she lived with her parents – and seemed a bit sad, and distressed again. By now I could hear sirens of the coming paramedics, so I sat speaking quietly to her, reassuring her that she should not worry, promising her that we would see to it that she would soon be back home safe, and warm, and that tonight she’d sleep safely and soundly in her own bed. She seemed to relish my words. The paramedic came, asked us for what we knew, called in her description (I had to correct their description of her wearing a blue sweater). They gave her the standard tests that diagnose a stroke (negative) and Alzheimer’s/dementia (she did okay on that). But when she told them that she was trying to find home where she lived with her parents, it was obvious. Then a man drove up her knew her (her son’s best friend) followed by a nursing staff member of the adult home just down the hill from me. I of course wanted Viola to keep the shoes and sweater. Saturday I will take her a couple of more sweaters and a second pair of shoes. I came home, and immediately started crying. This brought is all back to me. She reminded me so much of my own mom near the end of her life. Looking, searching both for loved ones, and for a time and a place long gone from this world. My mother did the same. I suspect I will too. I think that broken heartedness, or a desire to eventually leave this world will propel me to wish to escape this world in the end. That seems unavoidable to me. Freud called it “the death wish”. Others call it a desire to rejoin those who have already left, or a desire to be back in God’s presence, or a desire to dissolve back into the fabrique of the universe and to once again be a part of everything, or even a desire to die that you might again be reborn and advance.