Life, Deconstructed

At 9:30 last night, just as I sat down to share my Super-Fun Saturday with you, my phone rang. It was this lady, Laura. She had fallen and couldn't get up. So I'm all by myself and not-so-sure that I can lift her. She is not any taller than my 5'2", but probably outweighs me by a good 40 lbs. As I walked the two doors down to her house, I started looking around at which neighbors were home, should I need to call in reinforcements.

As I let myself in and called for her, I could smell the musty odor of an old person's house. A house that doesn't get open to the fresh air often enough and clothes that don't get washed every wearing. She is all alone in the house since the niece came and wisked Laura's 89-year-old boyfriend away to Boothbay Harbor to live out his life in his Alzheimers-induced haze.

She called to me from upstairs and as I rounded the corner, saw her kneeling by the side of the bed as a child would saying her nightly prayers. I've been here for over an hour, she cried. She couldn't reach the old rotary-dial telephone mounted high on the wall, just off her headboard, my phone number in large Black-Sharpy numbers taped just to the left of it. I tried pulling on the cord and scooting to the guestroom to use the other phone, but I just couldn't do it. I rested for a while and found one last store of energy to reach the phone. It was over 2 feet away from where she now kneeled. I don't know how she managed.

And as I hurried around the bed, I saw that she was only wearing a shirt. No pants or even panties. I was immediately thankful I hadn't found a man to help me on my short journey over. The indignity of her situation brought tears to my eyes but her need for help brought me back. I put my arms under hers and as I waited for her to tell me 'when', the realization that she hadn't showered for a few days hit me in the face. On the count of three, it became apparent that I could not lift her by myself and that her legs, having kneeled for almost an hour were useless. But I got her up far enough to lean her chest on the bed and haul her legs over, one at a time, until she was lying face-down on the corner of the bed, half nude and sweaty. We got her turned over on her side and she immediately asked me to sit down.

Laura talked for well over an hour. About her husband, who died 12 years ago, their meeting when he was a young Air Force Officer in Germany, her mother's death in a German nursing home, her boyfriend's family and their reluctance to let him talk to her on the phone, and the possibility of her moving to an Assisted Living facility. She would have gone on talking had I not realized aloud that Chris would be home and worried about me. Clearly, her loneliness is far worse than her back pain from her age-deformed spine, or her overused knees, each needing surgery to make them work properly again, or the obvious, unspoken, alcohol addiction.

I sat there and listened to her, having a hard time reconciling that the jaw-droppingly beautiful woman in the black-and-white photos dotting the walls was the same woman who now lived alone in a three-story home, with bad knees and hunched back, no family at all except distant, unknown relatives in Germany. I am worried what will come of her. I am scared that right now, she could be lying on her floor, unable to reach a phone for help. I weep for the indignity of having to call a virtual stranger for help while lying naked on the floor, unable to help yourself, and I wondered that this problem is not at all uncommon in our aging society.

I think Laura's getting closer and closer to realizing she can't go on alone there. I will check in on her and help her when I can, and encourage her to more actively consider moving to where she will have the daily support she needs, but I won't stop worrying. Not until I know she's safe.