The Window Visit — December 22, 2021
It was raining. Again. So I wore my rain slicker jacket and rain slicker pants to stand outside for the ‘window visit’ at Mother Joseph’s Care Center, waiting to see my friend and talk with her on our phones, seeing each other’s unmasked faces smile. And laugh. Her name is Yolanda Finlay and she is 93 years old, completely dependent now and living her last days in ‘the care center.’ She was my first mobile salon service client back in 2009. I retired from personal services to home-bound elderly, but we remain friends; she feels like a sister, we talk and laugh like high school girls. This is my third window visit like this, last time it was pouring and I had an enormous umbrella; today the wind is icy, snow soon on the way.
The care giver comes to the window with a file folder, but no Yolanda. She is fumbling through papers and trying to call me. I get her attention by tapping the window, and motion to her, using my cell phone, for her to hold up the portable phone she had and show me the number taped on the side of it, so I could call her. I think she’s never done this before, but she seems glad I have. She answers, and tells me that Yolanda doesn’t feel well today, she’s sorry. I smile and say that’s okay, and ask her to please tell Yolanda I was here and hope she will feel better. Then I add that it is pretty cold this time anyway, the wind was whipping my clothes like a flag on a pole, and I’ll come back another day.
She’s very nice to me and seems surprised I am not perturbed about the no-advance-notice unavailability. I don’t mind the cancellation though — just being there is good for me in several ways. First of all, because I see through the large bank of windows how the facility has decorated the window sills, the interior, the nurse’s station. I can see the staff are all wearing masks and using hand sanitizer. That makes me feel good about all of that, and…. the decorations, as yesterday was their Christmas party. I was going to ask Yolanda how it was, if she liked it. I’ll write a paper letter to her instead. Someone reads my letters to her, I’m happy to hear. After that, before I turn to go, I get a swell of emotion from looking at a woman who is wheeled into this room. She has two little white braids in her short hair, and a hair clip. Oh, the hair clip, does it ever glimmer!…I can see it from out here, how it catches the light as she turns her head. A lovely glittery hair clip that reminds me of my mother, how she loved ‘sparklies,’ ‘smell pretties and sparklies.’ The contrast of her situation, the helplessness, needing to be assisted with everything, against the extra attention of someone braiding her short white hair, and that she is wearing something so beautiful and full of light and energy, gleaming in shimmering glory that she can’t see right now, but I can. I can see it is a magic piece of happy on a person with less, less happy, less everything, in a room of confinement, and comrades of equal loss. I turn to go, wishing I could tell her how pretty that clip in her very braided hair appears to a stranger seeing it through the window, seeing the power of its prettiness. I hope they showed her in the mirror, how lovely it is; I hope they gave her a sincere compliment about that. I bet they did. Maybe it is her Santa gift from yesterday’s Christmas party. Maybe someone came to the window for her, or maybe someone will be there soon. I hope so.
~~~~ djl
