Old age.
I had an experience today that reminded me why I love old people... and why I love to work with them, hug them, care for them, and make them feel special.
When I was a little girl living in Portugal, I would sometimes go visit my old aunt. She was my mother's aunt and yes, she was old... and that's how we'd refer to her. Come to think of it, I don't even remember her name. I was a child that would pay my aunt a visit when mom asked me to, since we lived within walking distance. I can't say that I liked those visits, but I didn't dislike them either. I felt sorry for her, mostly. I don't remember much of these visits, which makes me think I was really young... but I do remember a few things.
Old aunt lived alone in the city in a very old apartment, on the second floor. Going up the stairs to see her, I could already feel the foul smell coming from her apartment. I don't really know who payed for this, but she had a caregiver that would come in the evening to cook dinner for her, help bathe her and get her in bed. I believe that she was alone for most of the day, and Heavens know what she ate when she was by herself... or what she did all day. She liked to sit by the window and watch people go by, that's all I remember her doing. I don't even remember her speaking, even though I'm pretty sure she could speak. Here's what I remember from my visits with old aunt;
She was never very clean. She smelled. She didn't smile. She did what she was told by her caregiver, even when she was yelled at. She always had the exact same thing for dinner, day after day: boiled potatoes with a boiled egg, sprinkled with olive oil. Every single day. Because someone was too lazy to cook for her, despite being paid to do so. She didn't get a bath either. After she'd go to bed, the caregiver would sit and read, or go to the window get some of the summer breeze... or just talk to me as if I understood why she did the things she did.
I don't remember going to old aunt's funeral... I just remember that mom told me I didn't have to go see her anymore. And to this day, if I close my eyes and think back, I can still picture the tiny kitchen table where she ate... I remember the smell... But most of all, I remember her silence, and her sad eyes. Maybe because of her, I can love any old person, rich, poor, clean, dirty, happy, sad. Because of her, I can kiss their cheek, or forehead, hold their hand when they're afraid. Because of her, I love my job, as crazy and busy and tiring as it gets. The money from my paycheck gets deposited religiously in my bank account every other week; but it's when I get a simple smile in return from "my" old people, that I really get paid. The kind of payment that doesn't go in the bank, but makes my life richer somehow.
I miss old aunt.
