A New Old Lady

     In the past 10 months I have lost both my old ladies. I do not mean old lady as in mother. My mother has been dead four years now and I would never have referred to her as old lady. I know some men refer to their wives as their old lady, but I'd better not hear it from my husband--about me or his mom. By old ladies I mean just that, old ladies. I have always had a special place in my heart for older people and usually have at least one as a special friend. Jean, who passed away in August, was my home health client for five years. When I stopped working for her because of her smoking, I stayed around as a friend. I was privileged to be with her, holding her hand as she breathed her last. I wanted to be friends to the end and I was.
     DJ, who died last Saturday, had been my friend for 20 years. She was neighbor to our friends the Scharas, and when Dorothy needed someone to mow her lawn, she hired my son. Since Will was 12, I was the driver. The lawnmower rode in my trunk. The first time, I sat in the car while he mowed and I gave him some cake to give her when he finished. But Dorothy was hungrier for a visit than for cake, so I began going in to visit while Will mowed. When Will moved on to bigger and better jobs, my youngest son took over. Then DJ needed hip replacements, and I started officially working for her as a personal care attendant. She kept me on for years after I was needed, paying an agency for the privilege of my friendship. When the money ran out, another friend helped her with her bath and cleaning and I started doing her grocery shopping. Every Tuesday after Bible study, I would pick up DJ's list. I would buy her groceries and something for our lunch.
     I did that for many years until compression fractures necessitated she move into assisted living. Though her hearing was spotty and her memory began to fail, our time together every other week was still comfortable and enjoyable. Friendship does not require conversation. By her 93rd birthday in April, she was failing noticeably. I brought her favorite candy, Sees chocolates, before we left for Gig Harbor. By then she had moved from a walker to a wheelchair. Despite being a child-sized chair, she looked tiny in it. So when her niece texted me in Seattle that "Aunt Honey" was in hospice care, I was not surprised. Reed's work in Washington ended a day early and I was unhappy that our delayed start caused us to arrive at home at 1:30 a.m. Saturday. But because we did that, I was able to sit with DJ Saturday afternoon, hold her hand, and say goodbye. She was asleep, but again, friendship does not require conversation. Though her vital signs were good when I left, she died three hours later. Friends to the end, again.
     So I am in the market for a new old lady. Though perhaps, now, that friendship will be with our own elderly parents, the greatest privilege of all. And, who knows, maybe some other geriatric lover has their sights set on me.