Christmas Time
This year I'm delivering food to people who can't get out and do for themselves... because they don't have the financial means and are old and/or infirmed. It is something I've meant to do for years but never had the schedule that allowed it. My route encompasses parts of town into which many of the nice volunteer ladies and gentlemen won't venture. I, however, have been familiar with those parts of town for decades. Still... I had not delved too deeply... and this is already a profound experience.
Most of the recipients are elderly, but a few are younger than I and have some physical or mental disability that makes life hard, on a scale of difficult to what-looks-like-unbearable. Several are so afraid to open their doors that I have to call the charity headquarters while standing on their doorsteps so the client can get a call to tell him/her that I'm at the door with food. In some cases, I can easily imagine their fear of what might be waiting to steal, injure, or murder them. In other cleaner and safer looking areas, the paranoia is still justified.
The guilt I feel about my own comfortable circumstances is palpable each time I do a food run.
I'm not sure if I will see her again because the agency tends to send the volunteers to different people; and, so far, I have not delivered to the same person twice. I suspect it's to prevent any relationship building and/or awkward problems, but I'm not sure about that. If I do go back to this sad, awful place, at least I will be prepared, and (maybe) my smile will be less frozen.
Most of the recipients are elderly, but a few are younger than I and have some physical or mental disability that makes life hard, on a scale of difficult to what-looks-like-unbearable. Several are so afraid to open their doors that I have to call the charity headquarters while standing on their doorsteps so the client can get a call to tell him/her that I'm at the door with food. In some cases, I can easily imagine their fear of what might be waiting to steal, injure, or murder them. In other cleaner and safer looking areas, the paranoia is still justified.
The guilt I feel about my own comfortable circumstances is palpable each time I do a food run.
Noticing an American flag, bunting, and other patriotic emblems in the yard and on the door and windows at one neat little house, I chatted with the small beige woman who answered the door-- holding it open only a crack. After seeing who I was (a white lady with an identifying label on her jacket), she widened the door a bit and unlocked a storm door so I could hand over the parcels of prepared food. After being assured that she did not need my help with the food or preparation and commenting on the red-white-and-blue decorations, I asked if there was someone in her family in the military. She opened the door even wider and said, "Yes. My son and grandson... both killed." I felt myself turning even whiter, swallowed, and managed to reply that she had certainly given much more than should ever be expected. She said "Thank you" and smiled warmly. I felt so helpless and crummy but had no idea how to improve either my feelings or hers. I wished her a nice day, told her to keep warm, and walked back to my car.
Another stop brought me to a small apartment in a very nice, low-income retirement home. The security at the building made it seem much safer than the usual stops. Finding my way to the top floor and the numbered apartment for the client, I knocked. A man's friendly voice said "Come on in," and I did. There, on a bed in a small bedroom, visible from the front door, was the most beatific, smiling black face atop the most emaciated body I've ever seen on a living person. I told him who I was, and he seemed elated and asked me to please put the food on his kitchen counter. Before leaving, I mentioned that we were probably cousins. His eyes widened, and he said "No kidding?" I said, "Really" and explained that his last name was the same as the last name of my earliest ancestor in America back in the 17th century. ( I have known for some time that I have black relatives resulting from that ancestral colonial paragon's dallying with at least one of his female slaves. The fact that there are no longer any "white" families with that particular last name in the area may be a testament to the inferior gene pool of the European line vs. the African line.) Anyway, this lovely, frail man smiled even wider and told me "Thank you. You have made my day!" I am not quite sure why my announcement of our kinship made him happy. Perhaps he is on some powerful drugs that make everything seem like a party, but it made my day to have such a terrific reaction, and I went out the door and back to my car with a smile on my face.
Ah, but the good feelings don't come often. My first foray into a ramshackle trailer park on the south side of town nearly did me in. I knocked on a filthy, sagging screen door attached to a grimy trailer. A loud female voice yelled "Come in!" I did... and was almost knocked over by the stench. I mean, I am not naive; nor am I particularly squeamish. I actually like spiders and snakes... I've cleaned up messes from children, animals, and grown men... I've hung out in barns... I've watched surgery... I've been in a morgue in the company of a dead body that had been fished out of a river after many days of decay... I've been in some pretty gross abodes when I was a Red Cross caseworker... but THIS was unbelievable. I saw no animals; but, if there were no dogs, cats, hamsters, ferrets, mice, bats or rats contributing to the ambiance, I shudder to think what created it. The smell conjured up something like human and animal urine and feces blended with garbage and vomit and left to fester for a lonnnng time. The woman who had asked me in was semi-reclining on the dirtiest sofa I've ever seen in the middle of a room piled with garbage and so much stuff I couldn't even tell what it was. She looked as if she had not had a bath (or even a wipe-down) in months. A small t.v. was blaring nearby. It was all I could do to keep from visibly gagging. I smiled weakly; and she smiled back, showing what looked like approximately 7 teeth left in her mouth. Holding a fairly heavy box of some special extra provisions I had brought for her, I looked questioningly around. She said, "Just put it on the scooter," which I realized referred to a wheelchair with disgusting stains on the seat cushion, to my right. I put the box down, and she quickly said, "Hand me the food." I obediently handed over the separately packed snack and dinner packages. She smiled again, and said, "I'll just spend the day watching t.v." I mumbled that it was probably just as well since it was pretty cold outside, said good-bye, and stumbled out the door. I felt as if the smell of this hovel had imbedded itself in my clothing, my hair, my skin, and my brain. This was my first stop of the day. It was not until four stops later-- driving in near-freezing temperatures with my car windows wide open-- that I felt aired out. When I got back to HQ, I asked about this particular client; and the woman in charge said, "Oh, yes. Ms. X. We've been trying to work with her and get help for her for some time, but she insists she's fine and refuses any kind of help to clean things up." I asked if she had anybody in her life-- any relatives or friends who came around-- and I was told that she did but that contact was sporadic. I would not leave an animal in circumstances like that. I am astounded.
I wonder about this woman. How long has her life been like this? What were her beginnings? What's her story? I also have increased respect for Mother Teresa and Albert Schweitzer and Jesus and all the others whose lives embraced such people and places.
Another stop brought me to a small apartment in a very nice, low-income retirement home. The security at the building made it seem much safer than the usual stops. Finding my way to the top floor and the numbered apartment for the client, I knocked. A man's friendly voice said "Come on in," and I did. There, on a bed in a small bedroom, visible from the front door, was the most beatific, smiling black face atop the most emaciated body I've ever seen on a living person. I told him who I was, and he seemed elated and asked me to please put the food on his kitchen counter. Before leaving, I mentioned that we were probably cousins. His eyes widened, and he said "No kidding?" I said, "Really" and explained that his last name was the same as the last name of my earliest ancestor in America back in the 17th century. ( I have known for some time that I have black relatives resulting from that ancestral colonial paragon's dallying with at least one of his female slaves. The fact that there are no longer any "white" families with that particular last name in the area may be a testament to the inferior gene pool of the European line vs. the African line.) Anyway, this lovely, frail man smiled even wider and told me "Thank you. You have made my day!" I am not quite sure why my announcement of our kinship made him happy. Perhaps he is on some powerful drugs that make everything seem like a party, but it made my day to have such a terrific reaction, and I went out the door and back to my car with a smile on my face.
Ah, but the good feelings don't come often. My first foray into a ramshackle trailer park on the south side of town nearly did me in. I knocked on a filthy, sagging screen door attached to a grimy trailer. A loud female voice yelled "Come in!" I did... and was almost knocked over by the stench. I mean, I am not naive; nor am I particularly squeamish. I actually like spiders and snakes... I've cleaned up messes from children, animals, and grown men... I've hung out in barns... I've watched surgery... I've been in a morgue in the company of a dead body that had been fished out of a river after many days of decay... I've been in some pretty gross abodes when I was a Red Cross caseworker... but THIS was unbelievable. I saw no animals; but, if there were no dogs, cats, hamsters, ferrets, mice, bats or rats contributing to the ambiance, I shudder to think what created it. The smell conjured up something like human and animal urine and feces blended with garbage and vomit and left to fester for a lonnnng time. The woman who had asked me in was semi-reclining on the dirtiest sofa I've ever seen in the middle of a room piled with garbage and so much stuff I couldn't even tell what it was. She looked as if she had not had a bath (or even a wipe-down) in months. A small t.v. was blaring nearby. It was all I could do to keep from visibly gagging. I smiled weakly; and she smiled back, showing what looked like approximately 7 teeth left in her mouth. Holding a fairly heavy box of some special extra provisions I had brought for her, I looked questioningly around. She said, "Just put it on the scooter," which I realized referred to a wheelchair with disgusting stains on the seat cushion, to my right. I put the box down, and she quickly said, "Hand me the food." I obediently handed over the separately packed snack and dinner packages. She smiled again, and said, "I'll just spend the day watching t.v." I mumbled that it was probably just as well since it was pretty cold outside, said good-bye, and stumbled out the door. I felt as if the smell of this hovel had imbedded itself in my clothing, my hair, my skin, and my brain. This was my first stop of the day. It was not until four stops later-- driving in near-freezing temperatures with my car windows wide open-- that I felt aired out. When I got back to HQ, I asked about this particular client; and the woman in charge said, "Oh, yes. Ms. X. We've been trying to work with her and get help for her for some time, but she insists she's fine and refuses any kind of help to clean things up." I asked if she had anybody in her life-- any relatives or friends who came around-- and I was told that she did but that contact was sporadic. I would not leave an animal in circumstances like that. I am astounded.
I wonder about this woman. How long has her life been like this? What were her beginnings? What's her story? I also have increased respect for Mother Teresa and Albert Schweitzer and Jesus and all the others whose lives embraced such people and places.
I'm not sure if I will see her again because the agency tends to send the volunteers to different people; and, so far, I have not delivered to the same person twice. I suspect it's to prevent any relationship building and/or awkward problems, but I'm not sure about that. If I do go back to this sad, awful place, at least I will be prepared, and (maybe) my smile will be less frozen.
posted by Melinda | 7:50 AM
|
1 comments
