On this day of days, I decided to lighten my mood with the memory of an old friend.
I used to work at a care center in my early years of high school. Save for working the summer concessions, it was my first salaried job. I started at fourteen and stopped working at said care center a little after I turned sixteen.
My job for the longest time there was to make the evening snacks for the elderly, making sure to provide each resident with their proper diets of low salt, sugar free, gluten free, or just a simple sandwich of their choice. I got to know a great deal of the residents there, welcoming the new, chatting and bickering with the old. A select few of the residents stuck out to me. One, above all else, was Gladys.
I loved Gladys. "Potato chips" she said every day, that blank stare, hands weakly reaching out.
Gladys was blind, her eyes a very pale blue. She was one of the residents who actually cared to talk to me, tell me stories, recognized my voice. I became familiar to her, as she did to me.
Before she would even tell me what evening snack she would like, I always already had the small bag of Lays ready to open whenever she gave me the cue, as she could not open them herself.
"What's the weather doing out there?" She would ask.
"Snowing. Lots of snow on the ground." I would say, sitting in her recliner next to her bed. I always like to stay if even for a moment before finishing up my day and clocking out.
"Feels like it. I bet it's covered like a winter wonderland!" She would giggle joyfully.
Even after I quit the care center (my reasons are my own, though I loved the old people) I still continued to visit regularly, even if once a month.
I recall a time I saw Gladys three days in a row. She had remembered my voice, and from a previous week, remembered me telling her that I had a band performance. "What instrument do you play?" She would ask, and each time I would gladly tell her, as if it had been the first time it came out of my mouth.
"The clarinet and bari sax," I would tell her. Then we would talk about how big the bari is.
For these three particular days in a row, she said to me, " My dad used to play when we were kids. Do you know what he'd play?" She said with a mischevious smile.
The first time, I smiled, curious as to what her father did play. "What was that, Miss Gladys?"
"My father played the radio! Haha!" She laughed so fondly at her own joke.
The second and third time, she asked "Do you know what he'd play?", I smiled fully, already chuckling at what she was about to tell me. Each time, I too laughed at her joke.
Her birthday was in March if memory serves me correctly, and one year I wanted to do something special for her. I remember her telling me her favourite flowers were the same as mine- tiger lilies. At random, weeks before, I found a random teacup with lilies on it. I thought it would be a perfect gift. My mum said I should get her real flowers as well, to touch. When I got her the flowers, I got her a balloon as well- one that sang when you tapped it.
To my knowledge, Gladys, like many of the other elderly, had no one that came to visit on a regular basis, if even at all, so I didn't think I would be ruining any special birthday plans for her.
I walked in the room and knocked on her door, "Miss Gladys, it's me." I handed her the teacup, telling her what was on it, let her touch the flowers, to which she commented was lovely, then, "Here, this is a balloon. See what happens when you poke it."
With all of her 95-year-old strength, she tapped that balloon and it began to sing "Happy Birthday" to her. She giggled with delight. I stayed a bit as we talked about the weather, my schooling, and the latest care center gossip. I only saw Miss Gladys a few more times that year. I'll never forget the day I found out that Gladys - MY Gladys - had passed.
I was sitting in my senior year government class, picking up the newspapers and skimming through them for articles that I might need for my journal. My eyes just happened upon the obituaries, and there she was. Gladys "Susie" Susag. I was shocked. I read her little article, and at the bottom the funeral was that very day that I was reading the paper- one hour before I read the damn article. I could feel my face getting hot. I was angry.
Angry that no one told me. Not a RN, CNA, Nutrition Service Aid that knew I visited- no one. Not a phone call. A heads up. I ran to my mother's office in the school building, since she worked there. She knew how much Gladys meant to me.
Before I opened my mouth, she asked what was wrong. I couldn't talk and handed the paper to her.
She looked up at me, eyes wide, mouth gaping," Oh, Honey!!" And the tears started to fall. "No one said anything to you?" She asked. I just shook my head no, buried it in her shoulder.
It was winter, there was snow on the ground. I didn't want to look for her grave. I felt terrible. Terrible I didn't know. That I couldn't make it. Who went, if I didn't? I didn't know of any family she had; of the years I worked there I never witnessed anyone visit her.
By the time I graduated, I went looking for her- searching for her. Asked workers at the care center, asked officials at the hospital, no one could tell me which lot she was buried in. Even tried going row by row, grave by grave through the cemetary, having a friend help me. The grave diggers couldn't tell me much.
I'll cut this short, and tell you I never found her grave. I don't think she holds it against me. She knows I'll see her again. Maybe even one day I'll find her grave. For now, she's still a special woman forever in my memory.
I used to work at a care center in my early years of high school. Save for working the summer concessions, it was my first salaried job. I started at fourteen and stopped working at said care center a little after I turned sixteen.
My job for the longest time there was to make the evening snacks for the elderly, making sure to provide each resident with their proper diets of low salt, sugar free, gluten free, or just a simple sandwich of their choice. I got to know a great deal of the residents there, welcoming the new, chatting and bickering with the old. A select few of the residents stuck out to me. One, above all else, was Gladys.
I loved Gladys. "Potato chips" she said every day, that blank stare, hands weakly reaching out.
Gladys was blind, her eyes a very pale blue. She was one of the residents who actually cared to talk to me, tell me stories, recognized my voice. I became familiar to her, as she did to me.
Before she would even tell me what evening snack she would like, I always already had the small bag of Lays ready to open whenever she gave me the cue, as she could not open them herself.
"What's the weather doing out there?" She would ask.
"Snowing. Lots of snow on the ground." I would say, sitting in her recliner next to her bed. I always like to stay if even for a moment before finishing up my day and clocking out.
"Feels like it. I bet it's covered like a winter wonderland!" She would giggle joyfully.
Even after I quit the care center (my reasons are my own, though I loved the old people) I still continued to visit regularly, even if once a month.
I recall a time I saw Gladys three days in a row. She had remembered my voice, and from a previous week, remembered me telling her that I had a band performance. "What instrument do you play?" She would ask, and each time I would gladly tell her, as if it had been the first time it came out of my mouth.
"The clarinet and bari sax," I would tell her. Then we would talk about how big the bari is.
For these three particular days in a row, she said to me, " My dad used to play when we were kids. Do you know what he'd play?" She said with a mischevious smile.
The first time, I smiled, curious as to what her father did play. "What was that, Miss Gladys?"
"My father played the radio! Haha!" She laughed so fondly at her own joke.
The second and third time, she asked "Do you know what he'd play?", I smiled fully, already chuckling at what she was about to tell me. Each time, I too laughed at her joke.
Her birthday was in March if memory serves me correctly, and one year I wanted to do something special for her. I remember her telling me her favourite flowers were the same as mine- tiger lilies. At random, weeks before, I found a random teacup with lilies on it. I thought it would be a perfect gift. My mum said I should get her real flowers as well, to touch. When I got her the flowers, I got her a balloon as well- one that sang when you tapped it.
To my knowledge, Gladys, like many of the other elderly, had no one that came to visit on a regular basis, if even at all, so I didn't think I would be ruining any special birthday plans for her.
I walked in the room and knocked on her door, "Miss Gladys, it's me." I handed her the teacup, telling her what was on it, let her touch the flowers, to which she commented was lovely, then, "Here, this is a balloon. See what happens when you poke it."
With all of her 95-year-old strength, she tapped that balloon and it began to sing "Happy Birthday" to her. She giggled with delight. I stayed a bit as we talked about the weather, my schooling, and the latest care center gossip. I only saw Miss Gladys a few more times that year. I'll never forget the day I found out that Gladys - MY Gladys - had passed.
I was sitting in my senior year government class, picking up the newspapers and skimming through them for articles that I might need for my journal. My eyes just happened upon the obituaries, and there she was. Gladys "Susie" Susag. I was shocked. I read her little article, and at the bottom the funeral was that very day that I was reading the paper- one hour before I read the damn article. I could feel my face getting hot. I was angry.
Angry that no one told me. Not a RN, CNA, Nutrition Service Aid that knew I visited- no one. Not a phone call. A heads up. I ran to my mother's office in the school building, since she worked there. She knew how much Gladys meant to me.
Before I opened my mouth, she asked what was wrong. I couldn't talk and handed the paper to her.
She looked up at me, eyes wide, mouth gaping," Oh, Honey!!" And the tears started to fall. "No one said anything to you?" She asked. I just shook my head no, buried it in her shoulder.
It was winter, there was snow on the ground. I didn't want to look for her grave. I felt terrible. Terrible I didn't know. That I couldn't make it. Who went, if I didn't? I didn't know of any family she had; of the years I worked there I never witnessed anyone visit her.
By the time I graduated, I went looking for her- searching for her. Asked workers at the care center, asked officials at the hospital, no one could tell me which lot she was buried in. Even tried going row by row, grave by grave through the cemetary, having a friend help me. The grave diggers couldn't tell me much.
I'll cut this short, and tell you I never found her grave. I don't think she holds it against me. She knows I'll see her again. Maybe even one day I'll find her grave. For now, she's still a special woman forever in my memory.
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