Ode to Ruth.

A caregiver and resident become girlfriends

AS I ENTERED THE HOSPITAL ROOM, THE THICK SMELL OF sickness and death slapped me in the face. I had been here many times, but today was different. As the heavy steel door slowly clicked shut behind me, I walked over and pulled back the blue curtain hanging from the ceiling. This would be our last visit.

I stood there for what seemed an eternity, torn between my need to weep and the need to remain composed for the job that lay ahead of me. An intravenous stand was beside the bed, an appendage that now stood in eerie silence. The nightstand was empty, except for a used tissue that had been thoughtlessly tossed on it. There were no family pictures, none of the cards or sentimentalities usually given as tokens of love and caring. She had died as she had lived her last days--alone.

I walked over and looked down at her face. Even in death, her beauty defied her age. Her violet eyes were still open, and the frown that had been such a permanent feature on her cream-colored complexion was now replaced by a very faint smile.

As I began the process of bathing and dressing her body for the last time, I thought about the times we had together. We had known each other only a few months, a young woman of 38 and an old woman near 90, brought together by the needs of aging. There had been times when her demands had felt like an intrusion on my schedule. As I thought back on those times now, a wave of guilt surged through me. She hadn't really wanted much at all. Five minutes of idle chatter, an "I love you," or just a wink and a "hello" as I ran past her. Looking down at this woman who had become my friend, I longed for just five more minutes.

Ruth had been an elementary school teacher. She had been married to a carpenter who could, as she put it, "look at a tree and tell you how many tables you could make with it." She had truly loved him, and as she talked of him the pain of that loss would return to her face. They had a daughter "somewhere," and talking about her made Ruth's eyes sparkle. She would ask me when her daughter was going to visit, and I would remind her that her daughter loved her, not wanting to hurt her with the awful truth: She wasn't coming.

Ruth had a great sense of humor, and some of the things she would talk about surprised me. She talked about men and sex, even sharing her secret crush on someone. She shared stories about her days as a teacher and living through the Depression. Thinking back on all of this, I realize now that our relationship was not merely one of caregiver and patient. We had been girlfriends.

Ruth also had pain and fears. She had suffered a stroke, which left her paralyzed on one side, unable to walk or perform even the most mundane tasks of everyday life. Then there were the times when her Alzheimer's wouldn't let her remember where she was and why she was there, She would cry out of loneliness--for her husband, for her child, for the life she once knew. Sometimes I wanted to cry with her. She would ask why, when she had lived a productive, honest life, she had been thrown into this place, which she called "jail." I struggled to find the right answer, but I knew there was none. Why was it that the older you got, the less fun life was? Ruth was right; it didn't seem fair to live a good, long life only to die lonely, unhappy, and afraid.

So many times the elderly are treated as nonentities, as if they are objects that need to be cleaned and fed at regular intervals, But Ruth taught me, just by being my friend, that they are so much more. True, many need our help to accomplish everyday tasks, to get from one place to the other. But they also need our respect, our friendship, and our love. They need to know that what they say and feel has meaning to others.

As I finished the task I had been assigned, I reached up with my hand and closed her eyes for the last time. Tears slid down my cheeks, landing on the yellow skin of death, which by now was becoming cold and clammy. This body had held a beautiful spirit. I said a prayer of gratitude that she had been placed in my life, that I had been able to care for her and love her during her last days. "I'll miss you," I whispered in her ear as I ran my fingers through her soft, white hair.

Julie Campbell-Taylor is the staffing coordinator at Centennial Health Care Center, a skilled nursing and intermediate care facility in Portland, Oregon.