I remember her when…

I drove the Help of Ojai bus this morning.  Pretty busy with regulars as well as a couple of new faces.  Brought a book with me just in case there was a big chunk of downtime.   There wasn’t.

First, I escorted two folks to Oak Tree House, the day care center for those who have dimmed a bit, and for others who just find the company at Oak Tree an improvement from the usual routine.  The House also gives caregivers a much needed break.

After grabbing some coffee at Java and Joes, I drove to At Home in Ojai, one of the senior board and care facilities in our aging metropolis.  At Home has gone through some changes.  My impression is that the current managers are caring, efficient and pleasant.

I knew who I was picking up.  But I was a little surprised to find her there.  I’d lost track of her in the last year or two.  Her house, the one that I used to find her at, was sold last year.  I’d assumed she’d gone to live with family, maybe moved out of the area.  Or worse.

The manifest said she would be in a wheelchair.  The last time I picked her up at her Green Street home she had a little trouble navigating.  But she didn’t use a walker or need the lift.  So a wheelchair was a bit of a shock, even for me.  Me, who spends most of Monday mornings folding/unfolding walkers and tying down wheelchairs so folks don’t get prematurely ejected from the bus.

I arrived At Home, lowered the lift, rang the doorbell, and told the aide who I was looking for.  We walked around the gate and up the neatly manicured, shady driveway.  “Don’t tell her she’s going to the doctor” the aide confided.  Not a good sign.

I spotted her, sitting outside in a wheelchair, next to a similarly seated woman of about the same age.  “Hi ladies, how are you today?” I said smiling.  “What do you mean?” her companion said.  I changed the subject and directed my attention to my old friend.  “I used to pick you up at your house on Green Street” I said, hoping to spark a glimmer of recognition.  “Green Street?”  We began our march to the bus.

While getting the chair fastened to the bus moorings, I continued our conversation, most of it one-way.  Seating myself behind the wheel, we began the ten minute drive to the doctor’s office.  I could have driven past her old house, but didn’t.  It was a long ten minutes.

I remember her when.  When she would have a clever comeback to something I’d say.  I remember how concerned she was about where Ojai was headed.  The loss of personal contact between elected officials and the rest of us.  Her gratitude for the bus rides, the companionship, the service to the community.  I remembered a bright, caring lady.

About an hour after dropping them at the doctor’s, I got a call that she was ready for the return trip.  We went through the same routine.   “How’d it go?” I asked while adjusting her seat belt.  She looked up at me and her eyes sharpened.  “How’d it go?” she said in a way that I knew meant “How do you think it went?  I’m stuck in this chair.  I’m old.  I’m forgetful.  I’m not in my own house.  What a way to live.”

It was another long ten minutes.