Good help

The new winter

I got a call Thursday from the social worker at Mom's place. He said Mom's new private aide, who comes on weekday mornings, was taking a lot of smoking breaks, socializing with the other aides and leaving Mom unattended. So I called the agency and spoke with the owner. He was surprised, apologized and said he'd see to it. But I haven't heard back.

It's hard to get good help.

Mom and I talked with Brenda, a longtime aide. She's been there 18 years, the last four full-time with a man named Jim who started out in independent living, but in recent years has been wheeled in a big reclining chair everywhere by Brenda -- the two of them always together, sitting in the lounge with the TV on, her feeding him in the Bistro. Jim seemed nearly comatose, always sleeping with a pleasant expression. It seemed a living death. Mom always tried to say hi to him and sometimes he would open an eye and give a small smile.

Brenda said he'd died recently, at 84. She told us the whole story -- how they couldn't get him up one day, and Brenda watched him take his last breath, with his family gathering. Telling us about it, she broke down and cried. She said the family took her to the funeral service and the interment, and to the family dinner at a German restaurant afterwards.

Brenda must be in her 60s, with a square build. She walks slowly, with an uneven, painful-looking  stride, and it's easy to see she'll need care someday. But she could never afford the kind of care she gave Jim.

Mom and I went to singalong that night. A peppy woman named Mary leads it at the piano in the lounge area every Thursday and Friday.  Nearly everybody in Stratford attends it -- 15, 20 people all crowded together -- and she calls us her "Choir on Fire." We sing old standards and religious favorites  -- Shenandoah, Yankee Doodle, America the Beautiful, Que Sera Sera, This Land is Your Land, When the Saints, Angels Watching Over Me, This Little Light of Mine, Coming Around the Mountain, Jesus Loves Me.

Thursday it went on an hour and a half. Mom was unusually with-it, singing right along in her quiet voice -- but also looking ahead in her copy of the lyrics to see how how many more were left. She was good this time -- sometimes she'll call out "That's enough now!"

A bent-over man, I think his name is Don, came late, a Scottish man, and Mary had us sing (google says) The Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond in his honor -- "you take the high road and I'll take the low road, and I'll be in Scotland before ye." Don sang quietly by heart, slumped on the back couch, and wept.

Thank God for Mary. It's like we're all swimming alone through affliction and confusion, and yet still manage to swim together for a couple nights a week.