Coming full Circle, from being an Aide to needing One

Lisa Hoffman and Charles Atkins

Published October 7th, 2004

Charlie writes:

"So?" I say. "It’s your turn; time to tell your readers what it’s been like to return home after ten weeks in rehab."

"I canceled the meal service," Lisa starts. Ensconced in her new lift chair she has a clear view of a tufted titmouse and a brilliant male goldfinch perched on her just-installed birdfeeder. "After all, I can get a whole roast chicken from the market for what they’re charging me. By the same token I could call that N.O.W. organization and get Meals on Wheels and that’s only two bucks as opposed to $8.50. Are you writing this down?"

I nod and type fast.

"I should talk about my first experience having an aide."

"You’re sure you want to do that?" I ask, knowing how badly that had gone.

"Yes," she has no hesitation. "I feel like I need to do something about it; it was terrible. Like, she was the boss and I became the victim—if I can call it that. Half of the time she was lying on the couch resting. And the other half she spent talking in a language I never heard before to every relative possible—and she had a lot of them. When she finally came up for air, I said, ‘I need a little bit of attention’. She became irate and started to yell at me. When her agency called me to find out how things were going, I couldn’t talk; I was too frightened. So when she took her next nap, I snuck into my bedroom, called them back and whispered about what had been going on. The agent said, ‘I will bring somebody else, this is unacceptable.’ After I got off the phone, the aide I had left semi sleeping a few minutes ago, was up and screaming. She had listened at the door. And said how terrible I was, and yelled at me. My heart was pounding, and I asked her to please stop it and to get out of my room, that I had high blood pressure. She wouldn’t leave me alone, so I picked up the phone and called the only person who could help, "You." I had you paged all over the place; I was very frightened. I’m normally a courageous person. If I had my normal strength I could have handled this. I even took jiu-jitsu when I was younger, but holding onto a walker, this wouldn’t help. I even called security and had them stand by. And then you came over, and were clearly upset because you’d been doing something else, and you had to wait for hours for the new aide to show up. I felt terrible but I didn’t know what else to do."

I say little as I type. Yes, I’d been upset; it had been Saturday; I’d had plans, and I ended up spending the afternoon with Lisa and a very unhappy aide, as we waited for the agency to bring her replacement. "I thought you could talk about your early years as a cook and a maid."

"I see what you’re getting at," she says. "There’s a kind of irony here, where I now need, what I once provided." She glances out the window at a pair of mourning doves on her porch balcony. "It was frightening," she starts, "Because from the beginning I didn’t experience any kindness. I came to England on a special Visa for domestics. It had been very hard to get because I had no experience and everyone was so terrified of the Nazis that getting an affidavit was almost impossible. Someone would have to lie and say that I’d worked as a maid; no one would. Finally, after trying everyone else, my mother went to the Quakers, and they vouched for me. And I should be clear that even though I owe my life to getting out of Germany, the English weren’t doing any favors by taking in young German girls as domestics; they couldn’t get anyone else. I came to England as a kind of slave. And then two weeks after my arrival, on 18^th August 1939 the war broke out, which made me an enemy alien even though I was a refugee."

"What kind of jobs did you get?"

"Mostly bad," she chuckles. "Some of them were just awful! If I’d gotten a warm kind of person; I’d have been able to stand it better. I told you about the one where the Persian man came into my bedroom and tried to…at least back then I had the strength to fight him off. Now his wife was a Swiss lady, and she was very nice—she called me Liesle. Had it not been for her husband making it impossible I would have stayed with her and her two young sons. But that’s the way it was with most of the jobs, there was always something that made it unpleasant. And the English have such a class distinction; to them I was a low domestic. No matter that my background was the same as theirs. Orders were given and always with a threat of internment, which to me meant a concentration camp--I later learned that the internment camps were actually quite nice and situated in hotels on the Isle of Mann. So I lived in constant fear. But through it all, and that’s been always my philosophy, I never fell down on any job. I always tried to give it my best."

"Did you ever do what your aides are doing?"

"Yes. I took care of a very sweet lady who had just come back from the hospital and who had leukemia. Of course I didn’t know what I got myself into, but once I was there, it was too late. Because not only was I very fond of the woman; she depended on me. And when I look back, I’m proud of the fact that I helped to prolong her life. I cooked for her, and had to barter for healthy foods on the black market, because almost everything was rationed. And once a very irresponsible doctor left me alone with her and I had to give her an infusion; she was confused and tried to tear it out of her vein. I held her with one hand while I frantically dialed with the other to get a hold of the doctor. In the end…she died, of course, but that’s a whole other story." Lisa watches as a chipmunk scrambles under the bird feeder, stuffing its cheeks with fallen seeds. "I love my birdfeeder," she says. "I could sit here for hours just watching."

"This is the one week mark," I offer.

Yes, I got out on Wednesday. This woman yesterday, the social worker, she was here for two hours, but she had an idea and I don’t know if it would be feasible. But instead of building a ramp, which is very expensive, she recommended making smaller steps."

"That sounds like a plan," I say, noticing how every day, new pieces of the homecoming puzzle get figured out and put in place.

"I’ll call the guy who came with the variance papers; he probably knows the rules…Yesterday a woman came to bathe me. She was 62 and in a white uniform, a very "up" kind of person. And when I managed to get out of the tub she applauded. It was hysterical. Unfortunately, she only comes twice a week."

And then a knock at the door and the physical therapist enters.

"So how’s the leg?" He asks. And we chat about wheelchairs and walkers and what will pay for what, as he puts Lisa through her paces.

Another knock.

"It’s the bath lady." Lisa says.

It’s not. But it’s her friend Margaret with groceries and supplies.

"You know," Lisa says, "I may have to enter the 21^st Century."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"I want a microwave oven to heat things up. I’ve always resisted the idea, but it’s too hard doing things on the stove. What do you think?"

"It’s a good idea," and I mentally measure the space between her cabinets and her countertop. I think I saw one at Costco that should fit, if not I’ll check K-Mart.

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