Backstage Writers - Think Hope Do

Colette has taught me to appreciate small things. I’m not talking about rose petals and ladybugs. We all need to slow down and put our senses to use. Get a whiff of that daffodil. Listen to the girl next door struggle with her violin. When you’re 93, you can’t hear the girl next door and you don’t get out into the garden unless someone comes to visit on a nice day.

I’m talking about pleasure in something neither beautiful nor inspirational.

I know a few things about moving elderly people. One, you need a harness so you don’t mess up your back. Two, you need to know how to hold the person so they don’t get hurt. In brief, it’s always better to get a qualified aide to do the job.

Colette doesn’t ask for help. She just stands up. If I have evoked the image of a spry woman popping up to bat a few balls, let me qualify.

Colette is so small and frail it takes her several minutes to stand up. The process is so slow in fact it takes me equal time to realize she’s actually rising. Hello! Colette is getting up. Do something, you sluggish dolt! I know I should tell her to sit down so I can fetch someone, but I’m blocked by bizarre giddiness. Colette is feeling better. She wants to get up. She hasn’t been getting up since she fell and hit her head.

“Colette, I think you might want to hold on to me,” I say.

“Yes, I do think you’re going to have to-”

Before I can even extend my hand, she’s reaching out to take it. Her grip feels limp. Her hand feels fragile like those old china dolls my great aunt gave me years ago, the dolls I left in their boxes because their porcelain felt thinner than an egg shell, crushable in a moment of inattention.

We don’t have much room to maneuver, and I’ve got to turn her chair so she can drop into it.

“Colette, I think maybe you’d better sit back down so I can get the chair around.”

“Who’s sick down town?”

I repeat and add, “I’m not good at this, you know.”

She gives me an odd look like she’s about the confess something silly. “If I stop now, I’ll never do it,” she says.

How could I even think about giving up? I prop one leg behind her and try to pull the chair out. I’m wedged between her swaying frame and the chair I’m trying to turn. The more I twist myself around to spot her and make room for turning the chair, the more I realize there can be no turning back.

She sees the humor in our situation. “Look what I’m putting you through,” she says.

I say something about us both enjoying a good challenge to which she replies, “We have to keep going.”

She’s got one hand on her chair, the other on my arm. I’m still trying to act as a makeshift seat, if need be, while I guide Colette and her chair into alignment. Progress is slow, an inch here, an inch there. We are out of sync. I adjust the chair. She grabs it in the wrong place. Now she’s alongside, and I’m in the way. I slip past her. She gets confused. For a moment it feels like we’re both going to fall.

“I’ve got you, Colette! Don’t move. I’m going to just pull the chair around…There!”

“Am I OK now?” She’s got her behind lined up, but she’s not sure of herself. She tries to twist around while I hold her and try to stabilize the chair. The locks, you idiot! Put on the d-mn locks! Why do you think wheelchairs have locks? But she’s not interested in any locks. She’s ready to land. “Am I OK?”

“Yes, I’ve got you.”

“There now, we did it!” She goes on to tell me that when I get to be her age, I’ll understand the pleasure of small triumphs.

I smile. We have triumphed indeed, but there was nothing small about it.