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The old woman glared at us. “I’d LIKE to get into my room, if you don’t mind.”

Mom was washing Dad’s hair (Dad broke his pelvis and is pretty much immobilized in a rehab/nursing center right now), so I tooled on out to the hallway where the old lady waited impatiently in her wheelchair. As I approached, her eyes widened a bit in alarm. She said something quietly and essayed a tentative smile.

I smiled back, and crouched to catch her words. “What can I help you find, ma’am?”

“Well, you’re in my room and I was wondering when you’d be finished, because I’d like to go to bed. I’m sorry,” she apologized, “But I’m very tired.” Her thin, velvety skin sagged softly down her cheeks, beneath wild ivory hair. She’d drawn a blanket up tight around herself, so that it obscured the words on front of her fleecy sweatshirt.

“I don’t think this is your room,” I said, “But they all look alike, don’t they?” (no lie–a little color-coding would go a long way in these places)

She was having none of that. “It has my name on it,” she insisted, pointing to the name by the door, “So I do believe it’s mine.”

It occurred to me that those letters were pretty small, and her glasses were off, hanging on a braided chain around her neck. “Well, it’s kind of hard to read, but it says ‘Morgan,’ ma’am. That’s my father’s name. Is that your name, too?”

Now she looked bewildered and embarrassed. “No, that’s not my name. Are you sure that’s what it says?”

“Yes, but that’s OK; I’ll help you find your room. Do you know which number it is?”

She gestured at a large silver bangle on her wrist. “It’s on my armband, but I can’t find it anymore.” She looked at me sadly, and for a moment I lost my heart. I wondered where she’d come from, if she’d raised children, held a job, commanded attention when she strode into the room, if she’d teased the boys, clung to her mother’s hands for her first baby steps. I saw her, and I saw myself if I get old, and I was suddenly frightened for both of us.

Gently, I pushed back her other sleeve and found the nursing home ID band. I turned it around–they really ought to put room numbers on these things–and found her name. “Mrs. Riesemeling,* I’m Cynthia.” We solemnly shook hands. “May I push you to your room?”

“Oh yes, please,” she said, sighing heavily, and we set off. It wasn’t far, and a nurse’s aide hurried up to take the wheelchair. “Mrs. Riesemeling,” she scolded playfully, “You shouldn’t wander off like that, we were just starting to look for you.”

“I’m alright,” she said softly, “My friend helped me come home,” and she took my hand.

Her blanket slipped, and I read the inscription on her sweatshirt: RETIRED PORN STAR. I grinned. “Cool shirt, Mrs. Riesemeling.”

“Thank you,” she said proudly, “My grandson gave it to me. You’ll like him.” She gave me a last look over her shoulder as she was wheeled into her room, “But I wasn’t really a porn star. That’s just our joke.”

I laughed, and she giggled. Then she disappeared behind the curtain and I returned to Mom and Dad.

———-

*And no, that wasn’t really her name.

BY THE WAY: Several people have asked privately if I took a picture of Mrs. “Riesemeling” and used it to illustrate this blogpost. Nope–I’d consider that a massive invasion of her privacy. The photo is from iStock, legally purchased for online use.