VERA

Vera and I grew up together in a small town in Northern Ontario and I followed her into the city of Sault Ste. Marie to go to college. She chased strategically after a Ministry of Resources guy, while I went to Cambrian College and became a nurse. Vera’s mother was a native French speaker and even though Vera’s last name was Scottish, she spoke the two languages flawlessly and worked as a French court interpreter.

Vera and I stayed friends while we raised our families. We didn’t see each other daily or even weekly but attended many of the same social events, sharing circles of friends and leaning on our shopping carts and gossiping in the aisles of Walmart and No Frills. She would wave her arms like a dancer, to articulate the wonders of life and laugh heartily, while I smiled demurely at her jokes, her stories about the family dog, the unforgettable trip to the dentist, the kids’ schoolteachers, the incompetence of the PTA.

Vera was the picture of handsome with her tall frame, straight dark hair always wrapped carefully around her neck, earrings, pearl necklaces, the whole deal. I would wonder how she found time to do all this, even when her kids were small. I admired Vera’s generosity and her ability to express her love to everyone she knew. I was nowhere near as generous by nature and constantly struggled with work, home, a social life and personal care. Then she told me that her husband Stan participated fully in their lives together, cooking dinners and even taking the kids on holidays in summer while Vera went off on her own adventures. I admired Stan for that. My husband was not so..... participatory.

Once our children were old enough to go to school we played bridge together at the community centre every 3rd Wednesday evening of the month. Large swaths of ladies, young and old would meet, switching tables after each game. Vera and always made a point of playing at least one hand together.

It was standing in a store talking to Vera one day that I noticed that Vera’s eyes were darting around nervously. I think then we were both in our late sixties, our kids were out in the world on their own and our jobs were winding down. Shortly afterwards I noticed while playing bridge that she uncharacteristically stumbled over words then threw in french words haphazardly into the sentence. I wondered if she was under an unusual amount of stress.

Next month I noticed that she stumbled again. Then I saw her temper rise and a bunch of french swear words come tumbling out. Everyone at the table was shocked and a bit amused. Words, she said she seemed to be always searching for words. After the bridge game, I asked Vera how she was doing. Her hands flailed, her eyes darted around and she said. ‘I just don`t know what’s wrong with me Joan, I feel fine but I keep losing my temper. Suddenly. I don`t expect it. It just happens. Without my knowing it...oh....I don’t know....’ and her voice trailed off. ‘Stress at work?’ I asked carefully. She shrugged and flailed her hands again and looked at her watch. ‘Oh no, I have to be somewhere.’ And scuttled out. Quickly. Embarrassed. Ashamed.

She didn’t come to bridge for a few months and I wondered if she was ill. I kept meaning to call but other things took over. Then some months later I ran into her at the No Frills in the parking lot. I was so happy to see her.

“Vera!”

She looked disheveled and stared at me blankly.

“What’s wrong?’

‘I can’t find my car. I don’t know which one is mine?’

I sat her down on a bench outside the store. ‘Let’s just think about it.’ Then Vera cried. It was this quiet uncontrolled shaking.

‘I’m going to drive you and your groceries home. The car can sit here for the night. No one will take it. In the morning you can come back and get it.’ I ushered her into my car and drove her home.

She was quiet, sullen, and despondent. I walked her to the house and she said, ‘I’m alright now. Thank you Joan. I love you.’ She stroked my cheek.

The next day I called Stan at work to let him know that Vera’s car was in the parking lot of the No Frills.

‘Stan, I think something is up with her. She seems very stressed.’

Silence.

‘Has she seen see someone?’

Stan seemed irritated. ‘Who?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe a doctor?’

Silence.

‘Stan, I think something’s going on her memory?’

‘Its nothing Joan. Thank you for your concern. I’ll go and get the car.’

He hung up. Not even goodbye.

I didn’t see Vera for a long time and was loathe to interfere as Stan had been so abrupt. It was probably months and being winter in the north, it is not unusual for people to disappear into their houses. She had stopped coming to bridge and although some ladies asked about her, no one seemed to know anything.

I called her house in the early spring and got an answering machine. I left a message but she didn’t return my call. I kept thinking about her, wondering how she was. I bumped into Stan at the grocery story and asked, he said ‘She’s fine.’ Quickly and moved on.

But Vera was on my mind. One day in late spring, I dropped by the house on a Sunday afternoon. I figured she might be around, it was warm, she liked to garden, perhaps she was outside. I went around the back and there she was, sitting quietly in a chair. When I said hello, she looked at me strangely and smiled.

‘Vera, how are you?’ Her eyes were fixed towards the garden.

‘Isn’t it lovely out here today?’ she spoke softly.

‘Vera, it’s me, Joan’.

‘The roses are going to bloom soon.’ Pause. ‘I love roses.’

It was that eureka moment when the light goes on. Vera had early onset dementia. A deep wave of sadness came over me. She stroked my cheek. ‘I love you’ she said. And I knew it was true. But also that she didn’t quite remember who I was other then that I seemed familiar.

I left her sitting there on that late May afternoon. How could this happen to my lovely friend? And what was to be her future? Fortunately her kids were grown up enough now to manage on their own. That gave me some relief.

I dropped in to see her at home a few times that summer and fall and she was always happy to see me. I took her shopping in my car and she was grateful. She was not dressed beautifully anymore. Her clothes looked worn out and wrinkled.

That winter Stan called me. ‘I just wanted you to know, you were ...well... are a good friend of Vera. She is in long term care at Mapleview.’ I knew where that was.

Stan was apologetic. ‘I just couldn’t look after her. She kept leaving the house when I was out and getting lost. If you want to visit her, she’s on the fourth floor.’ He hung up abruptly.

She was sitting in the common room staring at the TV. Her hair was graying quickly and hung in ever so limply on her shoulders. I saw the pictures of her beside the door of her room, and remembered how handsome she was, how carefully she put her clothes together, how coiffed her hair was. Now I saw a woman in track pants, a worn out tea shirt and tangled hair, the perfect mirror of her tangled brain.

I called Stan and asked him to bring some of Vera’s clothes. I even offered to come and get them if he was busy but he dismissed me. Finally, I went out to the thrift store and bought her some colourful sweaters that she wears all the time.

That was three years ago. I go and see Vera a few times a month. I asked at the nurses station a few months ago if Stan or her kids were visiting. The nurse said she hardly ever had visitors and they had never met her husband.

She still flails her arms in lovely patterns when she talks. She always tells me how much she loves me. She can’t count or read and struggles repeatedly with words. Mostly when I ask her questions, she says ‘I don’t know’ and shrugs her shoulders. She is 78 years old.

Jody Terio

September 2015