Wednesday's Child

For 10 months I have spent Wednesday afternoons the same way, visiting my friend Maurine in a nursing home. When her only child, Carol, passed away last January a group of us ladies at church decided to take a day of the week to visit her so she'd never have a day without a visitor. This was especially important because Maurine had no other family in this area.

Unfortunately, today will be the first Wednesday that I've missed a trip to see Maurine, other than when I was out of town or recovering from surgery. Maurine fell and broke her left hip only five days ago. I went to see her Sunday in the hospital. She was discouraged and wanted to die. The very next evening, she did.

Each of us who saw her regularly grew to love her very much. We adopted her as a second mother and she adopted us. I was Wednesday's child. I'd walk into her room to either find her sitting in her wheelchair or asleep in her bed. Once I left her a note and told her I'd be back, that she was alseep and I didn't want to wake her. She told me to never do that again. She didn't want to sleep through a visit. After that, I'd wait for awhile, then wake her up. A few times we'd both nod off, but we were together.

Maurine was always alert and very sharp. I enjoyed listening about her life and the rich history she would share. She was a Daddy's Girl and told me often how much she loved her "Poppa". "I was his constant shadow," she told me more than once. She told me how she met her husband, Monroe, at college, how she had worked at the broom factory as a young woman, and the birth of her daughter. And there were times when she became quiet and whispered that she missed Monroe and Carol so much. How sad to be the surviving member of your family. We all knew we couldn't replace the daughter she lost, but we hoped to fill some corner of her aching heart.

Maurine's taste for food changed drastically as she grew older and few things appealed to her. Nutritional drinks kept her alive, and the small samplings of mashed potatoes, cream corn, cereal, and plain yogurt. Plain yogurt in small cartons were hard to find, so I'd end up many times buying the large carton and asking a nurse at the front desk to store it for Maurine. Robin would label the carton with her name and draw a smiley face. Maurine would reach for the carton every time I carried in a new one to see what picture Robin had drawn this time. It was a small thing, but it cheered her.

I remember the time she was eating her yogurt and kept getting a spasm in her hand. I finally reached for the spoon and fed her. "I can't believe someone would actually feed me," she said.

"I've had three kids," I told her. "I'm used to it."

"I still can't believe someone cares enough to do it."

"Just be glad I'm not doing this with every bite." I then waved the spoon in the air and said "Open wide! Here it comes!."

That produced a laugh from both of us.

Maurine was one of the few in the nursing home who still had all her faculties. I was a soft touch for those crying out for help or just needing someone to listen. Maurine would dismiss them with a wave of her hand, telling me they are crazy and I should pay no attention to them. Turning away made me feel cold blooded, but I was there to see my friend and I wanted her to know it.

Yes, today will be different. There will be no visit to the nursing home. I won't miss that pitiful environment, the odd smells, or those who walk around aimlessly. But I did look forward to walking into room 610 and being greeted with Maurine's smile. I will miss that, and her tough, hearty outlook on life, her sense of humor, and her friendship. Maurine would have been 90 in December. She was looking forward to that milestone. How sad that the pain from a broken hip destroyed her will to live, just as Carol's death had done last January.

Those three days in the hospital she told all of us over and over that she wanted to die. I told her that God is in control and to trust in Him. I was crying as I held her hand, then had to laugh inwardly as she told a nurse to go away, then turned directly to me and said she loved me.

That was Maurine. Wednesday's child will miss her.