3
The Company of Crones held its monthly meetings in a church basement and as they had always been on my day off, I’d been able to go regularly. There were about fifteen of us but only rarely did we all attend. This day there were ten.
There was no age requirement to join, the range being 46 to 92 years, but you had to be a feminist. We supported each other, made each other feel worthy, and above all, we laughed at ourselves. And a good laugh snaps you out of self-pity.
The church basement was gloomy with its concrete floor covered by an indoor-outdoor carpet, its small windows that never lit the room no matter where the sun was, and its low ceiling. Still, it had a kitchen and vases of plastic flowers that were supposed to give the room a cheerful look. And the seats weren’t back cripplers.
I didn’t really want to go and had dragged myself out of bed with my mother’s voice in my head saying, Feeling sorry for yourself, are you? There’s lots of folk far worse off than you. Yes there were, but that didn’t help me cope with no job and no income. Most of the women in Crones struggled with the restrictions of a small income despite having been librarians or teachers or other professionals. Was I going to end up like them?
As usual, Joan was there early to open up and put the coffee on and, as usual, she had made muffins. Always the caregiver, Joan. Even though she was as old as the rest, she fussed around making sure Nina, aged 92, had a seat in a place where she could hear and that Eva, who had only a passing acquaintance with reality, was helped when she was delivered to the door. Yet, when it came to leadership, Joan backed away. There wasn’t really a leader anyway; we all chipped in and did what we could. The purpose of the group was to have fun, but what I really enjoyed was that we had all reached a philosophical age when not much upset us. That doesn’t mean we were passive—far from it. Most of us had pretty strong views. Nina, for example, was always writing to the Nelson News about the latest social injustice, and Claire and Jane were Raging Grannies. What I mean is that we had developed wisdom—or most of us had—which is why we called ourselves ‘crones.’
“Hi Jess,” Joan said. “I heard about the fire. Are you all right?” She stopped what she was doing to express her concern.
“Yes, thanks,” I said. “Unhurt, but unemployed.”
“I’ll keep my ears open. Lots of volunteer jobs I know of, but not many paid ones. But I’m sure something will turn up.” Joan moved to help Eva to her seat.
Laura arrived and immediately launched into an account of her latest visit to her doctor and a description of the wonder drug she’d been prescribed. Everything was wrong with Laura, everything that’s expected to go wrong with old people. I didn’t hold with it. Just because we age doesn’t mean we have to rust. I got really tired of those jokes about constipation and adult diapers, as if that’s normal.
Mercifully, Maggie was there. I liked Maggie. She was the youngest, in her forties, but came because she enjoyed talking to older women. She lived just outside Nelson, on her own, and grew her own food, raised chickens, and made herbal remedies. She spent a lot of time outdoors and always looked tanned.
When I first met her I thought she was a Kootenay Woo-woo, my term for those who are so busy being “spiritual” they let the world go by, but Maggie wasn’t like that. She had a great interest in alternative medicine, if that’s the term for healing methods other than Western medicine. Someone told me that she had a degree in botany and worked in the supplement section of the local Co-op.
Maggie was also a joker, even though she appeared to be serious. She was one of those people who can remember jokes and could think of one to suit any occasion. She always told her jokes with a straight face that made them seem even funnier, and she was able to imitate accents to suit.
As we began to settle down, Laura said in a woeful voice, “Now the doctor says I have osteopenia. Can you believe it? As if I don’t have enough to put up with.” She carefully lowered her bony body onto a chair, delved in her overlarge purse, and pulled out a pill bottle to show us.
“Osteopenia is a diagnosis the pharmaceutical industry has made up. So they can sell you a drug,” Maggie said. “It just means your bone mineral density is lower than it was when you were thirty. Perfectly normal.”
“Ah, but my doctor has prescribed something to raise it.” Laura waved the pill bottle and sat up straight as if to challenge the room to contradict her.
“What are the side effects?” Maggie asked.
“What do you mean?”
“All drugs have side effects,” Maggie said. “They’re often worse than the condition they’re supposed to treat.”
“I trust my doctor,” Laura said with finality.
“That’s your first mistake,” I chipped in.
“All you have to do for your bones, what we all have to do, is walk every day and lift a few weights. And now, you can use those exercise machines they’ve put in the park,” Maggie said. “Anyway, do you all realize that Jess has lost her job because of the fire?”
“I use those machines,” Nina said. “Some of them, anyway. I can’t get on the ones that you’re supposed to walk on. I’m frightened of falling off.”
Maggie tried again. “You know the restaurant on Baker Street that burned down? Jess lost her job there.” She looked round the group.
Eva smiled and nodded. She did that when she didn’t know what was going on. That day she had all her buttons done up the right way and her hair combed. I looked to see if she had shoes on because she often showed up in slippers that had Right and Left written on them in black marker.
Fran launched into a story about her fight with the Health Authority. “When my sister went into that rehab center, she could walk with a walker. Now she can’t walk at all, after only six weeks. I’ve been trying to get her moved to St. Margaret’s, but they say she can’t change.”
Eva nodded and smiled at Fran. “I’m Catholic too.”
Laura held out her thin wrists to Maggie. “Look at those. Don’t you think I’m headed for osteoporosis?”
Maggie ignored her.
“No, you’re headed for death by medicine,” I muttered, and then I told everyone about the Grizzly fire. “So that’s put paid to my job.”
“You can always sell your house,” Joan said.
“That’s true. But then where do I live? How long do you think that money would last?” If I sounded irritated, I was. Selling my only asset was a quick fix but not a long-term solution.
“Jess needs a job,” Maggie, bless her, said. “So if anyone hears of anything, could they let Jess know?”
“Thanks, Maggie,” I said, “and while I’m not working I could come to the Stitch and Bitch sessions. Are they still Thursday afternoons?”
In addition to their monthly meeting, the Crones had a sewing circle that met every week and a book club that met once a month. I liked to cross-stitch, and it’s much more fun to do it with others.
“Yes,” Laura said. “Next week it’s at my place. It will be good to have you join us.”
At that point, our guest speaker arrived to talk about living wills. She was a community health nurse who specialized in geriatrics and after she’d introduced herself, she struck me as being sensible enough to listen to. She had us all tell her who we were and what was our biggest worry about dying. We had talked about this many times; most of us were afraid of not being allowed to die in peace, or of being in pain. Eva got away with it by saying with a beatific smile, “Jesus loves us.”
The nurse gave us each a package that included a thirteen-page form we were to fill out, copy, and give to people who would likely oversee our care during our last days. We went over the form. The biggest discussion arose over the “What I Want: Considering life support and medical interventions” section. Laura, of course, chose the “I still want to have all necessary medical interventions.”
“What for, when you
’re dying?” I asked her.
“They might be able to do something. You never know.”
“What? Give you another forty-eight hours of struggle?” I may have sounded as if I were talking to a nitwit because I was. “The trouble today is that no one’s allowed to die in peace. Everyone tries to keep you breathing when you’re trying to leave, and they thump your heart when it’s trying to stop.”
Maggie lightened the atmosphere. “There was this man in a pub who said, ‘Last night, my wife and I were sitting in the living room and I said to her, ‘I never want to live in a vegetative state, dependent on some machine and fluids from a bottle. If that ever happens, just pull the plug.’ She got up, unplugged the TV and then threw out my beer. Bitch…’”
We all laughed, especially the nurse.
“There should be a law or at least a moral code,” Maggie said. “Thou shalt not strive officiously to keep people alive.”
“But lots of people have survived heart attacks,” Laura said, “and gone on to live an active life. How do you know if you’re not like that when the time comes?”
“If you’ve been lying dying in a hospital for weeks, you’re not likely to rise again,” I said. “I think it’s inhumane to try and revive someone like that. Put a plastic bag over my head and have done with it. That’s what I want.”
“It’s important to let your wishes be known, even if we can’t meet them,” the nurse said looking at me. “Filling in these forms now, while you are of sound mind, is important. Everyone has different views as you can see. Health professionals do try to respect your wishes—but plastic bags are not in our procedure manual. Now, are there any questions?”
Fran asked about Power of Attorney. The nurse explained that this enabled you to appoint someone to deal with financial affairs, but did not apply to health care decisions.
I bet Amy would like power over me so they can sell my house and run my life; all for my own good, of course.
“Any more questions?” the nurse asked.
“What shouldn’t you covet?” Eva said, nodding.
“Sorry. Say that again.” The nurse looked puzzled.
“Thou shalt not covet,” Eva said. “But what?”
The nurse walked over and took hold of Eva’s hands. “It’s thy neighbor’s ass, isn’t it?”
Eva looked up at her and smiled. “Yes, that’s right. I’ve never wanted an ass.”
“Neither have I,” the nurse said as she went back to her seat.
I can’t say I felt any better by the end of our meeting, but just as I was leaving Maggie put her arms around me and asked if I’d like some frozen rhubarb from her last year’s garden. I’m very fond of rhubarb and custard so I enthusiastically said, “Yes please.”
We moved out of the church into the spring sunshine. “You must be feeling at a loose end now you’re not working. Would you like to come over to my place for lunch?”
We set a day and I went home feeling I could cope with life after all, even though that life meant more job hunting. There are two things I hate above all else: trying on bathing suits and job hunting.
4
I started my search for a job by going to the library and studying the ads in the local papers. I didn’t expect to find anything as I knew that many arrangements in Nelson, such as apartment rentals and help wanted, are the result of word of mouth. My best bet was to talk to people I know and to inquire in cafés and restaurants. I searched Pennywise and was delighted to find someone looking for a part-time care aide for a young disabled man. Just up my alley. I phoned the number. No, they wanted a male.
I sauntered along Baker Street and called in at the numerous cafés and restaurants but they were all very sorry, they didn’t need anyone. Then I bumped into Felix, the owner of the Grizzly Grill. He told me that Bob’s Café needed help and that Bob was interviewing applicants that evening, after the café closed. Feeling more hopeful, I went home and phoned Bob for an appointment.
Dressed in my smart pants and shirt, I headed down the hill about 8:30, slowly because my knee was still a bit sore. It seemed funny to be walking down the familiar route in the dark. Normally I went to work mid-morning.
Bob’s was on one of the side streets off Baker and was popular with people who liked a hearty meal at a low price. Stodge, I called it.
The lone occupant of the café was a young woman with dyed blonde hair, heavy makeup, a nose stud, and a leather jacket. Her perfume mingled with the stale cooking smells that hung about the place, and she sat at a plastic-covered table reading a magazine.
“It’s closed,” she said when I walked in.
“I know,” I said. “I’ve come for a job interview.”
The youngster looked me up and down before saying, with emphasis, “You?” She rolled her eyes. “Are you serious?”
“Why not me?”
“Whatever.” She shrugged and got up to take off her leather jacket and hang it over a chair.
I picked up a magazine and sat across the room from Miss Clever Clogs. I could feel her staring at me as I pretended to be engrossed in an article about broad beans. Suddenly she was beside me. “People your age shouldn’t be taking jobs,” she hissed.
“And who would pay my rent?” I said quelling my instinct to belt her one.
Fortunately a harassed-looking man in a white apron came in. “Which one of you is Jess?” I stood up. “I’m Bob. Come into the back.”
Bob led me into a cubicle off the kitchen where he did his paper work. He pulled up a stool for me and sat on the swivel desk chair. “Felix recommended you,” he said. “Are you still up to waiting on tables?”
“Of course,” I said. “I was working at the Grill last week.” What a daft question. I hadn’t grown decrepit in the last few days. I examined Bob as a prospective employer. He looked ordinary enough: mid-forties, small mustache, short hair, overweight; not the sort to pinch bottoms or peer down blouses, even though the calendar behind his head displayed a naked woman looking over one shoulder and bending down with her bum stuck out.
Bob explained the hours, the pay, days off, and his expectations. “I have other applicants. Why should I pick you?”
“I’m reliable. I show up on time. My customers like me because I actually wait on them and make sure they have everything they need without being intrusive.” I’d rehearsed this speech in anticipation of the question.
Bob grunted. “Right, I’ll let you know tomorrow. What’s your phone number?” He made his only notes on me in a spiral daybook. “Send the other one in.”
I told Miss Clever Clogs to go in and left.
The following morning Bob phoned to tell me he’d given the job to the other applicant.
“Why?” I asked.
There was a slight pause. “Well,” he said slowly, “I know you’re experienced, but this job means hard work. You’re on your feet all day.”
“I know that,” I said. “I’ve been doing it for years.”
“Yes, you do have experience.”
“You think I’m too old?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
After my car had lurched down Maggie’s dirt drive I expected to see a log house or a rough cabin, so I was surprised when it turned out to be a large heritage building, with a greenhouse attached. I parked outside an open shed housing a tractor, a small blue car, a wheelbarrow and several bikes.
I got out and looked around at the property with its raised beds, newly planted in neat rows. A large, black, slathery dog barked at me and then, after deciding I was a friend, came wagging to have a sniff.
Maggie appeared at the head of some steep wooden steps and called out a greeting. I had looked forward to this lunch. Maggie would listen to my job searching stories and might have some good ideas about what else I could do. She was a wonderful listener. Didn�
��t chip in with her own stuff, but let you talk and encouraged you with questions.
“Good to see you, Jess.” Maggie gave me a big hug and led me into a sunny kitchen. Now there was a room that belonged in a farmhouse—an Aga stove, large saucepans hanging from hooks, shelves of bottled fruit and vegetables, a freshly baked loaf on a rack, and a lovely smell of baking.
“Wow,” I said. “Do you grow all your own food?”
“Mostly. I buy grains and fish, but I grow veggies and fruit. And I keep a few hens for eggs and chicken. Other meat I get from farmers I know.”
“Did you grow up on a farm?”
“No. I was raised here. This was our family home, but I wouldn’t call it a farm. We’ve always had fruit trees and a garden.”
Maggie moved over to the stove and stirred the contents of a large pot. “I hope you don’t mind having your main meal at lunch time—because I’m serving venison stew.”
“Sounds wonderful.” I didn’t tell her that I was down to one meal a day supplemented by tea and toast.
“A neighbor gave me some venison, so we’re having stew and dumplings. Come and sit here.” Maggie pointed to a round wooden table in a window alcove and I sat and looked at her view of trees, a river, and distant snow-topped mountains. How peaceful. Just like Maggie.
“Do you live alone?” I asked.
“Yes, since my mother passed away. That’s nearly five years ago now.” Maggie stirred something in a pot. “You knew her of course. I used to bring her to Crones. Which is why I still go, even though I’m younger.”
Gone to Pot Page 3