The Risk of Loving

by Jane Peart

  She pulled on her tank suit, slipped her bare feet into thongs and moved like a robot into the prerequisite shower. Afterward she tossed her towel over her shoulder and walked down the green-painted corridor to the pool.

  Aqua-tinted water shimmered from the painted bottom of the big, rectangular pool. Light from the gray day outside, filtered through the slanted windows, was augmented by glaring bulbs in aluminum fixtures set in the arched ceiling. A lifeguard sat at one end on a mounted place from where he could view the swimmers. Every sound was amplified in the enormous room. The ponging sound of the diving board’s metal springs, the echoing splash as the diver hit the water. Coryn disliked the claustrophopic feeling of swimming indoors. She had always loved swimming in a mountain lake or in the ocean. Coryn bit her lip and struggled with the urge to leave. But she was here for a purpose. Necessary activity to combat stress-induced depression.

  She shoved her hair into her bathing cap while looking for an empty lane. She went to the side of the pool. Suppressing the reluctance to get into the water, she sat down on the edge, dangled her feet in the water, shivering as the chill ripples swirled around her ankles. Finally, taking a deep breath, she pushed herself into the water.

  There were two what she called “serious swimmers” in the lanes on either side of her. One was doing a vigorous backstroke, the other a butterfly crawl. Water spewed up in their wakes and Coryn quickly ducked her head and slid into a slow breaststroke down to the other end of the pool.

  At first it took just grim determination to swim the length of the lane. She forced herself back and forth a half-dozen times, alternating from sidestroke to crawl then floating on her back, making her arms propel her.

  Gradually some of the tension began to drift away as she concentrated on her swimming.

  That was why she came here, to blank out the shock, sadness, grief she felt about her mother’s illness. The unfairness of it all would gnaw, and the grinding pain would activate as she plowed through the resisting water. Slowly the tears would come and she would let them. No one saw or noticed. The marathon swimming went on on either side of her.

  Kicking her feet, arms pulling strongly with each stroke, she fought back the terror of what they might be facing further along. Here she could let the tears she dared not cry at home in the presence of either parent flow. Running in rivulets down her cheeks and no one would see. She could swim under the surface of the water, come up, her face wet. Nobody paid any attention. Everyone was here for single-minded fitness goals, exercise, physical training.

  She turned the panic into energy. The fear. She had to admit she was afraid. Afraid of what she might be called upon to do in the future. Her parents had always sheltered her, protected her. Shielded her as much as possible from disappointment, from hurt, from harm. She had lived most of her life in the cocoon of their love. Now it was her turn and she was afraid she wasn’t up to it. She had to be up to it. There was no other way. There was no one else.

  “I can’t go through this alone,” her father had said. Neither can I! Coryn screamed silently.

  Coryn felt the sobs coming, coming up through her tight chest, into her throat, choking her as she turned her head, gasping for air.

  At the far end of the pool, she reached out with one hand, pulled herself against the side. The swimmers on both sides kept on swimming. She put her head down against the hands gripping the rail. Oh, God, I can’t, I can’t! Yes you can, and you will. She raised her head. Had someone spoken? I will never leave you or forsake you. Joshua 1:5. Those words from scripture learned a long time ago returned to her memory. She remembered she had received a medal in Sunday school for memorizing. She did not have to go it alone.

  Strange, common thought was that it was in church you received inspiration, guidance, comfort. But isn’t God everywhere? His spirit is not dependent on time or place or circumstance. He had given her this as a tool. Swimming as a coping skill. And it was working. She emerged from the pool, her body tingling from the exercise, knowing it had been worth the effort.

  She pulled herself up, sat on the side of the pool, stripped off her cap, shook out her hair. She could go home now. Somehow comforted, strengthened, to face whatever there was to face.

  She showered, changed into her sweatshirt, pulled on pants, sneakers, then went out into the damp morning. She drove through the quiet streets, past houses where people were just getting up, cooking breakfast, men dressing for work, children for school. She saw a boy on a bike delivering newspapers.

  Then just a little ahead, on the left-hand side of the road, coming through the mist, she saw a figure, jogging. As she got closer, she could see who it was. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. She saw his face, his intense expression. Hair dampened into waves fell on his broad forehead as he ran steadily forward. Mark. She passed him, not knowing whether he saw or recognized her. For a moment all the old feelings she had for him welled up within her. If only it could have been different…if they had met some other time…under other circumstances. It might have been different…

  Chapter Nineteen

  One morning after her swim, while waiting to turn in her locker key, Coryn happened to glance at the bulletin board. There, notices of various community events were posted. Her gaze caught an announcement.

  CAREGIVERS HELD MONDAY AFTERNOONS AT 3:00 P.M.

  If you are or know someone who is a caregiver for a loved one, this is a group of concerned people who meet once a week to share their problems, receive help, advice, encouragement.

  Coryn turned away, handed her key to the clerk behind the counter and started to leave the building. But something drew her back. Quickly she pulled out a small memo pad and pencil from her handbag, jotted down the address of the meeting.

  Driving home, she wondered why she’d done that. She remembered Dr. Iverson’s answer to her question, What can I do? “Find out all you can about your mother’s disease so you’ll know what to expect, how to help your father.” She hadn’t really done that. All she’d done was watch helplessly as her mother became slower, more forgetful and vague. What she had done was take care of herself. Keep herself from falling to pieces. But that wasn’t enough. More was going to be required of her. She needed just what that group seemed to offer—advice, encouragement. Maybe she should check it out. Go at least once. See what it was like.

  It took all Coryn’s inner strength to go to that first meeting. It was admitting something she didn’t want to admit. That, as a family, they were in severe crisis. To acknowledge that they were facing something so dreadful, so frightening that she had almost become paralyzed. That first time Coryn had sat there in the circle of folding chairs, her arms crossed, not entering in, not sharing, not participating.

  But something had happened there. She had seen people share their pain, their raw grief, pour out their deepest feelings, some of them negative ones. No one had criticized, no one had condemned or told them they shouldn’t be feeling that way. All Coryn had seen was warmth, compassion, friendliness. There had even been some laughter.

  She had gone back the next Monday and the next. Then one day a middle-aged man spoke about his wife. He was a good-looking man in his middle fifties, an executive type, solid and certainly not someone you would suspect of deep emotion or sensitivity.

  “Alzheimer’s is called the ‘long goodbye.’ It’s not like a stroke or a heart attack where a loved one goes suddenly, quickly. The family has to watch the person they know and love die by inches, lose them little by little. It’s harder than most people realize. They desperately want to hold on to the former personality they knew, not accept this stranger that person has become.” His voice cracked. “I’m losing my dearest friend, the love of my life—”

  At that point something inside Coryn broke. Tears welled up in her then poured out like an erupting dam. She put her head in her hands and sobbed heartbrokenly. She felt a stir around her, then arms hugging her, hands patting her, someone handing her a box of tissues. They just let her cry
. When at last she came to a stop, she felt surrounded by love and understanding, sympathy of the deepest kind.

  After that, Mondays were as much a part of her healing process as the daily swims. Coryn knew she was changing, that there was a new depth of feeling for others, for suffering of all kinds. She was growing and, as in all kinds of growth, there were growing pains.

  Reading became another resource. Not the bestsellers and novels that she used to enjoy. Now she searched bookstore shelves, asked some of the members in the Monday group what books they had found helpful. She regularly went to bookstores and concentrated on the self-help and religion sections. She found C. S. Lewis’s and Catherine Marshall’s books particularly helpful.

  Still, she felt she should do something more. She had the distinct feeling that more was expected of her. What, she wasn’t sure. She prayed that God would direct her path. Tell her what to do.

  Every day when she drove to the pool, she passed Shady Nook Rest Home. She wasn’t sure when she first began to notice the sign. However, after she did, she could not seem not to see it.

  Coryn had a natural aversion for nursing homes. From TV she retained fleeting impressions of corridors filled with old people strapped into wheelchairs, others leaning on walkers. Wrinkled faces, with vacant expressions, bleary eyes, hollow cheeks and waddling chins. She suppressed a shudder just imagining what it must be like at Shady Nook. What it would be like to be confined there.

  Day after day, an urgency grew within Coryn that she was supposed to do something. Take some kind of step. Although she recoiled from the idea, the conviction grew that it had something to do with Shady Nook Rest Home. It took root in her mind and heart. At last she could avoid it no longer.

  One morning on her way back from swimming, something compelled her to swing into the Shady Nook parking lot. For a full minute, she stayed in the car, her hands clutching the steering wheel, not wanting to let go.

  “I don’t want to do this,” she said aloud between clenched teeth.

  It didn’t matter. In another few seconds she was out of the car, walking up the steps and entering the lobby of the overheated building. Immediately the smells of disinfectant, cooking, plastic mingled, wrinkling Coryn’s nose in distaste.

  She forced herself to go up to the reception desk where a plump, gray-haired woman talked on the phone. Coryn felt the strong urge to turn and run. But she made herself stay until the woman was off the phone. She glanced at Coryn. “Yes?” she said. “Visiting hours are not until two.”

  “I didn’t come to visit,” Coryn said tightly. Then she heard herself ask, “I just wondered if you needed volunteers? Helpers of any kind.”

  The woman’s eyebrows lifted alarmingly. She looked at Coryn skeptically, taking in her still-damp hair, her gray sweats, running shoes. “Do we need help? Volunteers? We certainly do. What do you have in mind?”

  “What do you need doing?”

  “Good heavens! Everything! Clerical. Setting up food trays. Feeding patients. Taking them to physical therapy. You name it, we need it,” the woman declared. Then, as if in second thought, “Do you have any training?”

  “No, not really. But I think I could do any of the things you just mentioned.”

  “Good girl!” The woman smiled broadly. “When can you start?”

  It wasn’t easy. It was very hard for Coryn. But she knew she was doing what she’d been directed to do.

  Soon Coryn became a regular volunteer at Shady Nook Rest Home. In order to report to work the early shift, Coryn got her hair cut in a short style to minimize the drying time after her morning swim.

  The overworked staff at Shady Nook Rest Home welcomed her gratefully. She soon became one of their favorites.

  She was dependable, reliable. She always showed up on time, never phoned in with excuses not to report, worked diligently at whatever task assigned.

  It didn’t take long for Coryn to realize she was the one who was benefiting most by coming. Every time she spooned soup into a mouth twisted by a stroke, wiped dribble from a chin, assisted some disàbled elderly person from bed to chair, it was as if she heard an inner encouragement, “Assuredly, I say to you, inasmuch as you did it to one of the least of these My brethren, you did it to Me.”

  Coryn knew she was on training ground. One day, she didn’t know when, or how soon, her own beloved mother might need this kind of care. God was preparing her for whatever was to come.

  One afternoon as Coryn was stacking lunch trays into their rack in the kitchen area, Mrs. Dilworth the director of the nursing home spoke to her.

  “Miss Dodge, I’d like to speak to you for a few minutes, if you would stop by my office before you leave today?”

  “Yes, of course,” Coryn replied, wondering what she had done or not done, why and about what the director wanted to talk to her. She finished her task then went on to spray the vinyl table tops in the dining room and wipe the chrome surfaces. Funny, how she took pride in doing even the menial tasks assigned. It was also a matter of pride, doing a job well. Better watch that, she reminded herself, remembering what C. S. Lewis warned in Mere Christianity. Trying to be perfect at whatever you do had its traps.

  Finishing up, Coryn took off her blue volunteer smock and hung it in her locker in the staff room. Then went down the hall to the director’s office.

  At her knock a pleasant voice invited her to come in. Coryn opened the door and entered. She had never been in here before and she was surprised to find it looked decidedly unbusinesslike. The walls were painted a warm coral, a flourishing philodendron in a basket hung in the window and on a desk was a blossoming African violet.

  Mrs. Dilworth gave her a welcoming smile, “Do sit down, Miss Dodge. I’ve been wanting to talk to you but as you know this place keeps me extremely busy and the days go by…well, you understand.”

  Coryn took a seat in one of two velour upholstered chairs opposite the director’s desk.

  Mrs. Dilworth appeared to be in her mid-forties. She had a brisk, professional manner but twinkling eyes behind half glasses which hung from a chain around her neck. Her hair was a shade of auburn that perhaps was not its natural color but always perfectly coiffed.

  “I particularly want to commend you on your performance as a volunteer. Ever since you started here I’ve had glowing reports from members of our staff as well as our residents.”

  “Thank you, that’s very kind,” Coryn murmured, pleased by the compliment.

  “The reason I’ve asked you to come for this little chat today is, I wonder if you’d like to take on another kind of work here? You see, I’ve observed you, Miss Dodge, and your natural rapport with the ladies you come in contact with as a volunteer. You seem to be able to make them feel that you’re really interested in them as individuals, make them feel special.”

  “Well, I’ve come to be very fond of them.”

  “Yes, that’s obvious, Miss Dodge.” Mrs. Dilworth beamed. “That is why I’d like to suggest that you take over our Arts and Crafts program one day a week. The person who has been doing this is moving. Her husband is being transferred and we’ve been looking for someone who is creative and patient, that is almost equally important here. Some of our residents have various disabilities that make them unable to be very dextrous, as you very well know—but they enjoy the break in their schedule that this sort of change offers and they can try making simple things.” She paused. “I’ve seen the little cards and things you put on the trays and I’ve been touched as well as impressed. It is the sort of extra effort we like our residents to receive but seldom have been able to supply it.” Mrs. Dilworth tilted her head inquiringly. “Do you think you may want to take this on?”

  “I’ve never thought of doing something like this. The things you mention, well, I just did them for fun, really. And the ladies do seem to enjoy and appreciate them.”

  “Exactly. That’s just the sort of thing I mean.” Mrs. Dilworth nodded her head. “Easy, simple crafts that most of them will be able to handle.
And just have a good time trying.”

  The more she thought about it the more excited Coryn became. All sorts of craft projects began forming in her mind.

  The two women began exchanging various ideas Coryn could teach the ladies to make with a minimum of materials or skill.

  “I see I had only to mention this and you’re already way ahead of me.” Mrs. Dilworth smiled. “We can get well-intentioned people, fine volunteers to help us with the practical tasks but people of creativity and artistic ability are not so readily available. It would be a great favor to us if you would agree to do this job.”

  It began as such a small thing but within weeks the afternoon Arts and Crafts session in the recreation room became the focal point of the week. Certainly for the residents and also for Coryn. She found she was always trying to think of new items to present to her eager participants each time. The best part of it was their enthusiasm. How the old eyes shone with anticipation when she arrived those afternoons, how even the ones whose hands were troubled with arthritis and couldn’t handle a pair of scissors easily, still looked forward to the afternoon. Often the room rang with laughter, and quavery voices were raised happily as they worked and chatted.

  One afternoon, Coryn was cleaning up after a hilarious session making Easter bunny baskets for centerpieces at each table in the dining room. She found Mrs. Dilworth standing at the entrance of the recreation room.

  “Well, Miss Dodge, you seem to have had a successful afternoon. All the ladies seemed cheerful and lively.”

  “Yes, it was great fun,” Coryn agreed.

  Mrs. Dilworth’s expression turned thoughtful, “You’ve really done a remarkable job in this program. I wonder, have you ever thought of it as a career? Occupational therapy? There’s such a great need for it. Not only in places such as this, but in other institutions for victims recuperating from accidents and other traumas, for the physically and mentally challenged. People with that spark of creativity and the most important ingredient, compassion and understanding are rare.”