I had chosen a facility close to home so I could walk there. Simplify, simplify, simplify: I was following the three principles meant to free time for what truly matters, a philosophy Henry David Thoreau developed during the two years he spent living in the woods at Walden.
The long-term care residence for seniors with advanced loss of autonomy had four floors and roughly a hundred private rooms. Like real estate listings boasting curtain colors, its brochure listed as many features as possible, sometimes to the point of absurdity (they celebrated the installation of a vending machine). Nevertheless, I see the benefit of not having to run to the bodega for a refreshment—nearly impossible for many residents, and time-consuming during visits already too rare and too brief.
“Hello,” I said to the receptionist after stepping through the automatic doors.
I waited for the employee to lift her eyes from her phone, which gave me time to observe her pallid face framed by not-so-clean hair.
“I have some free time, and I’d like to volunteer,” I said once her gaze met mine.
She wouldn’t have looked more surprised if I’d told her my name was Céline Dion.
“Uh…”
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| A few armchairs surrounded a table |
“I’d go see people who don’t get many visitors. Would that be possible?” I added, smiling.
It was.
Unlike some large care chains, I didn’t have to fill out an online form or answer endless questions—whether I’d recently lost a loved one, or what my views on aging were. Absolutely, I approved of protecting the residents. Yet, to me, probing minds and psychoanalyzing motivations felt closer to adoption procedures and seemed less relevant here.
After speaking with the owner of the facility and providing identification, we agreed I would return once my background check was complete.
When I came back on a Friday morning, three weeks had passed.
“I suppose you can go to room 31, to see Lucile Talbot,” said the same receptionist. “I don’t think she has had a visitor in the four years I’ve worked here.”
“Oh wow… Tell me, is there anything about Mrs. Talbot I should know and you could share?”
“The resident is showing early signs of dementia,” Laura said. “Maybe not ideal for your first experience. However, at this stage, regular interaction can still occur.”
I was surprised that a receptionist knew so much about the residents’ diagnoses. My forgivable ignorance—and my snap judgment of her appearance—had misled me. It made sense that the person overseeing comings and goings would know each resident’s situation.
“Just a moment,” Laura said. “I’ll have the resident brought down. That’ll be better than going upstairs.”
Laura picked up the phone and gestured for me to sit in one of the lobby chairs. A few minutes later, an elderly woman appeared, supported by a caregiver in a smock. Small and frail, she wore a heavy dress. Cheerfully, the man said,
“I told you you had a visitor, Mrs. Talbot!”
I stood gently, greeted the employee, and held out my hand to the resident.
“Hello, ma’am. My name is Sabrina Pratt.”
“Hello!” the woman replied in a high, bright voice.
Still holding the senior, the caregiver motioned for me to follow them. We turned left into a common area, then stopped at a door where he entered a code on a wall keypad, unlocking access to a shared room. Inside, a few armchairs surrounded a table. At the bottom of a basket lay individually wrapped wafers. The man helped Mrs. Talbot sit down, then pointed toward the refrigerated vending machine.
“I’ll be back in half an hour, all right?”
“Perfect,” I said, while the resident stared at the wall with a vacant expression.
I sat across from her, waited a moment, and spoke.
“Hello… Hello, Mrs. Talbot. How are you?”
“Well, you know… we’re short on hedgehogs…”
I nodded in agreement. Most of what I knew came from works of fiction (among which The Bear Came over the Mountain, Alice Munro’s short story, which became Sarah Polley’s movie Away from Her; Still Alice, Lisa Genova’s novel and its film adaptation by Wash Westmoreland; Wrinkles, Paco Roca’s graphic novel; and Patrice Leconte’s farcical movie One Hour of Calm, with a scenario by Florian Zeller, with its magnificent ending). From what I understood, randomly correcting the speech of people with neurodegenerative diseases only highlighted their condition, frustrated them, or even humiliated them.
“Are you hungry?” I asked, pointing to the basket of cookies.
“Never! Are you trying to poison me?”
“I’m sorry. You are right. I came by car,” I said, hoping to divert the negativity I’d unintentionally stirred.
“And?”
“And… I wanted to see you today.”
It was subtle, but the resident’s wilted features softened. Encouraged, I stood, walked around the table, and rested my hands on the chair beside Mrs. Talbot.
“May I?”
“By all means, dear. No need for formalities between the two of us.”
“All right. Thank you… Listen. I wanted to tell you… You’re a remarkable woman. I enjoy spending time with you!”
I felt embarrassed—ashamed, really. What a foolish idea. I was only going to confuse the good woman further. Was she wondering who I was? Was she searching through tangled memories? Who was this middle-aged stranger claiming to care about her? Of course, I should have prepared conversation topics.
Against all odds, Lucile Talbot replied,
“You’re telling me!”
Though the phrase sounded automatic, I sensed something lighthearted in her tone.
“Therefore, I just wanted to congratulate you… to thank you.”
“Well, that’s what it means to be a mother.”
Unsettled, I let the hushed, poetic atmosphere linger before redirecting the conversation.
“Would you like something cold to drink?”
I thought of the controversy over food too late. Would she accuse me again? Quickly, I added,
“I’m going to get a Tropico.”
“Me too. Like always! See, I remember.”
“Wonderful!”
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| “I’m going to get a Tropico.” |
I fed the coins into the machine and received two turquoise cans decorated with a parrot—a blessing after all, that vending machine, and my habit of still carrying cash inside my wallet. The drink seemed to stir memories, so I followed that thread.
“When I drink a Tropico, I feel a bit like I’m on vacation.”
“Exactly. Just look at us,” she said, opening her can.
She added,
“That’s what it means to be your mother.”
OMG. This time, Lucile had said your mother. To me—how had the woman foreseen, by what intuition, what quiet sensitivity had she designed to forge this bond between us?
As we sipped the sweet liquid in small gulps, she let out a sound “mmmh.”
“It’s good, isn’t it?”
“That’s because they add gravel,” the woman said knowingly.
She then made as if to stand, and the timing aligned perfectly with the half hour appointed with the caregiver. Clearly, in certain ways—and despite the obvious—Lucile Talbot held some striking aptitudes.
photo #1 © in collaboration with Chat GPT.