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.”
“I’ve never even considered it. In fact, I don’t think I ever considered there was a career possibility in work like this,” Coryn answered.
“I suggest you should look into it. I believe the local college has a course. Classes you could take. Why don’t you check it out?”
Mrs. Dilworth planted a small seed that day. One that began to grow in Coryn the more she thought about it. What she had been desperately searching for was a purpose for her life. Now a new direction had been pointed out to her. One for which she had a natural talent. A gift as Mrs. Dilworth had put it. Scripture said, “All good gifts come from above.” Was this her gift?
Coryn was awed how it had come, by a seemingly circuitous route. Yet she was convinced nothing happened by chance. “God works in mysterious ways.” Coryn had heard that phrase most of her life. Now she believed it.
When she investigated the courses the local college offered, she found there were two classes starting in the spring semester. She signed up for both. One was a psychology class, another in communications skills, both requisites for a degree as an occupational therapist. There were other courses she would have to take to earn enough credits to actually become a qualified therapist.
Coryn added school two evenings a week. For the first time in her life felt she was doing what she was supposed to be doing, that she had found her niche.
To have a goal for herself was the best therapy she could have found, she soon realized. Instead of groping just to maintain her own emotional balance in her increasingly difficult family situation, she now had a definite purpose, a potential new career, which offered her the fulfillment and satisfaction she’d been searching for.