Just two older people sharing coffee and conversation.
I managed to save the $300 for the certification course. It took three months of eating rice with eggs almost every day, three months without Thursday coffee, three months of walking instead of taking the bus when I could.
But I did it.
I enrolled in the course.
It started in two weeks: six weeks of night classes three times a week.
Dr. Stevens let me adjust my schedule.
“I’m proud of you,” he told me. “Many people would give up. You’re fighting.”
“I have no other choice,” I said.
“There are always choices,” he replied. “Giving up is one. You chose to fight.”
The night before the course started, Margaret came over with cheap wine and a bag of tacos.
“Preemptive celebration,” she announced. “For your new beginning.”
We ate sitting on the floor because I only had one chair. We drank from plastic cups because I still hadn’t bought glasses.
And for the first time in months, I felt something close to happiness.
“You know what’s incredible?” Margaret said, cheeks pink from wine. “Despite everything, you’re still here. Stronger. More yourself than when you lived in that big apartment taking care of everyone but you.”
“I don’t feel stronger,” I admitted.
“But you are,” she insisted. “Six months ago you would’ve stayed paralyzed. You moved. You rebuilt. That is strength.”
The course was intense. We learned care techniques for reduced mobility, basic medical emergencies, hygiene protocols, and the legal aspects of professional care. There were twenty students. I was the oldest.
Some looked at me with curiosity, but most treated me with respect.
I made a friend there too—another Alice, not my yoga Alice. This Alice was about fifty, recently divorced.
“My husband left with a woman twenty years younger,” she said bitterly during a break. “Left me with nothing. I have to reinvent myself or starve.”
“I’m reinventing myself too,” I told her.
She asked why, and I gave her a short version: my son, the apartment, the betrayal.
She shook her head. “Children can be cruel,” she said. “My daughter took her father’s side. Says I drove him away with my demands. My demands were that he not cheat.”
We laughed, dark humor shared between women who had been broken and were still standing.
Six weeks passed. The exams were hard, but I passed them all.
I received my certification in a small ceremony at the community center. Margaret came. Dr. Stevens came. Arthur came. The yoga women came.
Rose hugged me tight. “We’re proud of you,” she said. “Look at what you’ve done.”
With certification in hand, I applied to agencies. The response was immediate—demand, a lot, especially for someone with my experience.
One agency offered me night care for a ninety-two-year-old woman with dementia. Eight hours a night, six nights a week, $15 an hour.
That was $120 a night. $720 a week. About $2,800 a month.
More money than I had seen in years.
I accepted immediately.
The patient was named Mrs. Connie. She lived in a big house in the Gold Coast with her daughter, Jessica.
Yes—another Jessica. The universe had a cruel sense of humor.
But this Jessica was different: kind, exhausted from caring for her mother alone for years.
“My mother doesn’t sleep well,” she explained. “She gets up, wanders, gets confused. She needs someone to keep her safe, guide her back to bed. Can you do that?”
“Of course,” I said.
The job was easier than I expected. Mrs. Connie was sweet when she wasn’t confused. She called me honey. She told stories of her youth, changing details every time. At two in the morning, she asked where her husband was, dead for thirty years.
I told her he was sleeping in the other room.
It calmed her.
The nights were long but quiet. I read while she slept. I did crosswords. I thought.
I thought about Lucas. About whether he was happy. About whether Leo ran down the hallways I once cleaned. About whether Jessica had changed the furniture again. About whether they ever thought of me at all.
One night, three months after I started, Jessica—the daughter—brought me coffee.
“Eleanor,” she said, “I want you to know how much I appreciate what you do. For my mother and for me. I couldn’t do it alone.”
“It’s my job,” I said.
“It’s more than that,” she insisted. “You care for her with affection. Not everyone does. I’ve had caregivers who only saw a paycheck. You see a person.”
Her words moved me, because she was right. I saw Mrs. Connie as a woman who had once been young and strong and full of life. She had loved, lost, and kept going—like me.
“My mother died five years ago,” Jessica continued. “My blood mom. Mrs. Connie is my mother-in-law, but I take care of her as if she were mine. Because that’s what you do when you love someone. You take care of them even when it costs you.”
I stayed silent, thinking of Lucas, wondering if he believed that too, or if he had convinced himself the lockout was “for the best.”
The money began to accumulate. $2,800 a month plus my pension plus occasional clinic shifts. Suddenly I had about $3,500 monthly.
I paid rent. I bought food without fear. I breathed easier.
I opened a savings account and deposited $1,000 every month. For some people it’s nothing. For me it was freedom—proof I would never be completely vulnerable again.
Leave a Comment