Friday night I was at an event and a man spoke and referred to caregivers as doulas. Normally we think of doulas as people who help bring babies into this world. But there are also people who help others leave this world and enter the next. As I listened to him I was like wait...that's me.
I have worked as a caregiver for about twenty-four years. The first person I worked with on a steady basis was my grandfather. He had Alzheimer's and I witnessed him morph from a rock, stern, strong and gentle man whose smile was like a painting, to someone who didn't know my name, or his, or anything five minutes from when he was last asked.
I remember him as a brilliant man who kept a lawn so perfect it looked like carpet. Strangers used to knock on the door to compliment the gardener. He played chess and taught Sunday School, could argue his point to the ground. He was a deacon and sang songs during devotion. Once he was in front leading the church in prayer and when he was finished, one of the parishioners said he was speaking so low he could hardly be heard. "Because I wasn't talking to you." Was his response. Granddaddy had clapback.
He passed in '96. I continued to stay with my grandmother and watched her go through her own bout of dementia. She went on home in '97.
I continued to work as the artist I was born to be and also took on more clients. Most of them had some form of dementia. It was a calling for me. I was able to relate to them and their families. I could empathize with them seeing their loved ones shift into what seemed like a shell of their former selves.
I've worked for agencies, in a hospice, and assisted in senior care centers. All these years later I'm still saying yes to my call as an artist as well as this...doula. This space holder for those transitioning into the next life.
I whisper prayers over them and tell stories and sing songs and cook food. My songs and food are not my highlights. But I do love up on all of them.
I've had my challenges and have had some difficult clients. But we're all difficult in our own ways I guess.
There was Claire, not her name, who was a white woman, ninety-nine years old. We were traveling via Access van to her home from an appointment. We had a young Black man as our driver. When we got to her home he parked behind the driveway of her apartment. She wanted him to block the driveway. Of course he couldn't do that. "Pull up right here." She instructed. He looked at me. "Oh, you don't understand me? I'll say it in your language. Pull up raat cheer." Claire was a piece of work. I didn't have too many Claires. Enough though. After her, I stopped dealing with agencies for good and have been blessed with great clients. Some not so great. But ain't that life? After Claire there was Emma, not her name either. I still work with her. She holds my hands safe in hers like a prayer every time I see her. "I was just talking to Papa about you. I told him how much I love you and how great you are." She tells me this all the time. Emma is wonderful and one hundred three years old and is a strong and firey Black woman.
Thankfully I have kept a full load of clients. I get to hear stories I wouldn't hear if I didn't know them. Some stories I hear over and over and over. And that's ok too.
Every year I say I'm done. Because I need my time. To travel. To love up on myself. My family. Closing time is coming, maybe sooner than later. But right now I'm here. Ushering souls with love on their journey.
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