is December, and she is not snowed for about eighty three ... eighty-five years. Mrs.
can barely move. Their mobility is so small that I have to help her up the car to go to the council to manage the paperwork for the funeral of her late husband. Start
her conversation. I is that in these cases and situations I am very modest, and only talk if you so desire. I'd rather err on the side for maximum minimum. By default rather than boredom. I hate annoying. And I like to think that people who know I guess with some accuracy the need to silence or conversation in the other.
few things more irritating to hold talks inconvenient and tiresome when all you want is to tuck into a comfortable silence.
Well, as I said, it starts the conversation. As you say and how you say me clearly suggests that it is an educated woman, educated, very lucid. At one point in the conversation she tells me how her husband, who just passed away the previous day.
Her husband had more than four years interned in a clinic Oleiros area. He suffered from dementia and Alzheimer's disease. He had forgotten who he was, the face of his wife, could not recall a miserable time of his life. He had even forgotten swallowing the food, so they were fed intravenously. Then I said, without any presumption, very humbly, that it, in recent years, was the 365 days a year to visit her husband to accompany him to the clinic.
The old woman lives in Monte Alto. Until yesterday, it was from there where he climbed every evening after eating a bus taking her to the bus station to catch a bus there to let her district near the clinic Oleiros. That bus left it about 500 meters from the entrance of the clinic, so she said to which I have to help out of the car, and we negotiated for the council-traveled alone and on foot all the way, round trip, 1000 meters a day, 1 km, with much effort, by the roadside, close to the road.
I note that in the clinic spends two hours a day glued to the bed of her husband, talking, chewing your things, your day to day, their memories together, good and bad times they have gone through in the long run a shared life ... takes old photographs and the comments, I read magazines, says that a plant has died or has bought a new apron, very pretty, with yellow and green.
While he looks at the ceiling with his eyes open, like a broken doll with little sign of life to the arduous climb up and down on one breast, she takes her hand and talk, you rock, reassured him that extent so limited, so you can comfort someone who barely remembers and breathing.
After two hours of rigor this little old lady back on the road to tour heavily, the 500 meters separating it from the local bus stop. Take the vehicle that left the bus station again and take another bus back to town for the release near his home in Monte Alto.
And so every evening. 365 evenings a year. He says that never fails. Neither Christmas or New Year. And every Christmas brings you a gift. Things he liked before sick that she would adopt as chocolates with liquor in discs, rancheras and other books of intrigue and mystery objects stored neatly, even after their particular ritual gift delivery to the husband and kiss on the forehead in a section the locker room of the clinic, because it is more than evident that he never will be able to use.
While Hall back in the car radio, a voice of an announcer talks about the strong morning love that has arisen between a goalkeeper and TV presenter, love you both enjoy between gimmicky public kisses, cheers, sports cars, dinner by moonlight in fancy restaurants and vacations do not know what some exotic beaches.
And I then when I smile inside, thinking what they know, each other, what is or is not love ... Indeed, my dear old?
Perhaps when some of them have to take 4 buses a day and walking with difficulty 1000 meters to the side of a road to bring liquor chocolates to someone that no longer recognizes you ... maybe then they can start to talk, to tell us something, to get you or I sit down to listen, right?. Not before.
But I say nothing of what I think. At least not out loud. You know I only speak when I sense the need, so help again to get out and take my leave of her, possibly forever.
CONCLUSION: What is a story of Christmas without gifts? Something very little Christmas, right?
For in this true story it has its liquor chocolates, she well deserved rest and respite may last ... and I feel easily have been overcome, thanks to both of the equations of the complex life that I have dealt with what the thing would be, more or less like this: 365 days
daily buses +4 +1000 feet shoulder a box of chocolates + liquor + words and caresses and generous detached mid-afternoon = LOVE.
would lack the reindeer, the three wise men and three camels, some spirit of Christmas past and present flying over the rooftops and chimneys of the city ... but the truth is I do not know where to put them in this kind of strange Christmas story with buses, liqueur chocolates and yellow shirts.
All I know is that we were in December and snowing ... but it was worth. Greetings
Jim White.
can barely move. Their mobility is so small that I have to help her up the car to go to the council to manage the paperwork for the funeral of her late husband. Start
her conversation. I is that in these cases and situations I am very modest, and only talk if you so desire. I'd rather err on the side for maximum minimum. By default rather than boredom. I hate annoying. And I like to think that people who know I guess with some accuracy the need to silence or conversation in the other.
few things more irritating to hold talks inconvenient and tiresome when all you want is to tuck into a comfortable silence.
Well, as I said, it starts the conversation. As you say and how you say me clearly suggests that it is an educated woman, educated, very lucid. At one point in the conversation she tells me how her husband, who just passed away the previous day.
Her husband had more than four years interned in a clinic Oleiros area. He suffered from dementia and Alzheimer's disease. He had forgotten who he was, the face of his wife, could not recall a miserable time of his life. He had even forgotten swallowing the food, so they were fed intravenously. Then I said, without any presumption, very humbly, that it, in recent years, was the 365 days a year to visit her husband to accompany him to the clinic.
The old woman lives in Monte Alto. Until yesterday, it was from there where he climbed every evening after eating a bus taking her to the bus station to catch a bus there to let her district near the clinic Oleiros. That bus left it about 500 meters from the entrance of the clinic, so she said to which I have to help out of the car, and we negotiated for the council-traveled alone and on foot all the way, round trip, 1000 meters a day, 1 km, with much effort, by the roadside, close to the road.
I note that in the clinic spends two hours a day glued to the bed of her husband, talking, chewing your things, your day to day, their memories together, good and bad times they have gone through in the long run a shared life ... takes old photographs and the comments, I read magazines, says that a plant has died or has bought a new apron, very pretty, with yellow and green.
While he looks at the ceiling with his eyes open, like a broken doll with little sign of life to the arduous climb up and down on one breast, she takes her hand and talk, you rock, reassured him that extent so limited, so you can comfort someone who barely remembers and breathing.
After two hours of rigor this little old lady back on the road to tour heavily, the 500 meters separating it from the local bus stop. Take the vehicle that left the bus station again and take another bus back to town for the release near his home in Monte Alto.
And so every evening. 365 evenings a year. He says that never fails. Neither Christmas or New Year. And every Christmas brings you a gift. Things he liked before sick that she would adopt as chocolates with liquor in discs, rancheras and other books of intrigue and mystery objects stored neatly, even after their particular ritual gift delivery to the husband and kiss on the forehead in a section the locker room of the clinic, because it is more than evident that he never will be able to use.
While Hall back in the car radio, a voice of an announcer talks about the strong morning love that has arisen between a goalkeeper and TV presenter, love you both enjoy between gimmicky public kisses, cheers, sports cars, dinner by moonlight in fancy restaurants and vacations do not know what some exotic beaches.
And I then when I smile inside, thinking what they know, each other, what is or is not love ... Indeed, my dear old?
Perhaps when some of them have to take 4 buses a day and walking with difficulty 1000 meters to the side of a road to bring liquor chocolates to someone that no longer recognizes you ... maybe then they can start to talk, to tell us something, to get you or I sit down to listen, right?. Not before.
But I say nothing of what I think. At least not out loud. You know I only speak when I sense the need, so help again to get out and take my leave of her, possibly forever.
CONCLUSION: What is a story of Christmas without gifts? Something very little Christmas, right?
For in this true story it has its liquor chocolates, she well deserved rest and respite may last ... and I feel easily have been overcome, thanks to both of the equations of the complex life that I have dealt with what the thing would be, more or less like this: 365 days
daily buses +4 +1000 feet shoulder a box of chocolates + liquor + words and caresses and generous detached mid-afternoon = LOVE.
would lack the reindeer, the three wise men and three camels, some spirit of Christmas past and present flying over the rooftops and chimneys of the city ... but the truth is I do not know where to put them in this kind of strange Christmas story with buses, liqueur chocolates and yellow shirts.
All I know is that we were in December and snowing ... but it was worth. Greetings
Jim White.
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