By Michele-Shérie Porter
It’s all about the people — connecting with others while walking into unknown territory, sharing experiences, celebrating life and comforting through hard times. As a property manager, I supervised many different types of residential properties throughout Southern California.
Several years ago, I had the opportunity to live and work with senior citizens as an onsite property manager of a Section 8 apartment complex. This was nothing like what I knew about my own grandparents. My maternal grandmother lived with us for seven years before she became ill. My paternal grandparents cared for my two children on a daily basis from the time they were toddlers until grade school. this experience was different.
Sixty-two year olds moved into the 200 unit, 12 story building and lived there the remainder of their life. Some residents socialized with their neighbors and some kept to themselves. Their daily schedules wrapped around doctor appointments and trips to the senior center. A few energetic 90 year olds glided past 72 year olds with a walker, while others on scooters seemed to purposely run over those moving too slowly. No matter their age or background, these seniors seemed to be the ones with the most to offer the world and they forever changed me.
Each year, each senior had the daunting task of reapplying for the government housing allowance. Many were fearful that they would not requalify, thus losing their housing. Some were too ill to collect the necessary financial documents needed and some just didn’t comprehend what was needed at the annual, recertification appointment. Family rarely visited and were not often available to help with such details.
During one recertification appointment, a particular woman stood out from all the others. The overweight woman, who sat hunched at my desk, wore loose clothing that hid her large and sagging breasts, unrestricted by the confines of any type of conventional brassiere. Her short and unbrushed, dark, gray hair had greasy streaks of white. The woman struggled to fill out the paperwork, which seemed to her more laborious than it should have been.
A small oxygen tank was her most coveted and most hated companion. The oxygen tubes were somehow wrapped around her like algae. Her eyeglasses magnified the loss of years gone by. Darth Vader like gasps for air opposed the melodious ticking of the oxygen machine and seemed unusually loud in the room. She said nothing as she completed the paperwork. When she finished, she silently left the office on her electric scooter for the elevator and back to her one bedroom apartment. She had never uttered one word the entire time and I never saw her again.
A few months later, I received a phone call from the woman’s optometrist. “She would never miss an appointment”, claimed the doctor. “She made the appointment six months in advance and she has never been late before. The woman was now an hour overdue. “Could someone do a welfare check on her?” the doctor asked.
The tiny apartment was not how I expected. Bright sunlight flooded the woman’s home. The living room was comfortable and cozy, but modestly decorated. Her sofa was on the right wall and a desk on the opposite wall. An easy chair faced the balcony door and a microwaveable, tv tray with partially consumed peas and white rice appeared dry from sitting at least one night. A tall bookcase stood to the left of the window. Books about art masters, famous literary works and life time reads adorned the shelves. Above the woman’s desk, on the white, concrete wall hung many, delicate, watercolor paintings of laughing children, dogs freely romping in the countryside, and brightly colored flower bouquets. Where the dining table should have been was a long table spread with glass jars full of well-worn brushes, a large selection of well used paints, and stacks of blank, watercolor paper. A multitude of clear, plastic boxes full of more paints, colored pencils and other art supplies were neatly stacked underneath leaving just enough space to fit the electric scooter.
To the right of the table hung a small plate. Tiny mosaic pieces in sea shell white, sand, and tan decorated the plate in the form of the second letter of the Hebrew alphabet, “Bet”, meaning House of God.
The woman who painted multicolored pictures full of life and joy now sat permanently slumped in her scooter in the kitchen. She looked peaceful, as if she were just sleeping, her chin resting on her collarbone. The oxygen tubes were still wrapped around her, but the machine no longer ticked and the Darth Vader sounds had stopped. I softly called her name in case I might startle her, but she didn’t respond. Her arm did not feel warm. I prayed for direction and asked God why I only saw her daily struggle to continue day by day. I did not see the fullness of life in her before she passed over. Tears immediately flooded my eyes and my heart wept with grief. Never before had I felt this compassion for anyone in this way. I felt God say, “I sent you to mourn her death because no one would do it”.
When the woman’s brother and sister-in-law came down from San Francisco to clean out the apartment, the brother too was surprised by the lively art that hung on the wall. He said that they had lost touch over the years, after an argument, but he was glad that she still had the mosaic plate that they had made together in their teenage years. He would keep that. The remaining art supplies would be donated to the woman’s friends at the Jewish senior center. Within three days, all that belonged to the woman had been removed. The apartment now lay bare and empty, the woman’s earthly life temporarily beheld only by friends and family in memories that will soon evaporate into the depths of time.
Now as I meet new people, I hunger to know who they are and what makes them feel alive. I treasure each moment spoken with strangers and friends alike. Each person has so much to offer this world and we have so much to discover in one another. I will always stop to listen to each one who wants to share their light. Because they matter.
This vignette was written by Michele-Shérie Porter, Realtor ® at Providential Real Estate in San Diego, California. CA
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Michele-Shérie Porter - Your San Diego Real Estate Broker 