Faded memory

This Christmas I volunteered to help deliver presents to some of the residents at the care home where my mother lives. The presents are organized by a local charity called Seniors Secret Service.

The mission of Seniors Secret Service is “to enhance the quality of life for individuals 60 years or older who are alone or isolated in the community.” The organization exists through the generosity of donors and volunteers and runs several programs throughout the year including Birthday Cheer, Christmas Cheer and an Emergency Care Program which provides basic essentials such as clothing and toiletries to isolated seniors who are taken into hospital or long-term care.

Each recipient receives a big box of goodies curated to their interests and needs. And I mean a BIG box! Most of the presents were wrapped individually and part of my role was to assist the resident unwrap the gifts. Which meant I also got to see each present and their reaction. That was my gift.

One of my deliveries was to ‘Glenda’, she’s in her mid 50’s with sparkling eyes and lovely long hair. Glenda is an artist and loves to colour and draw, she was overjoyed to receive felt pens and colouring books. There were also hair ribbons and bows, a beautiful soft blanket, new pajama pants and a zip-up sweater. We talked about the washing instructions for the sweater and Glenda told me her father was looking for a new place for them to live and she’d be doing her own laundry soon. Glendas father, and mother, are both deceased. Glenda is sweet and gentle and is not going to do her own laundry.

‘Donna’ was my second delivery, she is a reader and a story-teller. Donna told me about her mother who worked full-time which meant Donna had to look after her little brother. Then Donna told me a story about her brother: Little Brother went to a store called Merchants, like a Five and Dime, and Little Brother stole a bunch of toys. He knew he couldn’t keep the toys so he dug a hole and buried them in the back garden. Every day Little Brother would go out back, dig up the toys and play with them, then re-bury them. While telling me this story Donna smiled and gestured, demonstrating her brother digging the hole and burying his stolen treasures. I have no idea if the story is true or something she read in a book but I was entranced. Four of Donnas gifts were novels, and once all the presents were opened she chose a book to read, thanked me profusely for the visit and we said goodbye.

I spent an hour with each person and feel so grateful to have been part of their joy. Part of their Christmas story. All of the people I met that day live on the same floor as my mum but I hadn’t actually MET them, hadn’t exchanged more than a smile or a hello when visiting mum. They were interesting, caring and they know what they like.

I know that the next time I see them our visit will probably have faded from their memory. And that’s okay, because I’ll remember.