Kathleen's Gone Missing
Female, white, 76 years old, white hair, green eyes
I opened the door to her tiny room, single bed, one chair, half a closet, small clock, big numbers, thankfully a decent workable bathroom. Staring back at me, I saw myself. Long gray hair, spirited green eyes, big smile. Loves to chat.
She remembered us from the neighborhood, although pieces were missing. When Kathleen went missing. Timelines aren’t kept in black boxes with neon numbers pressed onto a wall, labeled Philips. Or foreign boxes labeled “memory care.” Headlights passing outside the confines in shades of young and strong.
And here we were. Younger, stronger. As the clock ticks. One of us with time wired in a perpetual time limit, the other with endless time, visiting lost time. Instantly, she went to the modest closet where her necessary life’s belongings were kept, and removed her medium sized purse, excitedly pulling out an envelope packed with mostly “home printer pictures,” various old business cards, odds and ends.
8.5 x 11 folded papers of cats that looked like her “Tommy Boy,” a few smaller “real” pictures of him, a scattering of Christmas cards, mostly neighbors, children smiling. “Aren’t children so precious,” she said. “I can’t believe them.” “I don’t know children well, their ages, what they do.” “This is my Tommy, or I think it’s what he looked like, I don’t know.” “Yes, they are,” I said, “children are treasures,” looking through her small array of treasures. “And isn’t Tommy beautiful.” Will I be clinging to an envelope too? I thought.
“Tommy went to live with Dr. Bory and I am so happy for him. He loves Dr. Bory’s cat.” “I don’t know if he was lost at the hotel.” “I don’t know what happened.” “We were going to the doctor’s new office, out, you know, out in Yippee-yi-u-ki-pee-ya and my car zonked out on a hill, you know, (waving her hands). I think I walked with him to the hotel by the vet office, we were almost there, with his cat carrier thingy. I don’t remember.” “Then it was stolen.” “Your car?” I said. “My car,” she said, as the pickpocketer rifled through her beautiful mind. “Someone found him I think.” “But I know I’d never leave my Tommy.” “I think I might see him.” “Dr. Bory was here and I thought maybe I would see Tommy. I don’t know if that will be good, maybe it’s not so good,” she trailed off.
Like a mother who gave up her child. Would it be fair, she thought, to the one and only living thing she had left to love? I found myself in her coherency wondering. “I do know this,” looking at her, “Tommy had the best mom and now he has the best dad and a friend to play with. Maybe you can talk to Dr. Bory about it.”
Kathleen never had children. I don’t know if she was ever married. The only family left was a sister-in-law in the South. Parents, two brothers, and another sister-in-law had passed years before. She loved her local veterinarian, “her boyfriend,” (a funny joke she exclaimed, wondering out loud about “his poor wife”), who she left in charge of her estate. She had arranged this years ago. He came through like a shining star. A local veterinarian, 26 years in business, with a patient who chose him to help her if and when. Whenever the time came.
Could this fiercely independent woman, Kathleen, have predicted memory loss so young? So sudden or subtle?
A little home two blocks south, across from the elementary school, butted up to the crosswalk. Her neighbors loved her and she them. A bit ornery at times, I could tell she missed the sounds of children. She kept coming back to their faces in the pictures. “Aren’t children amazing?” “This is Cameron. Do you know him?” “He gave me all his Halloween candy.” “Not sure he wanted to, she laughed.” “Do you know him?” “Yes, he is so happy to have his best friend living in your home, right next door. They play all the time,” I said, wondering if I should have. Her mind wandered quietly for a minute. Kathleen is still in her home. Her things too. But probably not. “I don’t know where they took my things, perhaps all my stuff is in the garage,” she said. “Perhaps,” I said.
When Kathleen spoke it was as if talking faster would help her catch the words that might not come.
Life had been Kathleen’s way, her routine, her home in the little town where her parents first settled on a ranch, for as long as she could remember. That was before she made the local news. She told us proudly: “my dad was a mounted sheriff.” “You know he loved his horses and I loved them too. I think I was just a young girl when one was taken away. I don’t know if he went down or was going to be put down, he was young, I think, but dad never talked about it after I saw the trailer pull away. I saw his tail and legs on the ground of that trailer before they shut the door. I watched from my bedroom window. I don’t know what happened,” she said sadly.
Funny how age and memory bring us back to our first home. Our parents. Their stoicism wrapped in unanswered life-long questions. I’ve seen this before. My husband’s mom. Her unanswered childhood questions. Parents she rarely spoke about, referring to her dad as “Daddy.”
Peanut butter cups, diet coke, Doritos. Rebellion perhaps? When you know you know. Who’s coming by to judge? Family? no. The little children especially loved her. She brought smiles to those who saw her in the garden, cats in the window, walking her beloved dog, complaining about “those ill-mannered teenagers riding their big bikes on the sidewalk, practically mowing me down.” But no one saw the initial decline that lead so quickly to her road trip. The house key she couldn’t find hanging around her neck, because a neighbor thought she might remember it next time, suddenly turned into, “where’s Kathleen?”
I wonder how many Kathleens exist in the shadows of bustling streets.
Thousands. Millions around the world. Many are just like Kathleen, independent, until they’re not, or they are widows the same. I know too many widows close to my age. Some with attentive kids or “too busy” kids — others with none. Many trying to look out after their own aging parents living into their 90s.
Maybe we should check up on each other a bit more often? I know I need to. The love thy neighbor thing — It’s definitely been God’s big joke in our marriage. But we keep trying anyways.
It was good to see you my friend. Maybe that sweet little baby’s voice, you keep hearing, cooing in the ceiling vent, is God saying you are never alone.
I thank God for the neighbors who noticed in a world where noticing is a commodity. We thank Him, Kathleen, for your wisdom and smart planning. We are so grateful you are finally home, near your neighborhood, away from the temporary facility where your car forgot it’s way.
We are thankful for our community, where all good things begin, for the people who love people and animals. For our first responders, who found you last November.
You picked a stellar veterinarian boyfriend Kathleen :) Even if “they feed you too much” at the new place.
We’re all here.
The neighborhood loves you.
“We love you.” Blowing kisses goodbye.
She walked us to the exit, with an attendant, threw her hands in the air and said, “see? I told you I never hear that. Some people love me.”
Until next time Kathleen.
ox
Photo above: by me.
This was a tender read, Deb. You described her well. I have an elderly neighbour in my street and she is dear. Been here on this row since 1969, incredibly active despite her age and a huge animal lover. Saw her a few weeks ago and she was on the way to the Chinese ‘I’m going to share it with my dog’ - which I thought was so sweet. The older we grow, the more we ponder our own fate, for better or worse. We see what we’d like and we see what we don’t want but ultimately we may not get that much say in it.
My dad often talked about his grandma who lived with them. She would leave the house randomly and the kids would have to bring her back. I imagined her to be a weathered Polish woman who was alone after her husband was gone, moving into the farmhouse in Lowell, Michigan. She was a stranger to the country she came to and probably was confused by language, customs, the land and relied on dad's grandpa a lot. Maybe she went out of the house to look for the place she left.
Everybody has a story. I wish everyone could tell theirs. I think
I would be more patient, less anxious, less worried and have more empathy if I could read them ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️