Maria was a tiny El Salvadorian lady who I saw four times a week in one of the nursing homes where I worked. She was about four foot tall, with long, grey hair in a bun, and a giant skirt that exploded out from underneath her breasts. I don't mind admitting that Maria was probably my favourite old lady. She had quite advanced dementia.
Maria spoke only in Spanish, so I started calling her "Mama", and the name was soon taken up by some of the carers. Having a smattering of Spanish, I could inject a word here and there into our conversations, backed up with exaggerated facial expressions. Every time I saw her, Mama would ask about "tu esposo" (my husband), and I would shake my head and sadly tell her "no esposo", to which information she would look suitably sympathetic.
Mama's own esposo had died some years before, but she had a photo of him on her bedside table, and she would feed him with her dinner. Consequently, there was a permanent smear of mashed vegetables on the glass that cleaning staff would wipe off every now and again.
Mama loved to draw, and her walls would be decorated with her pencil and crayon creations. Eventually, the activities staff covered the walls of her room in large sheets of butchers' paper, so that she could continue creating what I imagined to be rainbow-coloured angels and the Virgin Mary.
The worst times for Mama and for staff were the days when she had to have a shower and a change of clothes. Staff, understandably, dreaded the drama of trying to undress her and get her into the shower. Screams would ensue, and Mama would accuse carers of stealing her clothes. However, after the fracas, she would be clean and tidy and settled in her chair.
There were five daughters who visited often, although it was painful for the youngest, who had been born years later than her sisters, with a different father. Mama would not, could not, acknowledge her. This was obviously very upsetting for that daughter.
I really miss those old people that I saw every day of the working week. There was such a "nakedness" between us, at times, that it was transcendental. I suppose she is probably dead, now.
