The Interpreter

The Interpreter

Miss Carrie looked good, considering. She had been in this place for a couple of months, ever since she'd had a stroke and lost the ability to speak well. She still wore layers of clothing, as she always did for as long as I have known her, but this time I felt it was justified. The room was cold. I was glad I had worn a sweater that day. Miss Carrie was only wearing one sock, but the rest of her was covered pretty well, except for her skinny lower legs, which dangled over the side of her bed.

Miss Carrie's roommate was not there; she had gone to dinner. Miss Carrie was assisted more frequently by a nurse when the roommate was out, to make sure she didn't need anything, but the constant intrusion was annoying to Miss Carrie.

Today, my pastor, his wife, and my husband and I had come to give Miss Carrie first Sunday communion. Her nurse had stepped out of the room so that we could perform the ritual with Miss Carrie, but she returned soon after we were done.

The nurse began to talk to us, telling us how things had been going with Miss Carrie. The pastor and his wife spoke to the nurse about Carrie's family - who had visited, how they had been helping her, recalling relatives they had not seen in ages, how Miss Carrie was fairing overall - the typical conversation. My husband and I listened, not interjecting much, and Miss Carrie's attention wavered between watching us, and watching the TV the nurse had turned on.

The nurse started attempting to help Miss Carrie lie down, but Miss Carrie put up a small struggle, moaning as she did so. The nurse gave up, with a casual, almost joking, admonishment for the apparent insolence of the old woman. She began to pretend-straighten Miss Carrie's rumpled bed, pulling at the sheets minutely and absently. I could tell it was just something to do. She asked her charge if she was hungry, because dinner was about to be served. Miss Carrie just made a mumbling sound. She was hungry, but did not really want to eat right then.

The nurse left, and seconds later a cart with several trays arrived at the open door. Another nurse brought in a tray, and set it on a small table beside Miss Carrie's bed. The young man said hello to us, then asked Miss Carrie, loudly, how she was doing. She simply watched him. I wondered what he was yelling for, since Miss Carrie's hearing was perfectly fine, but I didn't comment.

The male nurse delivered the tray and told Miss Carrie to eat all the food - which looked like a plate full of mush in three different colors - and he would come back for it shortly. He bid us farewell, smiling as he left. I looked at Carrie, and then walked over to the foot of the bed. The room already had a rank smell to it, but now I could tell just where it was coming from.

The first nurse returned, telling Miss Carrie to eat so she would not be hungry. Miss Carrie said, “MMMM mmm mmm MM,” and pushed the tray away. Immediately, I understood.

“She doesn't want to eat right now,” I said, amused at the frustration the old woman felt toward her nurse. The nurse asked Carrie if she wanted to eat, loudly, I guess to confirm what I had just said. She explained to Miss Carrie that if she did not eat, she would be hungry later. Miss Carrie glanced at us, at the nasty looking fod, and at the nurse, moaning, insistent. She gently pushed at the tray.

“What's wrong, Miss Carrie?” the nurse asked not too patiently, hand on hip. “You need to eat.” Miss Carrie, moaned, so I explained, “She doesn't want to eat in front of us.” 

Before the nurse could reply or fuss at Carrie, I addressed the frail woman, “It's ok, Miss Carrie, we are fine. You can eat. We don't mind.” Smiling, I turned to the nurse, with “She doesn't want to eat in front of company.”

The old woman looked at me, her eyes cloudy but her mind sharp, as I repeated, “It's fine, Miss Carrie; go on and eat.” She hesitated, but then slowly picked up her plastic spoon and started on what appeared to be creamed cabbage. The nurse asked how the food was. Miss Carrie gave a grunt, as she shakily scooped up another spoonful. She was doing pretty good for a woman who'd had a stroke and wasn't very coordinated any more.

“Ok, Miss Carrie,” the nurse said, “I'm going to help you get comfortable on the bed; would that be alright?”

Miss Carrie grunted again as the nurse began to shift her body into a reclining position on the bed. The nurse adjusted the table so that the tray rested almost over Miss Carrie's chest, saying, “There you go. Comfy now, hon?” Miss Carrie moaned, but began to eat again. I felt sorry for Miss Carrie, and a bit angry. The bed was comfortable, but not enough, especially in wet clothes.

I waited until the nurse walked toward the door, taking a plastic pitcher of water, and asked the elderly woman, “Are you good, Miss Carrie?” I smiled at her as she gestured toward the foot of the bed and mumbled. I knew what she wanted. I got the matching sock that had been tossed at the foot of the bed, ignoring the wetness of it, and dropped it on the floor. As a formality, I asked her if she wanted her covers on.

Everyone else watched as I began to remove the other wet sock from the stiff, bony foot. I really wanted to ask the nurse to please bathe her and get her some clean dry socks, but I would not do it in front of everyone. I wondered how the nurse could check on Miss Carrie and not attempt to rectify this situation. I didn't want to embarrass Miss Carrie, or fuss too much over her, since she hated that, so I wouldn't say anything to the nurse unil later.

Though Miss Carrie understood and appreciated her pastor and church members visiting her, she was not up for company or dressed for the occasion, and she was embarrassed enough. Mentioning the conditions of her room and body right then would have caused her more embarrassment. Instead I straightened her covers - for real - and draped the slightly damp sheet over her legs.

There were a lot of things she was feeling at the moment, like a small sense of relief, but I sighed because I knew I could not help her with her biggest problem. All I could do was interpret what she was saying, make her comfortable as much as I could.

There were a few more minutes of the nurse mostly speaking to us about Miss Carrie's condition, as if she were not in the room. I hated that, and so did Miss Carrie, who once upon a time would have blessed them all out for treating her like a baby.

My eyes were on Miss Carrie, but I was really talking to the other visitors, when I firmly said that we would leave her now to enjoy her dinner. A brief shadow of relief was in her eye, and her gaze was strong. I winked at her, because if her face would have cooperated, she would have smiled. My pastor agreed that we should mozy on and let her eat. He offered a prayer, and we all bowed heads. I clasped my own hands together, discouraging my husband from holding the hands that had touched soiled socks and sheets. I went in the little bathroom to wash them as the others said their goodbyes.

I was last to speak to her and touched her head where her white hair was thinning. “Goodbye, Miss Carrie,” I said before walking to the room door. I was passing the nurse on the way out to the hallway, and I told her, very quietly, that it appeared Carrie had wet herself. The nurse said with a smile that she knew it, and she was about to take care of that. She thanked me. I figured she was lying, but I held my tongue.

We were in the pastor's car and on the way to the next elderly church member. The radio was playing a talk show about the gift of speaking in tongues, and having someone interpret for the gift to be valid. The speakers were discussing various things, but what stood out to me was one of them saying that unless you speak with your tongue, how can anyone understand what you are saying.

I thought, Tongues, languages, ways of communicating. Spiritual understanding. You don't have to speak with your tongue, for someone to understand.

On the way into the second nursing home, I had just gotten out of my pastor's car when a butterfly began flitting around me in a choppy circle. I held out a hand, and the butterfly landed on it. I smiled, remembering that butterflies tasted with their feet. This one was disappointed that my hand didn't taste like nectar. It flew away, but not before flittering about me for a few seconds more.

Thank you, the butterfly thought to me, you have beauty, too.

I kept walking toward the facility, along with my husband, the pastor of our church, and his wife, making a mental note to mention the friendly butterfly to my children.