Getting a gold medal hug on a worn-out welcome mat

A difficult Meals on Wheels client and I had a breakthrough last week that wouldn't have happened without the Olympics.

One of my Meals on Wheels clients and I shared a sweet moment last week that I didn’t think would ever happen.

Here’s the backstory: This isn’t just any client; this is my most difficult client. This is the client who, in her older years, has really struggled with her mental health and loneliness. I’ve had many clients who deal with this over the years, so I’ve gotten better at navigating this brief exchange we have each week, but this particular client is particularly challenging.

She’s easily irritated and hard to read. If I make a comment about the weather, it will spiral into her worst-case thinking about the next rainstorm. A farewell that includes well wishes will send her down a well-trodden track of complaints or misgivings about all the ways her life isn’t going right. If the temperature falls, so does her mood, dramatically. 

I’ve learned over two years of bringing meals to her that she’s always wary of rain because her apartment has flooded in the past. She hates the cold because it’s expensive to heat her apartment, and she’s on a fixed income. 

I only see her for a 90-second window every week, but it’s a 90 seconds I spend a lot of time thinking about because the situation challenges my compassion in ways I don’t like. I try my best to avoid anything that will set her off, but I rarely succeed. On my good days, I can see her as a wonderful teacher and detach from whatever happens during the delivery that week. On my frazzled days….well, I think about asking for a new route. 

The last time I saw this client was a few weeks ago, when we were filming a training video for Meals on Wheels. I had a pair of folks on the film crew following me on my route that day, and when we opened the door, we surprised her because it wasn’t just me. She reacted. Someone laughed. She caught onto it immediately. Things devolved from there. 

The situation ended as quickly as it started. I was able to give her her meals and put some salve on the situation by telling her how much I always love seeing her on my route. It’s true. I do love seeing her, barbs and all.

In the days that followed, I felt bad because I hadn’t protected her from this outburst by telling the crew that they should just stay in the car for this one. But my hopefulness that she might enjoy something unique happening in her day overshadowed the truth: That it would be too much for her.

I’ve gotten much better about not worrying too much about my clients. I’m a volunteer with a job to do who is part of a network of helpers. My clients are people on their own journey who have a variety of problem-solving skills and other people who can help them who are not me. 

But I do care about them. And I care about this woman.

Which is why I was downright joyful after what happened on my delivery on Friday.

I’d been out of town for a couple of Fridays, and this was my first Friday back. (She’s used to me missing weeks here and there, but whenever I come back from missing a delivery, she asks me if I have been on a trip because if I can afford to travel, I must have a lot of money. You can see how slippery this slope has gotten…)

She’s my very last delivery every week, and I took a deep breath as I knocked. You just never know what's going to happen when the door opens.

That day, she was surprised in another way. A smile spread across her face.

“You’re here! I thought I’d made you mad and you’d decided to get rid of me,” she said. She clasped her hands together and squeezed them close to her chest.

“Mad at you? I could never be mad you,” I replied.

This is true: Anger isn’t the emotion I’ve felt toward her. On the days when I’m walking on eggshells, I get frustrated that I can’t come up with something else to talk about with her that won’t set her off, but I mostly feel sad that our opportunity to have a positive interaction sometimes ends up with her feeling worse than before I came.

“I thought you thought I was just a grumpy mean old lady. People say I’m a grumpy mean old lady, but I’m not, I’m not, I promise, you know that.” 

I tried to assure her.

“Oh no, I don’t think you are a grumpy mean old lady at all. I know we all have bad days, but it’s OK, I’m just glad to see you today,” I said. “I wasn’t mad at you. I was just out of town for a few weeks, but I was thinking about you while I was gone.”

I caught a glimpse of what was on the TV behind her and changed the subject. “Are you doing OK? Watching the Olympics?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “I like sports, and I love the Olympics. I love love love the Olympics. I have been watching and watching and wonderin’ when the track was goin’ to come on, and it’s finally on, so I was so happy.”

I’ve never heard this woman describe herself as happy, and I can think of two things she likes: the sun and cats. (They won’t let her have a cat anymore, though, she’s told me many times. I don’t ask why.)  

I’d finally found something she enjoyed so much that she was in a better mood when I mentioned it.

Her whole body lightened. We’d repaired whatever tear she thought was there AND I’d mentioned one of her favorite things.

She put her arms up. “Oh come here,” she said, stepping down from her doorway onto the welcome mat that is so worn out, it no longer says “welcome.” Only the edges of the letters are still visible. 

I still had her meals in one hand, but I wrapped my free arm all the way around her soft, slightly slumped shoulders and placed my hand firmly in the middle of her back. I let the energy in the hug say all the complicated things I wanted to say to her.  

“I just love you. You know I love you, right?” she told me as our hug was coming to an end.

“Well, I love you too,” I told her, finally handing her the meals that brought me to her house in the first place. “Thank you for that hug, and I’m so grateful that you would share this side of you with me. It means a lot to get to know you….” 

She stepped back through her door with her food in hand. The vibration of this incredible shift that had happened between us was finally starting to tingle my marrow. “…and I hope you get to watch lots of Olympics this afternoon.” 

That reminded her of the excitement that awaited her inside. Her fear of having been retaliated against were gone, and ahead was a day full of athletic events to keep her entertained.

Television plays a powerful role in giving older folks a sense of companionship. Nearly every client I deliver to has the TV on when I arrive, and I don’t begrudge them for it. We all use TV to connect us to the outside world, but that power can wane over time.

That’s why human-to-human moments like this one are so profound to me and why I keep delivering these meals, no matter how difficult the client or how busy my schedule. I need them, too.

I started saying my goodbyes and heading toward the car. She did an excellent job of reading the social cues and offered her own farewell, but she continued to talk — at no one in particular — as she closed the door.

I slowed down as I approached my car, soaking up the sensations in my body. I won’t remember any of this year’s gold medals, but I wanted to remember how the Olympics set the stage of this very human exchange of love, humility, and care.

I took time to notice each of those feelings: The tingling in my bones, the flutter in my heart, the catch in my throat.

Aunt Pud was the last of her generation, and she died the year Julian was born.

My mind was flooded with memories of my late elders who trained me for this moment. I grew up around older folks in their final days because many of them, when they stopped being able to live independently, moved to the nursing home in Aurora, where my parents could help mange their care.

That’s where I learned how to face those strange sounds and smells of a care facility, the uncertainties that come with living long enough to require the care of an infant, the unpredictable moods of folks who’ve lived long enough to wear out welcome mats.

I needed a reminder of this history, of why I am committed to this cause, so I can keep doing it, even when it gets hard.

Because the warm welcome that comes with that hot meal is as important as the food itself. And sometimes it goes both ways.

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Happy Monday, readers. Coming to you early this week with a story that I just couldn’t wait to tell.

I’m not at all surprised I had this spiritual experience last week because I had just returned from that road trip with my kids, which included a stop in Henderson, Kentucky, where I visited the family cemetery where many of the elders I mentioned in this story are buried.

I had remembered that my grandmother and great-grandmother were buried there, but it wasn’t until I walked up to their graves that I remembered all the other folks there, too.

“Ohhh, there’s Aunt Pud. And Aunt Mary. Oh, and Uncle Bob and Aunt Elsie!” A gaggle of siblings and their spouses who are now spending eternity smoking as many cigarettes as they want and haggling over who is going to play the next round of chess.

I knew all of these people during the last decades of their life, long after they’d stopped working, lost loved ones, and struggled to do the daily tasks I took for granted as a little kid with my whole life in front of me.

I knew them during a time in their life when they had become, in many ways, invisible to society. But they weren’t invisible to us.

A visit to their grave brought them back to life.

And a hug on a worn-out welcome mat did, too.

Thanks to all of you for your continued support of this Substack. I hope it adds a little something special to your week ahead.

If this newsletter gets you thinking about your own volunteerism, Meals on Wheels is always looking for helpers, but there are certainly countless organizations wherever you live that would be happy to have an hour of your time each week. (If you’d like to sign up for Meals on Wheels Central Texas, check out their website to learn more.)

Back with another post soon,

Addie

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