The Muffin Lady

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I had been at my new community only a couple of days.  I arrived early that morning knowing I needed extra time to organize my office.  I was bent over alphabetizing the folders in the lower drawer of my desk, when I heard a noise that sounded like someone clearing their throat.  I looked up to see a resident standing at my open door. She was not smiling. 

I rose to meet her, intending to introduce myself.  I had taken only one step when I caught a glimpse of her right arm cocked and locked like a major league pitcher ready to throw.  A mille-second later, I felt an object whiz by my head. I ducked.  I heard a dull thud on the window. Then, I turned to watch a food like substance slide down the glass and plop on the floor.

 “Would you eat that?” the woman shrieked still standing in the doorway.

“Eat what?” I asked, afraid to move for fear she would hurl another projectile my way.

“The muffin. Would you eat that?”  

“I didn’t know it was a muffin,” I answered timidly.

“Exactly my point,” she answered arrogantly. “That’s the worse excuse for a muffin I have ever had on my plate.”

I bent to pick up the smashed, but somewhat in tact muffin.  I turned it in my hand, “Looks like a muffin to me,” I thought to myself, knowing that was not the answer she wanted to hear.

I smiled politely, trying to defuse the moment.  “My name is Karen.  What’s yours?”

“I know your name is Karen.  Everyone in this place knows your name is Karen. We all got the memo. “I’m Mildred.”

Still holding the muffin, I turned to walk back to my desk.  “Come sit down Mildred,” I offered.  “Let’s talk for a minute.”

My conversation with Mildred lasted for almost an hour. She was in her early 80’s, dressed in expensive brown wool slacks, a red silk-like Nehru collared blouse, and a long, chain stitched, ecru jacket sweater.  She didn’t have on make-up, but her earrings, traditional slim hoops, looked expensive.  Her face had sharp features, her eyes were small and narrow, and the wrinkles around her mouth curved downward suggesting that she didn’t smile often.

She talked in bursts - short angry sentences.  She had only been at the community for a month.  Her husband had died on Christmas Day less than a year ago; she had lost her son in a jeep accident less than 5 years ago.  Her daughter, a lawyer, lived near by.

Mildred made it clear that she came to live here of her own accord, but she was also convinced it was the worst decision she had ever made.  She found the food  intolerable. The meat was tough and the vegetables were overcooked.  Coming from California, she preferred al dente. She was not used to eating on a schedule.  Dinner at 5 was annoying.   Furthermore, she was frustrated that the bus driver refused to take her on her personal errands when it was convenient for her.

 As she talked, her voice grew louder with each complaint.  She threatened to write the owner, and she threatened to call the movers to take her elsewhere.   Then, after a pause, and without preface, she became very emotional. “I have nowhere else to go.”   I saw the tears slowly filling her eyes. I was not surprised when she began to cry, but I was not prepared for the, long, heavy, painful sobs. 

Mildred was not angry with me, she wasn’t angry about the muffin, but she was angry about the turn her life had taken.  She left a four-bedroom house with a pool and tennis courts, and she now felt cramped and imprisoned.  She had made no friends, because she wasn’t friendly.  Her relationship with her daughter was tenuous, but Mildred made few gestures to mend it. 

When she was younger, Mildred was the president of her own accounting firm.  She was always the boss and she was always in control. People did what she told them to do.   When she retired, she frequently traveled with her husband.  Mildred had been an active, engaged and energetic person.   At eighty plus, that had changed.  Now she had nothing purposeful to do, she was lonely, and she wasn’t in control of anything – not even the time she ate dinner

  

Mildred’s self image was worsening, as was her cognitive ability. She could feel her memory slipping, and she hated that.  She was not ready to be old; she felt helpless.  There are no alternatives to growing old, and she, like many of our seniors found it difficult to cope when age compromises both the body and the mind and the future appears bleak.

 Mildred and I became close friends, although she continually tested our friendship with her feisty disposition and forceful manner.   In time, Mildred came to love living in our community, but it was a tough transition for her. I made her chairman of the food committee, and she took ownership of the chair like a drill sergeant.

 I was devastated when two years later she had a stroke.  She recovered and returned to live with us, but the assertive, aggressive CEO personality never returned with her. I sorely missed that lively, spirited, strong willed person I now fondly remember as “the muffin lady.”

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