Where Betty Lives

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A few years back, Betty moved from her condo in Old Mobville to a fancy senior village out on the edge of New Knottydart. One of her brothers had talked her into it. He already lives there. He’s got his own “cottage.” But before Betty made the decision, Pop invited her to live with him. "I can take care of you,” she told him, “but who's going to take care of me?"* 

Betty very much enjoys playing “the nurse.” She even worked as one for about a year, many moons ago. When she's here, at Pop’s house, I pretty much stay hidden away in my bedroom. Pop doesn't need two nurses. He isn't an invalid—at least, not anymore. He’s just old, is all. 

Travelling back and forth between the senior village and Pop's house, Betty likens herself to a gypsy. She spends nearly every weekend with us. When we pick her up, Pop climbs into the backseat to sit with her. If he didn’t, in addition to playing “the chauffeur,” I’d have to play “the human hearing aid.” 

And you might ask: Is Betty happy in her relatively new home? Well, see, that's the problem. Betty almost always only has good things to say, about everyone, about everything. At times, I grow suspicious of her Pollyannish demeanor; but that's my nature, and my problem. She keeps talking about all the things she wants to do. If one is able, and willing, there are many activities to wade into at the senior village. She says she wants to volunteer to help other residents; she says she wants to learn T'ai Chi. There's just so much she plans to do. She says she sometimes attends the weekly Scrabble gathering. She says she sometimes sings in the church choir—or, rather, she rehearses with them, since she's always with us on Sundays. 

And that might lead you to ask: Has she made any new friends? She doesn't speak of any. And it seems like she hardly ever visits her brother. His cottage is only a ten minute walk from her apartment. Betty would have you believe that her brother is always very busy cultivating his floral garden. (It’s made the cover of the village magazine more than once.) All told, you wouldn’t describe Betty as reclusive or anti-social. (No, that’s me.) Like Pop, though, as it may be for many seniors, Betty often needs a bit of a nudge to get her going. 

April 9, 2004 

*[Though it became painfully apparent over the next nine years, nobody bothered to mention to me that Betty had been diagnosed with some form of dementia.]

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