 A Short Story about a Caregiver
By Peter Fowler
STAFF WRITER
The pain was excruciating. It felt like I had dislocated my hip. This was in the fall 2007, in the middle of the night. I tried every position possible to get relief, with no results. Sleep was out of the question. In the morning, bent over, I somehow managed to drive to my doctor’s office. He injected a pain killer and started asking questions. He suspected a slipped disc. He arranged for a consultation with an orthopedic surgeon. X-rays and an MRI indicated lumnar spinal stenosis. The orthopedic surgeon said it could get worse the next day, or that it may never happen again. If it got worse, spinal surgery would be considered. Fortunately I healed, but it affected the control of my legs, similar to nerve damage by a stroke. I can no longer walk normally. I often use a cane. I began to wonder about helplessness.
Early in 2008 my primary doctor noticed an irregularity in my heart and recommended that I see a cardiologist. After an extremely thorough examination I was told that I needed a pacemaker, or I would die. I opted for the pacemaker. After the surgery I was helpless. I could not drive home or lift anything for several weeks. It was difficult to dress and shop, get my mail, and do my laundry (I was helpless again for awhile).
More recently I had prostate surgery after which I was weak and could not do any lifting. Again, I could not drive, or shop for food. I couldn’t change my shirt. Again I experienced helplessness.
I had heard about Serena Senior Care, a new in-home assisted living company in Rosarito Beach. I became a client. While I was recovering in the hospital after the prostate surgery, their Operations Manager crossed the border and came to visit me – just to see how I was doing. I was impressed. That’s customer service at a new level. When I was discharged, one of their managers drove me home. Once home, as I sat down to relax the Operations Manager showed up to say hello and to see how I was doing. He brought a private nurse for me. He said, “Peter, this is your enfermera privada, Gabriela Marin Mendoza.” I had no idea that I had hit the mother load! I would soon find out that Gabriela was a care giver at a level of excellence.
As I got to know Gabriela, I asked her to tell me about herself. She told me that was born in Veracruz, Mexico, in 1973. She was in the kitchen one day at the age of five when boiling water accidentally spilled on her. Her left arm and shoulder were severely burned. She spent two months in the hospital and was left with burn scars. In 1986, the tuna fish cannery where her dad worked shut down, leaving him unemployed. Her aunt, who lived in Rosarito Beach, suggested they move there. They did, via a three-day bus ride. Her dad got a job at a pharmacy. Gabriela, aka Gaby (pronounced Gah beh), never did go for fancy revealing clothes, spike heels, or tattoos. She dressed plainly. She wore no make-up. She never drank or smoked. In 1991 she got married and three years later she gave birth to a son, Jesus Adrian Perez Marin, and in 2000 a daughter, Abigail Perez Marin, arrived.
One day, during a routine medical check, the doctor noticed an irregularity in Gaby’s daughter’s heart. Further examination revealed that she had two hearts! Although it was not an immediate danger, in time it would be life threatening. An operation was imperative, but Gaby could not afford to pay for it. She searched, frantically for help and found some compassionate doctors
Who successfully performed the delicate operation.
Gaby needed work. In 1998 she walked into Rene’s Sports Bar just south of the Rosarito Beach Hotel and asked if anyone needed a cleaning lady. Marshall Ashby, a Korean War vet in a wheel chair, said yes and off they went to clean his trailer home nearby. Marshall had taken a bullet that severed some nerves that controlled his legs. He had great difficulty getting in and out of his car. He could stand, grab the door, lift himself and swing into the seat. He would get out the same way. Grocery shopping, getting his mail, paying bills, bathing and going to the bathroom, and doing those many things we need to do to survive was a real challenge. Gaby noticed that and wanted to help. She soon became Marshall’s care giver. She helped him run errands. She helped him however he needed help.
She had received a 10-year visa to the USA in 1997 to visit some relatives so she was able to drive Marshall across the border to the Veterans Administration whenever he needed medical care.
One day she and Marshall were outside the trailer home playing with an apparently friendly feral dog. Marshall got too close and the dog freaked, and bit him badly in one leg. He waited until the next day, a decision he would come to regret, to see a doctor at the VA. Infection set in. After a few days it was clear that the wound was poisoning his body. The doctor delivered the bad news. He would have to lose his leg. It was amputated. Now Marshall’s mobility was even more restricted. Depression set it. He began to simply spend more time in bed. His life was one of despair. One day, not long thereafter, Gaby went to see Marshall on her daily visit to care for him. He did not answer the door. She was able to get in. Marshall was dead. Gaby called the police who had Marshall’s body taken to the coroner. No relatives came. Marshall had wished to be cremated. With only a few pesos to spare, Gaby somehow garnered up the equivalent of 800 American dollars, a huge sum for a poor Mexican, and paid for the cremation. It was an enormous random act of kindness.
In 2005 Marshall’s daughter showed up at Gaby’s home in Morelos, on a hill east of the freeway. She asked, “Where’s my dad?”
“He’s dead.”
Silence
“When did he die?”
“Three years ago.”
Silence
A tear appeared. Was it for real? Perhaps it was remorse. Marshall’s daughter had not visited him for five years. Nor had she kept in touch with Gaby, who she knew was his care giver. Some children are like that. Perhaps she felt her dad was not socially acceptable, being in a wheel chair and living in a trailer camp in Mexico.
“Do you have a photo of my dad?”
Gaby gave her a photo and off she went, never to return.
By now Gaby was hooked on helping people. Following Marshall’s death she got a job as a nurse at a local hospital.
When Gaby became my care giver she showed up regularly, and on time. The first day we went to buy food she said she could drive my car for me. She became my chofer. She drives me to the grocery store, to the mail room, and to pay my utility bills. She does my laundry, washes the dishes, and keeps my house neat and clean. She opens and closes doors for me and hands me my cane. She holds my arm when I have to climb stairs. She reminds me to take my medications, and although it’s not her job to do so, she helps me with my Spanish from time to time. This is helpful when we go to shopping and she reads the Spanish words on the various products so I don’t have to guess. She helps me read menus at restaurants and order in Spanish while she and the waiter smile in amusement. I’ve taught her how to answer my telephone and take a message so I don’t break a leg trying to pick up before it’s too late.
One day I asked her to show me where she lives, which she did. It’s on a dirt road in a hilly area. Adequate, but not much by gringo standards.
I provided her with a set of keys to my house should I not answer her knock on the door. That way she can see if I am okay or not. She knows what to do if I am not. She asked if she could leave a little early on Dia de las Madres (Mother’s Day). She and her sister planned on taking her mother to lunch. It was my turn to be her chofer. It was my turn to do something for her. I let her off early. It paid off, big time because I got the pleasure of meeting her charming mom, her beautiful daughter, and her pretty sister. Her mom hugged me, knowing I was giving her daughter a much needed job. Then I got a hug from her sister and her daughter. I knew at that moment that I had met a wonderful Mexican family and that I would be in touch with them for years to come. The cultural difference between Mexicans and Americans became apparent. Mexicans have more honor and respect for the elderly.
I can drive again, but I’m still weak and cannot lift much. My blood pressure is too high so one of Serena Senior Care’s managers drops by to monitor it and Gaby still comes by and simply makes life easy for me, in spite of my physical restrictions.
This is all thanks to Serena Senior Care. We’re on a first name basis now. We’re like family. Nosotros somos una familia grande! Life is good to me.
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