Prompt and Circumstance

20:20 Vision - The Cruel Reality

'Doorway' (July 8-10, 2016)

"I'm OLD, Christine. Look! I'm ALL WRINKLED! And look at my neck - it's OLD!" Betty already had her coat on and scruffy old handbag swinging from her arm as she opened the door to me. She nearly ran me over with her wheeled walker in her haste to leave her unit... and the horrific reality of her mirror.

"Quickly," she continued urgently. "It's dreadful. We have to get to the Chemist and get some of that wrinkle vanishing cream. NOW!"

Still reeling from surprise at the bizarre nature of her greeting, I took a deep breath and kept my face serious. Deep inside a near-hysterical meltdown threatened to break through.

As I loaded her and her walker in my car, and drove to the chemist, just barely under legal speed limits, I endured her non-stop whingeing about her latest disaster. I would have thought all else was somewhat of a joke compared to being an amputee with a prosthetic leg, but not for 'my' Betty - a tiny Scottish-born lady in her 80's, wrinkled like a little walnut, feisty as could be and lapsing into her broad Scottish brogue whenever she was tired, or angry, or whingeing about something (most things, actually).

Despite my own aches and strained muscles... and desperate weariness at the end of my shifts, I loved my job as a Community Care-worker, helping frail and elderly people to stay in their own homes for just a little longer. This involved varied assistance - showering and dressing; shopping and cooking; transporting them to medical and other appointments, and importantly sharing their doubts and fears and being a friendly shoulder to lean on or cry on.

Alas, on this day as we went through the wonderful sliding glass doorway of the Chemist shop - the entrance to the Magic Cave of Mending of Health and Beauty - I secretly admitted I was truly the guilty party who had caused poor Betty's panic attack. The day before, I had found her glasses in a despicably dirty state and given them a thorough clean and polish. At the time, she had been delighted with the new-found clarity of her TV picture, and in her usual blunt fashion, had said, "Oooh Christine. You're getting some wrinkles, lassie." All 'new to her' observances were reported to me, including a careful perusal of my hair that revealed a few grays beginning their career, and the beginning of a ladder in one of my stockings.

I met the eyes of the gorgeous assistant at the Chemist shop only once, and then neither of us dared share our tightly controlled humour as Betty demanded a BIG pot of that vanishing cream, the one that took all the wrinkles away. "Overnight? Is there one that does that?" and as the assistant gulped 'womanfully', Betty added, "I don't care how much it costs, I'll pay it." Out came her scrappy little purse, opening to reveal a tight wad of notes - obviously a hidden treasure from some secret place in her unit. I seem to remember a high class variety of anti-wrinkle cream was the final choice, after much deliberation.

I didn't have to reassure Betty for too long about the amazing results - luckily her glasses grotted up quite rapidly and she believed the miracle had happened. Well, that's how it looked in her mirror. I too learned a lesson about clean glasses as opposed to rose-tinted (and grubby) ones, plus I should never lose sight of a basic beauty truth -

ASHES TO ASHES, DUST TO DUST,
IF IT WASN'T FOR MAKE-UP WOMEN WOULD RUST