"After that, wheel yourself down to the kitchen for
breakfast."
I felt almost like a kid being told she could take
the family car for a ride herself. Maybe her sassiness
worked. I thought. because I did get myself over to
the vanity table and brushed my hair. Then, surprised
at how hungry I was. I wheeled out of the room and
down the corridor.
Finally. I felt like I was home.
Perhaps it was because we were in the kitchen
and not in my hospital-like bedroom, but while I ate
my breakfast. Mrs. Bogart became more talkative,
especially about herself. She ate her breakfast with me
and told me about some of her former patients. One
was particularly sad: a twelve-year-old boy with
multiple sclerosis who died while she was caring for
him.
She came from a small town north of Richmond
and had never left the state of Virginia. She told me
she had spent most of her teenage years and early
twenties caring for her father: the men with whom she
did develop some sort of romantic relationship
eventually grew tired of sharing her energy and
attention with him.
"Some people are just meant to spend their
whole lives taking care of other people. I guess," she
concluded. "At least. I'm not ashamed of it." "Why should you be?" I asked her.
She looked at me with those ebony eyes
flashing with heat and fired back. "Would you like to
be doing this your whole life. child?"