The Bridges We Meet

I worked as a Registered Nurse for close to thirty years. Over those years, I cannot begin to enumerate or even remember every patient I had. But there are a few that I will never be able to forget. And I don't want their memory to be forgotten either. Even today, I have a smile on my face or a tear in my eye when I think back on them. You see, even though I was the one that was supposed to help them, they are the ones that impacted me, instead.

I finished my Bachelors degree in 1992. Back then, and today as well, you truly aren't a "nurse" until you pass the state boards. Today, the tests are computerized, but mine were a two day grueling event involving paper and a number 2 pencil. After it's all over, my wait to find out if I had passed would come in the mail, perhaps up to two to three weeks. Now, the wait is no longer than two days. (Things were different back then and waiting was just something society knew was a mandatory part of life.)

So, while I waited, I worked as a Nurse's Aide for an agency. I had started this job right after graduation. I liked the job for several reasons. I would get sent to different places, like hospitals to work a shift doing tasks like taking vital signs, assisting with feeding those who couldn't do it for themselves, helping with basic hygiene needs, and much more. Most of the time I was sent to private homes to watch after patients, bathe them, do light housework, and cook for them. After my day was done, I was free to decide my hours, my days, and I could get paid the same day. It was freedom but with no insurance or benefits. It allowed me time to study for the boards, too.

It was during this time in my life, that I was sent to help Mr. & Mrs. Kouris. (Not their real name, but patient privacy issues are protected.) The drive to their home was winding up and up into the hills of the wealthier part Austin, Texas, past the 360 Bridge, into the Westlake Community.

When I arrived in their cul-de-sac, I parked my vehicle which, although fairly new and clean, still stuck out like a sore thumb. It just didn't seem to fit in with the others in the neighborhood.

I was met at the front door...(a beautiful mahogany and glass one with an intricate, small Mezuzah hung on it)...by Mr. Kouris. He was a young looking, slightly muscled and fit man in his early seventies. He seemed energetic and friendly, but focused as we made our introductions. His grey hair was neatly combed and his moustache thin and trimmed. He stated that Mrs. Kouris was napping. He showed me around their beautiful home, stopping to show me silver framed pictures of him and Mrs. Kouris in their younger years and giving me a brief background on their lives.

The Kouris' had been asked to move to Texas from New York many years before (for his job,) and had since made a home for their two young sons, now grown and thriving. He had retired an executive from that same company while his wife had supported her husband in every way and doted on their children. They had enjoyed an active social life up until his wife's illness progressed. As he spoke, I could feel the love and passion he held for her. It was palpable, but bittersweet. He was now her primary caregiver.

He had reached out to my agency for help. He had arranged to take a jewelry/metal class a couple of evenings a week and he also needed someone to care for his wife of over forty years while he shopped and maintained household duties, etc. I thought his reaching out to be very healthy for him. Years later, I would know the role in being my mother's primary caregiver and understand the need for an occasional helping hand. It can be all consuming and emotionally confusing.

Mr. Kouris had his hands full, because his wife was in the fourth of five stages of Parkinson's Disease when I met her. This meant safety issues from the motor and balance difficulties that were doubly compounded by her lack of impulse control (also a symptom of PD) and the fact that years earlier, she had lost her spleen from an injury caused by such a fall which had broken two of her ribs. And that meant she had a compromised immune system.

An overview of the disease from Mayo Clinic: Parkinson's disease is a progressive disorder that affects the nervous system and the parts of the body controlled by the nerves. Symptoms start slowly. The first symptom may be a barely noticeable tremor in just one hand. Tremors are common, but the disorder may also cause stiffness or slowing of movement.

Medication helped to "unstiffen" and bring to life Mrs. Kouris. And when she was awake, it was never a dull moment. When the meds had foregone their peak, she slowed down. And to be honest, it gave her caregivers (Mr. Kouris and myself) a time to breathe and relax. I often wondered what life had been like for this beautiful, long limbed, slim woman who had such an energetic spirit. I bet her movements had been as a graceful ballerina doing an evocative, beckoning dance. That is how I saw this auburn haired beauty. There was just something I admired in her. I loved that she kept us on our toes. It was a balancing act...for her, literally and for us, metaphorically.

I can still see her as she sat at her vanity, putting her makeup on with a trembling hand, refusing my help. It was not that we were planning a day out, so the lipstick that covered more than her actual mouth would be of no concern. I loved to watch her brush her short bob, also. In her younger picture, her hair had been in long tresses. I imagined it still.

And there were times when she got the urge to cook, taking out so very many assorted ingredients from the cupboard and pulling out pots and pans and spoons with no obvious rhyme or reason. I just enjoyed watching her live out her imagination. And I would clean up all the mess when she wore herself out as the meds slowed and she would stiffen. It was our dance.

It was during one of her rest periods that I came to know the essence of this Jewish Queen. As she reclined on the sofa, I sat next to her on the floor, assuring her safety until she snoozed. She and I would occasionally discuss my upcoming plans. It seemed to interest her. It was then she decided to look at me and say, "I'm going to buy you an Easter dress!" Well, it took me off guard. And of course, even if she could go shopping and do just that, I could not accept any gifts professionally. But it was a beautiful gesture, nonetheless. I said, "But, Mrs. Kouris, you aren't Christian?" at which, she replied simply, "But you are!"

I was broken at that moment because having that kind of love given to me was completely foreign and so humbling. To be in the presence of someone who could love others like that is rare and priceless. Since then, I have read of those being a "bridge person," but I have never met another one. It was like being touched by the Holy Hand of God in someway. "A bridge person is someone who spans two cultures and consciously seeks to facilitate an exchange between the two." https://www.umcdiscipleship.org/resources/called-to-be-a-bridge-person

I think this definition doesn't fulfill that of Mrs. Kouris, though. You see, her spanning was completely unconscious and from a pure heart with no motive or agenda. I am still in awe and reverence her.

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***After reading your comments, I got to thinking about "bridge people," and realized just why I loved this book/movie: