The Day I Learned To Dance

Working as a nurse in a hospital, you are exposed to death more than the common person. Upon arriving here, I was warned not to get too attached to any of the patients. It’s the only way to maintain your mental stability in a field where pain is as common as a stapler in a law office. I did well with the concept until a woman named Naomi was placed in my care. At the end of her life she trusted me with her memories and gave me the gift of 20,000 dollars she left behind, a sum that changed my life.

Naomi was a woman who liked John Grisham novels. Among the few personal items she brought with her to the hospital was his novel, The Guardians. Naomi was a woman who built her life around ballroom dancing. Her and her husband were professional ballroom dancers, teaching hundreds of young couples how to dance throughout their careers. Naomi was a woman who lost her husband to pancreatic cancer seven years ago, and Naomi was a woman with severe congestive heart failure and not long to live.

After being admitted to the hospital, I took her vitals. She complained of shortness of breath, which is typical for patients with this disease. When Steven, a middle aged, handsome doctor with a strong resemblance to George Clooney entered the room, she complained of shortness of breath once more, fanned herself, and gave me a wink. She was a feisty old woman of 92 with a wit as sharp as a papers edge. She smiled a lot through her translucent oxygen mask. She was slightly overweight and had a love of pineapple. She was a woman who, even in sickness, maintained painted red nails and dyed chestnut brown hair.

On day two of her stay in room 418, I struck up conversation. I learned her and her husband were never able to conceive, but loved each other enough to fill their hearts. They utilized their misfortune in not having children by taking long vacations to Europe and dancing their way around the world. On their final night together before his death, he got up from his bed, put on an old Bing Crosby record, and twirled her about the room like they were 23 again, taking their first steps as partners onto the dance floor. He was the fox to her fox trot, and the cha in her cha cha.

On day three she learned about me. I told her of my childhood in Buffalo and my desire to be closer to New York City, bringing me here to West Chester, NY. I told her of my late nights in nursing school while raising a beautiful little girl, Abby, all on my own. I showed her videos of Abby at her ballet recital and her dance themed, eighth birthday party just two months ago. She held my hand softly and her eyes twinkled like she was watching butterflies fluttering around a field.

It was then that Naomi asked me if I had ever danced and I laughed at the idea. I had two left feet and the balance of a drunken walrus.

“Help me up” she demanded, reaching her arms out to me.

I held her fragile, spider veined arms and pulled her to an upright, sitting position at the edge of the bed. What she wanted I wasn’t entirely sure, until she held firmly to her oxygen tank with one hand and to me with the other. She pulled herself up to a full standing position causing me to flinch with concern.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” rang her raw, raspy voice with determination. “Now, I will step forward with my left foot and you will step back with your right.” We did that, a seemingly simple move.

“Good, now, step to the side and forward and together.”

We did that combination again and again, my white sneakers clunking heavily against the beige tile and her hospital slippers gliding across the floor as if they were hovering above it. Her faded hospital gown moved as if it were a pleated, A-line skirt, waiting for it’s chance to fan out around her like the glow of light around a star. As my eyelids fell and rose again I could imagine us in a grand ballroom with a crystal chandelier floating above our heads and dozens of well dressed couples nodding at the beauty of her fluid movements.

After many rounds, she laid back down with an air of triumph, “And that, my dear, is a box step. And now, you can dance.”

My heart filled with gratitude and love for this extraordinary woman. I supposed she couldn’t help but teach one more drunken walrus how to dance before she left this earth. Her dinner tray in my arms, I twirled my way out of room 418, still in a serendipitous trance.

On day four, Naomi made a request, and seeing as how she taught me how to dance, I felt I couldn’t refuse. She asked me to go to her assisted living facility just a few miles away. She called ahead so they would be expecting me and a very nice nurse named Sue would show me to her room. There were two things she wanted me to pick up for her. One was the next John Grisham novel (she had already completed the one she brought with her), and the other was a small black book with something very valuable inside, though she wouldn’t tell me what it was. I obliged to pick it up after my shift.

Later that night, as my daughter ate dinner at her friends house, I drove the three miles to the living facility and asked for Sue. As I entered Naomi’s room, I could feel myself escaping into a different world. The furniture looked straight out of the 70’s. Above the bed was a black and white photo of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, enraptured in dance. Peaking out of the closet was a shimmering blue dress with a few sequins missing, clearly casualties of all night dancing and fun. On the dresser was a photo of Naomi and Gene which must have been taken fifty or more years ago, reenacting the famous times square kiss. A jewelry box sat open with sparkling pendants and long, beaded necklaces. There was a warmth to her room; A peacefulness. The same peace I got while dancing the box step with her in room 418. It felt like every decade from the 30’s onward came together in one place to tell the story of two people and a lifetime of love. I wanted to stay longer but I felt that strange upside down feeling in my stomach that you get when you’ve overstayed your welcome in a strangers house, so I located the novel on the bookshelf and the black, velvet book tucked away in her night stand draw, and proceeded to the exit. As I closed her door behind me, knowing I would never be back there and most likely neither would she, tears started to flood my eyes and I felt like this woman could be my own mother. Sue saw me out with a smile and a Kleenex.

The next morning I arrived early to my post and was greeted with the saddest news. Naomi had not made it through the night. Her heart gave out in her sleep and she peacefully danced off into eternity. Room 418 was already being cleaned when I walked in. There was a box of her personal items with her Grisham novel placed on top. I picked it up knowing that she had finished reading it only the day before, wanting to absorb any final warmth of her spirit that I could. When I opened up the front cover, I was shocked to find my name written on a folded piece of paper. I looked over at the other nurses realizing they had no weight in the situation, and I preceded to unfold the paper. It read:

My dear,

I can feel my heart fading. Breathing is becoming difficult even with the oxygen. I am afraid I will not see you again and have the chance to thank you for all you’ve done in my final days. You were a delight to spend time with and gave me the sense of what it would be to have a daughter holding my hand and seeing me off. I have a surprise for you that you should receive in the weeks to come. I have a modest savings secured to pay for my living expenses for a few more years. Since I have no children to pass this money off to and since you have been so much like a daughter to me, I would like you to have it. Pay off that student debt and keep your daughter in dance lessons. Dancing always gave me such joy and I’m elated that Abby feels the same. All I ask of you is that you hold on to that black book. Feel free to take anything else you’d like from my room in the assisted living facility, or by all means let them throw it out. But that book is my life, and I would like to know that it is somewhere safe where the memories can live on. Oh, and try reading those John Grisham novels. They have the most captivating endings.

With all my love and affection,

Naomi

The page grew wet as my eyes grew heavy. I pulled the black book out of my bag, curious as to what small treasures could be so important, they’d be the only things worth saving. On the first worn, yellowing page, was a picture of Naomi and Gene, dancing and smiling. Gene looked like Frank Sinatra with a hat tilted off to one side and a cigarette lounging on his lip. Naomi in a full dress spinning around with the same smile on her face I had seen many times in the last five days. On the right was written:

St. Germain

Paris, France

1952

Gene looks very handsome tonight.

On the next page was a similar picture of them dancing, only this time the location read:

Catskills, NY

1953

We taught the loveliest young couple how to Waltz. They are getting married in June.

Every page had pictures of Naomi and Gene dancing in cities around the country and around the world. And next to every picture was the date and location and a memory she had from the night.

Naomi was a woman who dyed her hair and painted her nails and liked John Grisham novels and loved ballroom dancing and a man named Eugene. Naomi was a woman who gave me 20,000 dollars and smiled a lot and taught me how to dance. Naomi was a woman who changed my life and trusted me to guard her memories for as long as I shall live.

The other day, while shopping for Abby’s school supplies, I came across a small, black, leather journal hidden among unicorn folders and Barbie binders. That journal now sits on my nightstand with a picture of me and Abby at her ballet recital. It reads:

Never stop dancing.