Mrs. Haverson

Mrs. Haverson was a woman of bulk. But that is not what you noticed about her at first. Her eyes did not twinkle; her hair was neither shiny nor styled. Her skin had no luster. What you did notice about her was a sadness, not a self-pity sadness, but a tiredness as heavy as she was.
I met her on a hot, sticky Alabama morning. One of those mornings that begins almost as hot as it left off yesterday. The evening had lost the battle to cool things down. I do remember this well. She was in Bed Number 8 of the ICU at Southern Alabama Regional Hospital. I took her breakfast to her. After we exchanged the usual pleasantries and I got her all set up, I left her room and she to herself with her breakfast. I had work to do: Doctor’s orders to transcribe, labs reports to post, seven other patients who demanded some sort of attention, and my own breakfast to tend to. It would be a long, busy day.

Mrs. Haverson was admitted to the ICU with a number of problems, mostly metabolic in nature. Her feet and legs had just enough circulation to prevent a total mummification, her hygiene, at best, had been an attempt, her diet was whatever she could get with government subsidy. Probably cheap sweets, peanut butter, canned foods which could be heated or not, and most likely purchased at the local dollar store where fresh fruits or vegetables were lacking. She was an obviously poor woman, and had been for years.

As I worked with Mrs. Haverson, I began to like her, but still there was no actual communication between us other than on a professional level. I washed her face, helped the nurse assigned to turn and clean this lady who had gradually lost most of that ability a few years earlier. Time spent with her, at this point, was totally in the line of duty. I shared a couple of laughs with Mrs. Haverson as we began to get to know each other. The short discussions when I took in a meal tray, the quick “How do you do’s” as I checked her blood sugar levels, the vital signs check at least TID (three times a day) added up to a comfortable rapport. She never complained. She never asked for more. And she had the sweetest voice.

Eventually she was moved out to the step-down unit. She was getting better, but still not able to take care of herself. The social service workers- the home health care folks were summoned to start the routine process of “taking care of someone”. I was off the day they moved Mrs. Haverson into the step-down unit and immediately missed her when I walked into the ICU after having been off for 3 days. Our shifts were 12 hours long, so we did get 3 day weekends every week and a half. It just so happens that I did get to visit with Mrs. Haverson before she was completely discharged. I got assigned to the step-down unit for a couple of days; a bit less intense than the ICU, but a busy place nonetheless.

“Good morning, Mrs. Haverson! So good to see you again. Nice to see you are improving and have been moved out of ICU. That means you’ll be going home soon!”
Mrs. Haverson, returned the greeting, but did not seem particularly proud of this upcoming fact. While her health was stabilizing, her tiredness was still very apparent.
Finally, the day before she was to be discharged, at the end of a busy shift, I stopped by her room. I don’t remember exactly why, but I did. I guess I consciously made the decision to chat for a moment with Mrs. Haverson. After all, it had been almost three weeks since I had met her and I loved that sweetness she still had in her voice.

I asked her was there anything I could get her before I go, and then I said, “Where are you from, Mrs., Haverson?”

“Mississippi” she says, and mentions a small town I had never heard of, but she tells me “it’s in Central Mississippi”. She goes on to say, she had been very poor as a young girl, “But everybody was”, she added.
Mrs. Haverson goes on with stories of picking cotton, milling sugar cane, hard winters and life on life’s terms. Many of the same stories I witnessed and heard from my parents and their parents, she retold as her own. I sat on the arm of the side chair and just listened. She had never spoken to me so much.

“Do you have any children?” I asked.

“Yes, a daughter”. Her face became a little longer, her eyes a bit distant as she pulled up memories. And all at once…
“I haven’t seen her in twenty years, and I’m not sure why”.
She finally said.
“She had a little girl, too. I have never seen my grandchild. I tried so hard to be good to her and give her the things I never had. She had her Daddy’s hard-headedness and after he died, I couldn’t do anything right by her. She took off when she was about seventeen, didn’t even finish high school. I heard she headed to New Orleans. I went down there and looked and looked, but I could never find hide nor hair of her. The police weren’t much help back then. I was never much on church, but I prayed to God to please take care of my Baby, if at least He couldn’t bring her back home”. She paused for a moment and with an even softer tone, she said,

“I heard through some distant cousins I had in Metairie that they had seen her a couple of years later and she had a little girl with her. That’s how I know about my grandbaby. They said the little girl looked like me in the one few pictures of me I do have. She might’ve been pregnant when she took off…but she had no reason to be ashamed. Things were different then”.

I just sat there listening.

“I didn’t get a good start with life and Lord knows I made my mistakes”, she started again.

The late afternoon sun slanted in through the blinds.

“I know I can’t do nothing about it now, but if I could go back, I would’a got both of us outta that town and away from that man I took up with after my husband died. There wasn’t much choice. I had to feed us. He was pure meanness, he drank a lot and no tellin' what else. I’m sure he’s why she took off like that. I was suspicious of other things happening…I guess she had every right. I should have done better by her".

And with that, and a heavy sigh, Mrs. Haverson had finally got it said and done. She seemed lighter. I guess those words had weighted a ton.

She just kept looking at her hand resting on the table pulled across her lap. Then she slowly looked toward the window. She was silently crying. She was sorry for things, for memories, long since pushed into the past. I would never know, nor anyone else for that matter, what all had happened in this ladies life. I didn’t need to know more.

My shift had ended. I got up, patted her hand and said, “Mrs. Haverson, I need to go. I want you to have a good night, now. I’m off tomorrow and the next day, but I will see you soon as I get back to work.”
She said ok and with that, I went home. I thought about Mrs. Haverson over the next couple of days. I just did. When I got back to work, Mrs. Haverson was totally discharged from the hospital. I guess the Medicare and home healthcare had been approved. I gave her a couple more thoughts and went on with routine days.

About three months later, Mrs. Haverson was readmitted to our little hospital. This time she was in a coma, the breathing tube prevented her speaking if she had wanted to. She looked, to me beyond just sick. There was some suspicion as to why she was here this time. Rumor had it she had been poisoned – with rat poison. The “companion” she lived with, a skinny, greasy haired man who used one of those electric chairs, would come by and see her once in a great while when she had been admitted before, was now just sitting there looking at her. No expression - didn’t seem to care. Just looking at her.

I just couldn’t help but wonder...

Mrs. Haverson finally passed away. It seemed a lonely passing and obviously I have thought of her over the years. The day she told me about her struggle is one of those times I will always hold special. I am glad I was somewhere I needed to be and especially so for those few minutes, on that hot Alabama afternoon, that I got out of my way and sat and listened to someone. It made all the difference for both of us.