Early Days of My Post-Retirement Career
A short time after I retired, I applied for two jobs. The first application was to “Time Out,” an adult day care center – as the morning driver. Driving Miss Daisy, I called it. They needed my birth certificate (always a challenge to find) and my Social Security Card (hadn’t seen that in a while). I located the birth certificate, but not the SSN card. For that I sent $14.95 to the SS administration.
Did I ever get the SS Card? Not sure.
Anyway, a plus about the driving job was that it was somewhat like humanitarian work, and I got paid. And I thought I could contribute. I’d try to get them talking, build familiarity etc. I could do that.
Years before, my mom had gone to “Time Out” from age 92 until age 96. She died in 1999. She had a friend there, named Frieda. They were good friends, albeit only at “school,” as she called it. But at least they knew each other's name. So I'd have much to do in the sixty minutes of travel, just keeping the passengers actively engaged with one and other.
Ultimately I got the job. Twenty dollars, for two hours per day, a hundred a week - not bad.
Handing Out Towels - Not Qualified
I also gave my application to a local fitness center for the job of staff member on duty - the equivalent of handing out towels. The interview was not especially demanding, just general conversation and what shifts could I work.
Nevertheless when the director, Mary, asked me why I wanted the job, I hesitated. She helped me along, “For something to do,” she suggested.
I took ever so slight umbrage, because I didn’t want to be lumped in with retirees who were bored because they couldn’t think of anything to occupy themselves. Being thought of that way was not flattering, so I responded, perhaps without enough softness, that no, I wasn’t looking for something to do. I was fully active in carrying out my own “meaningful” life. I wanted the job for the money, which is what I ended up saying.
“Well actually, I’m doing it for the money,” I said. Something like that.
For some reason, this didn’t seem to sit well with Mary. She moved immediately from there to explain the several “employment principles” of the center – essentially, be kind, courteous and helpful at all times.
I was well aware of that as the way to behave even outside of the exercise room. Regardless, I nodded agreement.
Anyway, I didn’t get that job.
You Want to Volunteer?
The third thing I did was go over to Pine Acres which was a nursing home. I talked briefly with some residents, Mary Lou, Bob, Al, Mary, Nancy etc. Mary was by far the most alert. She had five children, she said, then remembered one was killed in a car accident.
“Terrible,” I offered, “nothing worse.” My heart ached for her.
She nodded agreement, pain on her face.
“I hate nursing homes,” she said, “but my children all work. They can’t care for me.” I agreed though I wasn’t certain that she couldn’t be at one of their homes.
“Even if a nursing home is nice, it’s not home. Something about it makes you feel alone.” I said this.
“Yes.”
I stood next to her wheelchair and talked for fifteen more minutes, then bid farewell. I said I’d see her again. “Oh do,” she said in a high pitch, pleading thank-you. I recognized the tone. I had worked – volunteered – in a nursing home for over a year some years ago and was always taken by the need, but even more, the gratitude.
I poked my head into another room. A frail, gray skinned woman was breathing oxygen, holding a plastic mask to her face. It was therapy for her lungs she told me.” Lungs are a problem as you age,” she said.
Her roommate asked if I had a newspaper. I said no, but I’d get her one. An aide was in the hallway and she saw me come out, looking around. “What does she want?” she said, rather gruffly.
“She wants a newspaper,” I said.
“I’ll get it,” the aide said, and marched away as if it was not my place to respond to such requests. I doubted that the newspaper would ever appear.
I stayed about another half an hour – still no newspaper. On my way out I caught the attention of a middle aged woman in business clothes – obviously an administrator. I related my story that I wanted to visit regularly and thought she should know who I was. I’d been here with my father-in-law, Max, a year previous and had the idea then that when I retired I’d come visit those confined here. I didn’t use the word confined. But thought that maybe I’d even bring Max here.
“You want to volunteer?” she asked.
That sounded too formal, like I’d volunteer for an assigned task, play bingo every M-W-F. I didn’t want that exactly, but I said yes. She took my name and phone number and said that someone would give me a call. I doubted it, just because she didn't look especially pleased.
I thanked her, put on my coat and walked to my car. I thought of how fortunate I was and it registered that much of my good fortune was that I was still relatively young – 67 – and healthy.
Yes I was a free man – I was in the world; I was ambulatory, looking at the trees, taking deep breaths, able to drive to California right this moment should I wish. Yes I was alive and healthy, and while not eternal, I retained the belief that I would never be like those I visited today.
Silly thought. I’m sure there was a time when each of those
inside thought the same.
No one ever called me from Pine Acres.
