When 87-year-old Dorothy Mitchell fired her home nurse to hire a tattooed biker, her children threatened to have her declared unfit for duty. I live right across the street and witnessed the whole scene from my window. What they didn't know—what no one else knew—was the real reason behind her choice.
Dorothy has lived in apartment 4B for forty-three years. Her husband, George, died in 2003. Her three children, now adults, live in different states and visit her about twice a year. She suffers from Parkinson's disease, osteoporosis, and a debilitating loneliness.
I moved into apartment 4A two years ago. As a journalist, I work from home, and I started noticing some strange things. The home care agency kept changing nurses. They would feed her, bathe her, give her her medication, and leave. Dorothy tried to connect with them, but they were there to do their job, not to listen to her.
Finally, she started leaving her door ajar during the day. Just a crack, enough to hear footsteps, enough to feel less alone. I'd wave as I passed. Sometimes I'd stop to chat. She told me about George, a Korean War veteran, about her children "too busy to come see me," and about the trips she used to take, now reduced to struggling to reach the mailbox.
Then the motorcyclist arrived.
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