the elderly woman

The elderly woman, her light brown hair standing in all directions, lay in the bed opposite mine. I was in the observation ward at the University Hospital of Geneva after once again experiencing chest pains but with no other symptoms of a heart attack. It was the fourth time in six months, and my doctor is working on the problem, but I still ended up once again running through all the tests to be told I have a healthy heart and probably the diagnosis we are working on of esophagus spasms is probably correct. Still rather than throw me out of the hospital they put me in a bed and expressed a desire to repeat some of the tests in the morning as a double-double check.

The woman was probably suffering from Parkinson’s considering her lack of muscle control and upset about the light in her eyes and a number of other things. The staff was patient with her, explaining and re-explaining, following her directions on whether to put the tea bag in the cup or in the pot of hot water, telling her that she had to keep the IV tube in. A small toy stuffed St. Bernard was clutched to her chest and she would not let go of it for anything. When the staff wasn’t there she talked to herself or to the toy Petite Precious, she had named him.

Despite her condition she maintained a certain dignity that the staff tried to honour, without giving into her orders. Sometimes she did not make sense in what she was saying, and I knew it wasn’t my French as the staff also tried to make out what she was saying.

Ready to be released and dressed, I saw her beckon to me just as I put on my coat.

“You have an accent,” she said in French.

"Oui."

"Vous êtes americaine?"

"Oui."

She indicated I should lean down so she could whisper in my ear. “Je detest W.”

She then clearly gave me a rather clear explanation of American politics, including precise events as if she were a regular reader of the alternative news sites that belied her earlier befuddlement.

"D'accord." I agree, I kept saying still amazed at the sudden coherency and knowledge.

In perfect English she wished me luck as I patted her little stuffed dog in farewell and clasped her hand.

On the bus home, I kept reviewing the conversation. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry that the betise of the current American administration had even penetrated the minds of a woman bordering on dementia.