By Mary Cristy

A View from the Hills

My sister Viola and I talk every Saturday - a habit we fell into as soon as we could afford to call long distance-a habit that bridges the miles between New York and California, and enables us to be present in each others’ lives.

For years the snug little apartment she shared with Vic, her husband, was my home away from home. Six months ago Vic suffered a massive heart attack. “He won’t get much older,” was the way the doctor put it.

Vi’s own failing health precluded visits to her husband of 40-plus years, and they pined for each other like Shakespeare’s “star-crossed lovers.” In addition to heart problems Vic is in the early stages of dementia, but remains clear on his relationship to his wife. From the day he first set eyes on her and proclaimed “She’s my million dollars!” his pride in her has not diminished.

“I’m toothless, bald and wrinkled, and he still thinks I’m the Queen of Sheba,” she marvels.

When their only child died at 22, the bonds between his bereaved parents grew stronger than ever.They shared a wound that never really healed, but their home continued to be a gathering place for relatives and friends. Coffee flowed, good food was plentiful , and they continued to date every Saturday when Vic urged Vi to “get dressed and we’ll go someplace nice for lunch.”

Vi is the family fashion plate, while I have ever been “the grub.” As siblings we shared a dresser drawer that Vi partitioned to protect her beautifully pressed, neatly folded apparel from contamination by mine. When she was hospitalized with an emergency appendectomy I borrowed her snappiest outfit and visited. My chocolates didn’t placate her. “You’re wearing my brand new clothes,” she wailed.

Her doctor observed he’d never seen a patient recover so quickly.

So, when their failing health put an end to an era and she followed Vic into a rest home we weren’t surprised to learn she’d managed to smuggle in a pail and mop along with her clothes and jewelry. The door to their room looks out on a busy corridor. Vi closed it and cleaned the room from end to end..

“I don’t mind dying,” she said, “but I don’t want to die dirty.”

There’s no rest in a rest home, Vi reports. “They come in the middle of the night with Vic’s digitalis.” Other patients wander in and out at will. Vi, ever the hostess, shares the bounty our thoughtful cousins provide, with those who receive neither visitors or treats.

A new arrival with Alzheimer’s disease has taken a fancy to Vic. She drifts in to run her fingers through his still thick, dark hair, and caresses his arms. Vic, who often thinks he’s back in his Bronx apartment, roars, “Get her out of my house!”

Vi’s soft brown eyes have always filled with compassion for sufferers. “She’s a poor, sick lady,” she cautions Vic. ” Don’t be mean to her.”

Inmates, and attendants gather when Vi, feels well enough to dress up in something smart and wear the pearl earrings I sent her. “Dressing up is fine,” they admonish, “but forget the housekeeping. You’re here because you’re not up to it.”

Vi sighs philosophically. She can’t change. “When you’re born square, you don’t die round.” she says.

I say an extra rosary for Vic and my little sister. I pray for peace of soul and body for them in these sad, funny, troubled times. I thank the powers that be for their courage and adaptability in the face of major changes. And I shed some tears for the sparkling apartment and the warmth we knew there, which will live again only in grateful and loving remembrances of times past.

Cristy, a Los Altos Hills resident, has been writing for the Town Crier for more than 40 years. Her column is published the first week of the month.