A New Journey

Who was this woman who was placed beside the receptionist's window like a decoration, and a haunting one at that? As I asked for an application, I avoided looking at her directly. This woman's face was defined by the outline of her skull. Her mouth gaped open, and sharp, piercing eyes peered through sunken holes. These eyes seemed to see into my subconscious; they made me feel uncomfortable. She was tied to a chair with a vest that had straps. Perhaps the vest was a weak attempt to cover the harshness of the restraint. She was wearing a plaid dress of multiple colors. Beneath her chair sat a muted-yellow puddle of urine. White bobby socks hung loosely on her spindly legs, contrasted by worn black loafers. I wondered, Why did they tie her? It was clear to me, even in my youth, that she could not walk. Perhaps the restraints provided some kind of false security for the nursing staff or the office staff, who were running to and fro, hardly noticing her.

Are they all like this? I asked myself as I handed my application to the receptionist.

"Call soon," she said. "We may have work for you."

I felt a lump in my stomach as I attempted to appear enthusiastic, all the time avoiding those piercing eyes from the woman tied to the chair by the receptionist's window. This woman, who seemed to be doing nothing, was stirring something deep inside me. I wanted to run away. I left the building, but the image of the woman stayed with me.

"Come on Tuesday," the nursing director told me when I called the next day. "You will need a uniform and white nursing shoes."

I was hired as a nurse's aide. I did not even want to be a nurse's aide, much less work in that environment. Yet I knew I did not want to return home to Ohio. Fear like a dense, dark cloud hung in the wings of my consciousness, creating chaos in any peaceful moment. How did I get here? I wondered.

Only a few weeks prior, I was sitting in a motel room with my mom and my brother, Matthew. The room smelled damp and musty. Matthew and I sat on one of the twin beds while Mom sat on the other, writing me a check. Mom slowly and carefully tore the check from the checkbook. She looked good for a woman who had just finished a long drive from Ohio to Vermont. Mom always looked nice. She wore a gray blazer, white blouse, and black dress pants. She possessed a natural sense of how to present herself—always just the right amount of jewelry and makeup applied so subtly that it looked natural. Her features were soft, and her smile was welcoming. Not today though—her face was set with no hint of warmth.

"This is it," she said as she handed me the check. "You will have to find a job or come home."

I said, "Thanks." As I studied the check for fifty dollars, I thought, Hell of a graduation present.

"Your dad and I have your graduation present at home. We will give it to you there," Mom said as if she had read my mind.

Matthew slid me his card. Inside was a check for two hundred dollars. I was surprised. He looked at me intently. He did not have to say anything. I knew if he had felt comfortable enough to do so, he would have said, "Here's some more time, Meliss."

Matthew looked very vulnerable. He had recently been discharged from the navy with a diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia. His curly, brown hair was a little on the long side, and his thin, six-foot-three-inch frame shook, as the medications gave him tremors. Dad was noticeably absent. It was the night before my college graduation, and I wanted to party with my friends; yet I felt torn leaving Mom and Matthew in the motel room. My decision was to party with my friends. Part of me was relieved that Dad was not there. He said it was too hard for him to drive from Ohio to Vermont. I did not completely buy his story and allowed myself to feel hurt—a little. Anyway, this made spending time with my friends easier. Tonight I would party. Tomorrow I would go through the motions. And then I had to find a job. Life was loud then and cluttered with insecurities. Any quiet whispers that offered me solace fell silent, or perhaps I would not still myself enough to listen.

Procrastination was the result of my insecurities. Friends were familiar and safe. Employers were foreign and scary. I had completed my credit requirement a semester early. My parents had allowed me to stay in Vermont until graduation time, so I had hung out with my friends and occasionally looked for work. I had rented an apartment with a friend and an acquaintance I did not know very well. It made for cheap rent.

Now it was down to the wire, and my future was on the line. I felt if I returned to live with my parents, I would stagnate and never have a life. Lack of self-confidence was the biggest thing holding me back. After all, who would want to hire an awkward girl with thick glasses which didn't even fix her vision, who could not drive, who had a degree in fine arts, and who wore her insecurities on her sleeve?

Inaction was my tool of choice at the time. The division for the blind and visually impaired that assisted me in college also assisted me in my job search. My caseworker had suggested nursing homes, but I promptly dismissed the idea at the time. This idea I finally revisited, as other job options had not come to fruition.

My caseworker, whom I remember as a kind woman, drove me from nursing home to nursing home in an attempt to help me find a job I did not want. I developed a strategy of avoidance as I entered these facilities. Sometimes bad vision had its benefits, particularly when I did not want to see the environment for which I was applying for work. However, my plan fell short when I entered the last facility. There, right beside the receptionist's window, sat the gaunt woman with those piercing eyes.

I had mixed feelings as I called my family in Ohio to tell them I had a job. Matthew answered the phone. Upon hearing the news, he excitedly relayed the information to my parents. His enthusiasm for my success pleased me. He was a year and five days younger than I was. We were close as children. Our teenage years weren't so great, but now I knew he was in my corner. I always felt...