blame or stir up trouble. I’m simply wondering if you have similar misgivings. I’ve come to the point in my life where I can see more clearly. I suppose age will do that. It would be easier to forget, move on, and put all that behind. But the truth has a way of hanging on to you. I’ve experienced a change deep in my soul. I’m no longer concerned about ramifications. I want to make things right.
There is one other reason for contacting you —a young lady I’ve found. You will remember the test case that was abandoned. This girl is remarkable but impaired. I believe we are culpable. I will explain further if you call me. Perhaps we could talk. My contact information is at the bottom of this letter.
I hope this reaches you and that you are well.
Sincerely,
James Crenshaw, MD
Treha let her eyes rest, as much as they could, on the sentence that said, a young lady I’ve found . Could he be talking about her? Was she the “impaired” person he described?
She studied the letter as if it were a word puzzle. Did he know something about her life that she didn’t? If so, how? And if he died or was in a coma, how would she ever get the information from him? He was leaving a riddle, a life jumble, and she couldn’t decipher it.
Streams from Desert Gardens
scene 12
Wide shot of Miriam Howard’s office.
Miriam rummaging through books, putting them in boxes.
Close-up of nursing textbooks.
Close-up of Miriam’s hands.
Some people talk about hating going to work. I feel sorry for those people because I’ve never felt that way, at least not here. I get to speak into the lives of some amazing people, courageous men and women who choose this as their final address.
The people who come here are like family. It’s a very spiritual place. A caring place. I brought my own mother here when she couldn’t take care of herself, although it was an arduous process to get her to consider it. She put up a real fight after my father died, but it was the last fall she had that helped her see: She wasn’t safe. She couldn’t do it anymore.
So she came here and made friends, much to her surprise. And she thrived and was a real part of the community in those last few years.
Wide shot of Miriam pulling into the parking lot, getting out, walking to the front door.
There’s a flutter in your heart when you know you’re going to see someone you love. And each morning as I drove up, I could see her through the window of the front room. Just sitting there waiting, reading the morning paper. I would pour us both a cup of coffee and we’d sit together and talk about the news and whatever was on her mind. Most of the time it was memories she had of my father or some concern she had about her finances. How she was going to pay the bill for the lights we kept on in the hall. She’d ask me that every day: when was she going to get the bill for those lights we kept on all day?
Toward the end, her mind wandered and she couldn’t hold those thoughts. She would repeat herself time and again. The same stories. The same memories. The same questions.
Still photo of Miriam and her mother.
Watching someone grow older teaches you things about yourself. Things you don’t anticipate learning. Things you never wanted to learn. Like how to be patient with the woman who diapered you, how to answer her questions ten times in the same sitting without getting huffy.
I remember the day she took a turn. I didn’t see her when I drove up, and she wasn’t in her usual place. I walked to her room and found her sitting on the bed, staring out the window, without a stitch of clothes on. She was in some other place.
I used to wonder what it would have been like if both my father and mother had been here. I like to think they would have been a lot like the Lovebirds.
Shot of Lovebirds kissing in the dining hall.
It’s not easy to say good-bye to family. It’s not easy turning the page on your life. There’s real fear about . . . the
There is one other reason for contacting you —a young lady I’ve found. You will remember the test case that was abandoned. This girl is remarkable but impaired. I believe we are culpable. I will explain further if you call me. Perhaps we could talk. My contact information is at the bottom of this letter.
I hope this reaches you and that you are well.
Sincerely,
James Crenshaw, MD
Treha let her eyes rest, as much as they could, on the sentence that said, a young lady I’ve found . Could he be talking about her? Was she the “impaired” person he described?
She studied the letter as if it were a word puzzle. Did he know something about her life that she didn’t? If so, how? And if he died or was in a coma, how would she ever get the information from him? He was leaving a riddle, a life jumble, and she couldn’t decipher it.
Streams from Desert Gardens
scene 12
Wide shot of Miriam Howard’s office.
Miriam rummaging through books, putting them in boxes.
Close-up of nursing textbooks.
Close-up of Miriam’s hands.
Some people talk about hating going to work. I feel sorry for those people because I’ve never felt that way, at least not here. I get to speak into the lives of some amazing people, courageous men and women who choose this as their final address.
The people who come here are like family. It’s a very spiritual place. A caring place. I brought my own mother here when she couldn’t take care of herself, although it was an arduous process to get her to consider it. She put up a real fight after my father died, but it was the last fall she had that helped her see: She wasn’t safe. She couldn’t do it anymore.
So she came here and made friends, much to her surprise. And she thrived and was a real part of the community in those last few years.
Wide shot of Miriam pulling into the parking lot, getting out, walking to the front door.
There’s a flutter in your heart when you know you’re going to see someone you love. And each morning as I drove up, I could see her through the window of the front room. Just sitting there waiting, reading the morning paper. I would pour us both a cup of coffee and we’d sit together and talk about the news and whatever was on her mind. Most of the time it was memories she had of my father or some concern she had about her finances. How she was going to pay the bill for the lights we kept on in the hall. She’d ask me that every day: when was she going to get the bill for those lights we kept on all day?
Toward the end, her mind wandered and she couldn’t hold those thoughts. She would repeat herself time and again. The same stories. The same memories. The same questions.
Still photo of Miriam and her mother.
Watching someone grow older teaches you things about yourself. Things you don’t anticipate learning. Things you never wanted to learn. Like how to be patient with the woman who diapered you, how to answer her questions ten times in the same sitting without getting huffy.
I remember the day she took a turn. I didn’t see her when I drove up, and she wasn’t in her usual place. I walked to her room and found her sitting on the bed, staring out the window, without a stitch of clothes on. She was in some other place.
I used to wonder what it would have been like if both my father and mother had been here. I like to think they would have been a lot like the Lovebirds.
Shot of Lovebirds kissing in the dining hall.
It’s not easy to say good-bye to family. It’s not easy turning the page on your life. There’s real fear about . . . the
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