I walked into the nursing home, after receiving a phone call from the agency I represent. I was to go and sit with a client named Janey. They informed me that she has dementia and Parkinson’s disease.

I walked to Room 204 and knocked. I opened the door and as our eyes met, my journey of bonding with Janey began. I smiled and shook her hand as I introduced myself. She glared at me, like a controlling mother checking out her son’s new date for the first time.

We began to talk a little about ourselves, and I quickly learned that we both loved old movies. Janey’s favorites were the old war films. I looked around her room and noticed the two large, framed awards hanging on the wall. They honored her services as a Lieutenant Commander in World War II. Janey was stationed in France, as the head nurse of a hospital.

Janey had good days and bad days. On the good days, Janey would sing along to the music in the black and white war movies, or hold my hand as I tucked her in bed. On the bad days, she would punch, scratch or yell at me. One day the nurse walked in and said to me, “You don’t get paid enough for this.” I just smiled and didn’t say a word.

As I looked into Janey’s distant eyes, I saw her soul. It was bound by frustration. Janey was a woman who was always in control, giving out orders. A very proud, gifted leader, who served our county for many years. She found herself in another war that she couldn’t control; fighting a battle that she couldn’t win against and an enemy she couldn’t touch. Between the diseases and the side effects from the medicines, she surrendered.

She became a prisoner within the walls of her own mind. Unable to remember the stories and the legacies of a soldier who served our great country most of her life. These stories are never to be shared with the present and future generations. They are forever buried.

Janey never had any children. If it weren’t for the nurses and the caretakers, she wouldn’t have any visitors. As months went by, Janey’s health took a turn for the worse and my services were no longer needed. One day I stopped by to see her, but she didn’t respond. I don’t even know if she knew who I was.

I read Janey’s obituary a few weeks later. The small, four-lined paragraph only mentioned her name, age and death. No services were held. No eulogies were said. No recollections written of her services. What little information written could have fit onto a dog tag.

I am so privileged to have had a relationship with Janey. She first was my client, then she became my friend. Until we meet again Janey, keep on singing your songs.

Lisa M. Garvey

Lancaster, Pa.