As I sit here with my heart and my head on thoughts of a beloved friend, I cannot help but feel the importance of sharing my feelings with those who also knew and loved her, as I did, and do. I have so many happy memories, so many funny and charming thoughts and many an outrageous story of a woman who was twice the person I could ever aspire to be.
Catherine Dean Watson, or, as I and many people referred to her as, Kay, made an impression on everybody she met. For many, it was not always a pleasant impression, but for others, it was lasting.
I can still picture in my mind the first time my eyes caught sight of this tiny firecracker of a woman. I was visiting up at Northcott with my son, then less than 1 year old. I turned to look towards the dining room and saw an awkward looking woman in a green dress, trying to propel herself forward in her wheelchair. Not knowing whether I should help her or not, I simply watched as she slowly wheeled her way into the dining room for what I would later come to know, was, to her, an unimpressive dinner.
When I came to be employed at Northcott Care Center, in September of 2006, I learned that this woman was referred to as “CD”. I instantly fell in love with her. Not only was she a joy to look at, with her enormous glasses, twice the size of her face, and her rapidly thinning shock of white hair, but she was an absolute joy to converse with. I instantly recognized her as the woman I had watched at the dining room just a month or so prior, and eagerly introduced myself.
“Jessica” she repeated harshly, afflicted with the raspy voice of a life-long smoker, “I’ll remember that.”
And she did. From that point on our morning routine consisted of me rushing my way to her room to answer her over-active call bell, kissing her on the cheek and whispering, “Good morning beautiful.” We became fast friends, (her “Kay“ and me, “Jay“) and I anticipated every minute I could sneak away to visit with her, and was always welcomed with a smile.
My afternoon routine, at precisely 3 o’clock, was to push Kay to the dining room, where she would wait at the ropes for them to open for dinner, which was not until 5 o’clock.
Kay kept her trusty talking clock with her at every moment, and you always knew, when you heard that automatic voice state, “It is 2:57” that the light outside room number 132 would flash, and she was ready to go. Now.
Long visits were spent at those ropes, where I learned many things about Kay’s past, and she in turn learned a great deal about my past, and present life.
She told me stories about her father, James, and her mother, Martha, who, in pictures I could see was a wisp of a woman, no different from Kay herself. Kay told me of her brother, Charles Hyram, who died suddenly of a “coronary thrombosis”, and her younger sister Frances, who passed away only 4 years prior, in 2002. She spoke often of her older sister, Mary, and frequently questioned how she was doing, always growing concerned about her health. It was glaringly obvious of the importance of family to Kay.
Like myself, Kay had an amazing memory for dates, times, names and places. She never forgot a name, and could reminisce about her school days, and still list off the names of her classmates, and where they were now. In turn, Kay never forgot my name, nor did she forget my son, Donovan’s name.
As I got to know Kay more, she shared with me stories of pain and heartache that she had experienced as a young woman. She sadly shared with me that she was unable to bear children, due to a childhood illness, and because of that fact, had ended two engagements, feeling it cruel to marry a man and not be able to bear his children. When I introduced her to my son she meekly asked me, “Can he call me Grandma?”
Donny and Kay shared few visits, as their schedules differed, but pictures of him decorated her bulletin board, and questions of him came daily. “How is my grandson Donovan?”, she would ask. She worried greatly about him when he was ill, be it just a cold, the flu, or teething pains, and always sent her love.
Catherine Dean Watson, or, as I and many people referred to her as, Kay, made an impression on everybody she met. For many, it was not always a pleasant impression, but for others, it was lasting.
I can still picture in my mind the first time my eyes caught sight of this tiny firecracker of a woman. I was visiting up at Northcott with my son, then less than 1 year old. I turned to look towards the dining room and saw an awkward looking woman in a green dress, trying to propel herself forward in her wheelchair. Not knowing whether I should help her or not, I simply watched as she slowly wheeled her way into the dining room for what I would later come to know, was, to her, an unimpressive dinner.
When I came to be employed at Northcott Care Center, in September of 2006, I learned that this woman was referred to as “CD”. I instantly fell in love with her. Not only was she a joy to look at, with her enormous glasses, twice the size of her face, and her rapidly thinning shock of white hair, but she was an absolute joy to converse with. I instantly recognized her as the woman I had watched at the dining room just a month or so prior, and eagerly introduced myself.
“Jessica” she repeated harshly, afflicted with the raspy voice of a life-long smoker, “I’ll remember that.”
And she did. From that point on our morning routine consisted of me rushing my way to her room to answer her over-active call bell, kissing her on the cheek and whispering, “Good morning beautiful.” We became fast friends, (her “Kay“ and me, “Jay“) and I anticipated every minute I could sneak away to visit with her, and was always welcomed with a smile.
My afternoon routine, at precisely 3 o’clock, was to push Kay to the dining room, where she would wait at the ropes for them to open for dinner, which was not until 5 o’clock.
Kay kept her trusty talking clock with her at every moment, and you always knew, when you heard that automatic voice state, “It is 2:57” that the light outside room number 132 would flash, and she was ready to go. Now.
Long visits were spent at those ropes, where I learned many things about Kay’s past, and she in turn learned a great deal about my past, and present life.
She told me stories about her father, James, and her mother, Martha, who, in pictures I could see was a wisp of a woman, no different from Kay herself. Kay told me of her brother, Charles Hyram, who died suddenly of a “coronary thrombosis”, and her younger sister Frances, who passed away only 4 years prior, in 2002. She spoke often of her older sister, Mary, and frequently questioned how she was doing, always growing concerned about her health. It was glaringly obvious of the importance of family to Kay.
Like myself, Kay had an amazing memory for dates, times, names and places. She never forgot a name, and could reminisce about her school days, and still list off the names of her classmates, and where they were now. In turn, Kay never forgot my name, nor did she forget my son, Donovan’s name.
As I got to know Kay more, she shared with me stories of pain and heartache that she had experienced as a young woman. She sadly shared with me that she was unable to bear children, due to a childhood illness, and because of that fact, had ended two engagements, feeling it cruel to marry a man and not be able to bear his children. When I introduced her to my son she meekly asked me, “Can he call me Grandma?”
Donny and Kay shared few visits, as their schedules differed, but pictures of him decorated her bulletin board, and questions of him came daily. “How is my grandson Donovan?”, she would ask. She worried greatly about him when he was ill, be it just a cold, the flu, or teething pains, and always sent her love.
In early October, Kay had a fall out of bed, that left her with two black eyes, and bruising that stretched up into her hair. When I asked Kay what had happened (“had somebody left the side-rail of her bed down?”), she explained to me that she was having a dream that she was witnessing a war in Israel, and that she had stood up to put an end to it, and awoke on the floor of her room. It became a longstanding joke for me to tell her, upon leaving, “not to go fighting any wars”.
A memory I have of Kay’s reliability that constantly sticks out in my head is that of Remembrance Day, 2006. On a walk up towards the dining room she caught sight of a box of poppies. Wanting to make a donation towards one, but knowing the office was closed, she pondered aloud how she would be able to get one. Knowing that she was too proud a woman to ask me for the money, I dug around in my purse and came up with nothing more than a quarter. Putting it in the bin, I took out a poppy, and pinned in on Kay’s sweater, above her heart.
The following day, Kay called for me, and asked me to push her to the office. Obligingly, I did so, and sat with her while she discussed her finances with the receptionist. Asking to withdraw $5.25 from her account, she stated, “I want to buy a poppy, and I owe a friend some money.” Telling her that a quarter, in my eyes, was not worth paying back, she smiled, and told me “As a single mother, I’d imagine you need all you can get. And I do not leave a debt unpaid.” Together we deposited the $5.25 cents into the donation box, where I also withdrew a poppy, and wore it with pride.
Christmas came and I inquired to Kay about what she might need. She simply stated, “I need nothing. I’m afraid that as much as I would like to, I do not have the money to buy you a gift in return.” Feeling that the holiday season is not about the gifts that you receive, but the gifts you give, I put special effort into finding her something, and came up with a blue chenille cardigan. Kay was thrilled with the gift, and wore it immediately, and frequently.
In the months that followed, Kay slowly began to lose physical strength. Mentally, she had never been stronger, but physically there were things she was finding herself unable to do. Be it something small like eat her meal, or push the buttons on her clock, it became increasingly frustrating for her. I took special effort in helping her, and, knowing the way she liked things to be done, explained to other staff the “acceptable” way to do them.
In March of 2007 Kay became ill, when the home was inflicted with it’s second bout of Nor-Virus, or, “Norwalk”. She was put under 24-hour isolation on her birthday, the 15th of March, and I was unable to go in and see her. I simply left some cards on her dresser, and left her to sleep, knowing that should she wake up, it would merely frustrate her not to be able to look at them.
From the time she became infected with the virus to the time of her death was seventy days. In those seventy days I saw a change in her so drastic, it breaks my heart to remember. Gone were the days of wheeling herself to the dining room, Kay now spent the majority of her days in a large “Broda” chair, essentially, a bed on wheels. No more did Kay fret if her hearing aid was not in her “right” ear, nor did she concern herself with wearing her glasses. The talking clock had long since retired to the dresser, and her hair stood around her head like the beams on a sun. The only constant that remained with her was her memory. I could still enter a room, and she knew I was there, (I have had staff share with me that on the evening and night shifts she called for me) she still called for me after mealtime to take her to her room, she still held my hand as I silently cried beside her.
Only slowly she was becoming less and less of the Kay I had met less than a year before.
When the time came that Kay had deteriorated so drastically that she hardly spoke, I made a special effort to be her primary caregiver. Be it feeding her her meals, dressing her, or just holding her hand, I made sure to be there as often as I could. I knew that she would have wanted me there, but could not speak for herself. I became her voice, and instructed staff of her needs far more often than they desired, and openly critiqued them for any errors they’d make, as minor as putting her in a dress she did not like, or forgetting to comb her hair.
This brave soul fought as hard as she could to remain in this world, and when the time came that her death was imminent, she pulled out a fresh batch of stubbornness.
Tuesday morning, May 22nd I learned that she had not been doing well at all the previous night, and would remain in bed for the duration of my shift. Knowing what this meant, after almost a year in the nursing home, I became immersed solely in her. I was working the other wing that day, but made a special effort to be there with her, if only for a mere moment. I washed her hair and bathed her in bed (something I know she would have argued against), and sat with her holding her hand. I knew by looking at her that the end was near. I left that shift feeling desolate, and afraid.
By ten o’clock that night I was frantic, feeling the need to get there as soon as possible. So I did. I sat there with her through the night, making sure to swab her open mouth and administer eye-drops to her dry, open eyes. I held her hands and performed all of her care by myself. Rolling her from side to side, and moving my chair accordingly so that she was always facing me, and would know she was not alone, nothing was too much for me. Nothing was too much for her. I slept with my head next to Kay’s, and held onto her hands the entire night. I could sense her fear, and it scared me. I could feel that she was holding on, but to what?
Returning that morning after a few brief hours of rest, I found a small scripture book in her closet. In it there was a list of prayers to say for a variety of occasions. I found a prayer to read to the dying, and read it to her, praying that she would let herself go to a place where she would feel no more pain, where I would not have to see her suffering.
I was afraid to leave her side, for fear of her being alone if she were to pass, and remained at her side that night until midnight, reading her scriptures, and praying for her myself. Telling her, “Do not be afraid to go. I will take care of Mary for you, you have nothing to worry about. You need to go and see your family. You need to escape this pain. I love you so much and it hurts me to see you like this.” She just refused to let go. And in turn, so did I. Essentially it was the night nurse who demanded I go home, and promised that somebody would be at her side every minute until I returned.
But I did not return in time.
I called the nursing home the minute I awoke, and was told that there was no change, and I should spend some time with my son, and relax, and they would call me if and when they needed me. Thirty minutes from the time of that call, I was back on the phone with them, tearfully listening as they told me to come now, that Kay needed me, and she knew I was coming for her. Frantically I dressed and ran out the door, strapping my son in his car seat, and honking for my sister to hurry up to drive me to Kay. Ten minutes on my way there, only five minutes from Ponoka, I received a call from my Mother, who, at the time worked in dietary. She quietly asked me if I was on my way up there, and told me that sadly Kay had just passed., no more than 5 minutes prior.
I started to tremble. I wept, choking out sob after sob as my heart shattered inside of me. Gasping for air, I cried, “No! No! No!” I was supposed to be there. She needed me there. I felt a failure.
I arrived at the nursing home and ran immediately to her room, where I fell into the arms of one of my co-workers. I cried until I felt the tears had run dry. They understood my pain, and they understood the importance of her not being alone, and there were five of them with her when she left this earth.
I asked for privacy, and I walked over to Kay, taking her hand and kissing her forehead, I whispered, “Goodbye, beautiful.” And, as tears spilled from my eyes I walked away, glancing back one last time at one of the best friends I have ever had.
Kay had become a fixture in my life, as previously mentioned. I anticipated our many encounters, be it for a mere minute to give her a hug, or for a long talk lasting through an hour past shift change, every second I spent with her was cherished deeply. Every talk, every word spoken, touches my memory.
Finding a way to deal with her death has been trying for me, knowing that, as told by so many of my co-workers, I should not “get attached” I found it so very hard not to. I still miss her incredibly. I still think of her daily. I have visited her grave, and sat weeping, and felt her presence around me. I know that Kay will never leave me mentally, and physically, I have her name tattooed right on my wrist, and when people question me about it, I love to tell them the story about a “cranky old woman” who stole my heart. All of these memories and two blurry photographs are all I have left of her, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
I loved Kay, and will for the remainder of my life.
Peace and Love,
J
