Back to Issue 9

Jacqueline Masumian

First Position

Pulling on her baggy mauve sweater, Evelyn prepared to venture out. She passed the hall mirror without a glance, not caring for the wrinkly old woman who’d stare back at her. That woman gave her the creeps. Without warning, age had stolen up behind Evelyn, thrown a hood over her unsuspecting head, and morphed her into a senior citizen (the feeble euphemism turned her stomach). Having had no say in the matter; she’d turned eighty-five, that number she’d predicted and hoped she’d never reach. She’d rather die than suffer the indignities of old age. But here it was. The pits.

Leaving the safety of her tiny kitchen, even for an hour or two, always gave her pangs of discomfort. The room held everything she needed, all close at hand—her coffee pot, a soup pan, a book, a stack of mail on the table. Beyond the window, a stretch of water glistened in the morning sun, fallen leaves of a yellowing willow tree floating along its surface. Thank heaven she’d bought this unit on the pond. A lone swan, oblivious to all, sailed along and dipped to snatch a meal among the reeds, her pure white butt pointed at the sky. “You go, girl,” Evelyn said with a laugh.

Today’s appointment at the doctor’s office would be an ordeal. But if she had to die of something, when whatever was going to grab her grabbed her, she certainly didn’t want it to be the flu.

During the cab ride the driver, determined to make small talk, nattered on about his landlady. Evelyn sat mute, hoping he’d think she was deaf. Funny how as she got older she could get away with such things. But if she didn’t want to talk with a stranger, why should she? Besides, she had other things on her mind: strategy, for one.

The taxi bounced along, finding potholes and taking turns at a dizzying speed. Evelyn clutched the door handle to keep from skidding side to side, while the blend of the driver’s aftershave and the air freshener hanging from his rearview mirror nauseated her. The cab arrived at the doctor’s office, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

“OK, you hold on to me, now!” the driver said, pulling her out of the cab. He muttered as he held her arm and escorted her to the doctor’s waiting room. “Normally I don’t walk the people to their door, ma’am. I’m only doin’ this because…You know, lady, old person like you needs a companion, someone to help you around and such.”

“Mm-hmm,” she replied.

She paid the fare and turned to announce herself to the girl at the desk. “Evelyn Kayless, for a flu shot. Ten-thirty.”

The receptionist gave her a blank stare. “Which doctor?” she said, discretely revealing a wad of chewing gum.

“No doctor. It’s just the flu shot,” said Evelyn. The girl seemed in a stupor. “Dr. Press is my regular doctor. When I need one. But today it’s just the shot.”

“Hmmm. OK, Mrs. Kayless, have a seat. Someone’ll call you.” The girl went back to her computer screen, chewing.

Sliding one foot in front of the other, holding onto the backs of chairs, Evelyn made her way to a corner of the room where she thought she might pick up the fewest germs. This shuffling business was a nuisance. Why on earth couldn’t she lift her feet off the carpet like any normal person? Mobility should be a God-given right. For heaven’s sake, years ago she’d been a dancer, not professional, but a talented amateur. She’d taken modern dance classes every week for thirty years. In the warm up, she’d done every bar exercise perfectly—first position, second position, third, fourth and fifth. During the dance routine, she’d stretched her torso and swiveled her hips and leapt across the floor with ease. Watching herself in the studio mirror, she’d known she was good, very good. “Evvy, you should go pro!” her friends always said, their eyes shining with admiration.

But when she turned fifty, she’d started getting injuries, first her knee, then her ankle, and eventually she had to quit her regular routine and resign herself to a ridiculous jazzercise class where she bounced and flung her arms around with a bunch of middle-aged ladies, feeling alive but foolish. Eventually her knees began to fail her, and she had to give up even that. Now she was reduced to this shuffling. Disgraceful.

She longed to dance again; there was a free “movement” class for seniors at a nearby gym, but she couldn’t find the strength somehow. Too beaten down. As much as she told herself shoulders back, find your center, take control, her legs simply wouldn’t work.

The other patients in the doctor’s waiting room were about her age, at various levels of decrepitude—one with a cane, another encaged by a walker, and one old dear dabbing at her eyes with a ragged Kleenex. They all came out of their hidey-holes for their fall flu shots and whatever else their doctors chose to inflict on them. She knew she could get her shot at the pharmacy, but that didn’t seem right; she wanted someone qualified, even though coming to this office was a huge risk.

At last her name was called. “Mrs. Kayless?” A young nurse stood holding the door. “Come on in.” Evelyn stood and shuffled across the carpet and through the steel door that closed behind her with a thud. The nurse took her arm and led her along a cluttered hallway. Evelyn could sense the young woman’s impatience with her slowness.

“Mrs. Kayless, shouldn’t you…have you considered using a cane? It’d make you feel a lot steadier!” Evelyn pretended not to hear. She’d walk on her own two feet, thank you.

“All righty! Here we are.” The nurse shook her glossy blond hair and directed Evelyn to a paper-covered patient table.

“I’m just here for the flu shot,” said Evelyn, “That’s all.” The smell of alcohol made her want to fly this coop as soon as possible.

“Yes, I know,” the nurse answered, checking the file, “but it looks like you haven’t been in for a wellness visit in…three years? Oh, my. Looks like you missed a couple.” She looked up and smiled, seeking a response.

“Mm-hmm,” said Evelyn. She had cancelled her last appointment for a visit, not seeing the point. She was feeling fine, other than the normal aches and pains. Why subject herself to tests and needles and doctors poking around? Best to leave it alone, she’d decided.

The bouncy voice flew past Evelyn’s silence. “OK, then, let’s just check your vitals!”

Evelyn submitted to being weighed and measured, her lungs being checked, temperature and pulse being taken. She stared at “KEERA” in large block letters on the nurse’s tag, “Keera Regis, R.N.,” as the blood pressure cuff expanded, squeezing her arm to the point of near explosion.

Her best friend Trudy, a sturdy eighty-year-old with thinning red hair, had gone in for a full physical two years ago because her children had insisted. What a mistake. Her doctor, feeling a little bump near her rib cage, sent her for an ultrasound that led to a CAT scan, then to another, and finally a biopsy. Months later it took a full panel of lung cancer specialists to determine the tiny knob was nothing—just nothing. But Trudy was so traumatized by weeks of procedures, anxious waiting for results, and dread of cancer, her confidence faltered and her appetite vanished. She became so frail and feeble, her children finally had to set her up in assisted living three towns away.

On the day she was to leave, Evelyn had called her friend to say goodbye. “Why can’t I just stay home?” Trudy sobbed. Evelyn held the phone and let her cry and cry. Her last remaining friend had succumbed and would now be led off to the insistent care of strangers. Two months later Trudy was dead. What a way to go.

“OK, everything’s pretty good,” said Keera, jotting some notes onto the chart. “Pressure’s a little higher than we’d like, though,” the sing-song emphasis on “little” suggesting “a lot.”

The nurse sat to study Evelyn’s chart. “Hmm. There’s a note on your chart here that you live alone, is that right? No one looking after you?”

“No one,” said Evelyn. She resisted the urge to add, “I do just fine on my own,” as that would only encourage more conversation, more prying questions. Hal had been dead for years. No need to dredge that up. And luckily she had no children to boss her around.

“Now, Evelyn,” what happened to Mrs. Kayless? “I was just wondering.” The nurse crossed her legs and leaned forward. “Have you thought about having an aide come in to your home from time to time? Someone your age usually needs a helping hand now and then, you know, taking a shower, things like that.” The nurse’s sunny voice intended to coax and prod rattled her—good grief, did she smell bad? She ignored the question and opened her pocket book, rummaging around as though seeking a tissue, just to put the young woman off.

“No?” A long pause. “OK, then!” Keera closed the file and slapped it onto her lap. After a moment of silence, she stood.

“You know, let me just see if the doctor’s free. I’m sure he’d like to have a look!” Her threatening, breezy tone made Evelyn’s heart begin to pound.

“I’m here for the flu shot,” she said, “not to see any doctor. I want my shot. I was told a nurse would give it to me. And then I’ve got to go.” She strained to keep her voice firm; any waver would mean defeat.

“Mrs. Kayless, at your age, you should be seeing a doctor at least once a year.” The nurse’s eyes challenged her. Evelyn gathered her sweater around her and looked away.

The nurse persisted. “Dr. Press is just down the hall, and he really should—”

​“Look,” angry tears were brimming, “are you going to give me the damn flu shot or not?”

“But I want him to check your pressure again—”

“I’m not sick!” said Evelyn, pleading like a cranky child, “I’m just old!”

“All right, Mrs. Kayless, all right. Let’s calm down.” She rustled some papers from the file. “Now, I am required to tell you…” She rattled off a long list of warnings about salt and diet and alcohol, recommendations about exercise and medications she should probably be taking. “Do you understand all I’ve said?” asked Keera. Evelyn nodded.

“I’ll be back in just a moment,” said the young nurse and left the room.
Evelyn’s heart was thumping inside her. A persistent hiss filled her ears. Shifting her weight on the table, she winced at the texture of the slick antiseptic paper beneath her.  She longed to step off the table and tear at that paper, to pull and shred it, wad it up and use it to pummel whoever walked in the door. If that nurse came back in with a doctor…

But no one came. She re-gathered her old sweater across her chest. Maybe she should simply walk away. All this anxiety just for a flu shot. Was she going to have to wait forever?

Finally, Keera entered bearing a syringe and needle wrapped in plastic. She slid the sleeves of Evelyn’s baggy sweater and blouse up to her shoulder and swabbed her arm with alcohol. “Just a pinch,” she said. Evelyn looked away and felt a stab in her arm.

“There you go. That was easy, wasn’t it?” said Keera, disposing of the syringe in a bin labeled Biohazard and preparing a band-aid.

“Yes, it was.” Evelyn reached out and caught Keera’s wrist and held the girl’s gaze for a long moment. “Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome. I think.” The nurse helped Evelyn from the table and guided her along the hall. Evelyn tried to lift her feet, just to prove to the young woman she could, but the knees wouldn’t allow it. The path to the EXIT sign seemed endless, her shuffling the loudest she’d ever heard.

The cab ride home gave Evelyn time to lick her wounds. She hoped she hadn’t been too rude to that young girl. She’d only been trying to do her job. And Evelyn, in turn, was doing hers. Her cab driver this trip, a good-looking young man, was silent and drove very considerately, and after a time she dozed off. She woke with a start when he said, “OK, ma’am, we’re here. That’ll be eighteen dollars, please.”
She handed him a twenty-dollar bill, her last, and thanked him. “Thank you, ma’am.” he said and sat staring through the windshield.

“Excuse me,” said Evelyn. She hated having to ask. “I’d appreciate if you’d walk me to my door.”

The driver turned slowly to face her and smiled. “Are you sure? You look pretty fit to me.”

Evelyn made a face and pulled together the handles of her pocketbook. These people always offered to walk her to her door.

“I mean, I’m happy to help you,” he said “but I thought you just might want to walk on your own.” His warm brown eyes pulled something from her. “Don’t you?”

“Yes.” Yes, she did. She opened the taxi door, pulled herself out, and shuffled, with a bit more ease than usual, to the front of her unit. She waved goodbye to the driver.

Once indoors, Evelyn put down her bag and opened the kitchen cupboard. Pushing aside a can of soup labeled Less Sodium, she pulled down a jar of peanut butter, some raspberry jam, and a box of crackers.

She had to laugh. That young nurse thinking she could push her around, an old toughie like her. Did she think Evelyn didn’t know who was in charge of her body? She laughed out loud. Hah-hah. Victory, plain and simple. She passed a little gas. And then a little more. Ah, the freedom, she thought, ah, the bliss.

She pulled off the baggy sweater and dropped it to the floor. Holding the back of the kitchen chair with one hand, she lifted her chin and assumed first position.

​Jacqueline Masumian is the author of Nobody Home:  A Memoir, much of which takes place in the suburbs of Cleveland where she grew up. She has enjoyed careers as actress, performing arts manager, and landscape designer, and her stories have appeared in Mused Literary Review, Brilliant Flash Fiction, and Indiana Voice Journal. Her website is at http://www.jacquelinemasumian.com.

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