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The doorbell rang. It was a clear, fresh sound that mingled with the smell of carpet glue in the couple's new home and sent shots of joy and pride through Kim’s veins.
"I'll get it," Aiko announced from the hallway. Kim heard her open the front door to their first visitor. He jumped up from his desk in the den and grabbed a serving cart on casters that he had found handy in helping him navigate the wide, open spaces of their new house – a necessity since his stroke six months before their move into the Oak Ridge neighborhood of Portland, Oregon.
Yes, it was 1985, years before walkers became common aids for those needing help with navigation.
The solid oak cart moved stiffly across the new carpeting. The top of the cart was top heavy with the day's mail and newspapers, and Kim wasn't moving fast enough to meet Aiko at the front door.
"Aiko, I'm coming!" Kim shouted in a slurred rush, hoping he wasn't missing something exciting they could be sharing together. He reached the hallway and saw a small woman, standing under the light of their entryway. Aiko held a paper plate wrapped in tin foil.
"Hi, I'm Kim," he announced. He heard it plainly and pleasantly in his brain, but it came out hurriedly and distorted. The woman quickly receded down the steps before he could get to the door.
"Thank you very much," Aiko called after her, and the woman disappeared into the darkness.
"Who was that?" Kim breathlessly asked, finally getting to the door.
"One of our neighbors. She gave us these tarts as a housewarming gift. "
"Nice. What's her name?”
"I don't know," Aiko said incredulously. "She just said I'm your neighbor and that she had made these tarts for us. I was just about to ask her and then you came and she suddenly left."
"That's odd," Kim reflected. "Why wouldn't she stay a minute so we could get to know each other a little bit."
"I think she saw you coming," Aiko said in a candid tone that did not hide her disgust and disappointment.
"I just wanted to introduce myself," Kim murmured, giving himself an alibi. But he knew what Aiko meant.
He knew what their neighbor had just experienced, but he didn't want to admit it to himself or Aiko. It's easier, after all, to avoid what could be a potentially unpleasant situation than to face it and deal with the consequences.
"She wasn't comfortable with your disability," Aiko pronounced succinctly as she went into the kitchen.
"I don't think we can say that," Kim countered, following her with the cart in front of him to the kitchen island and allowing her to say what was already on his mind. "She brought the tarts, after all. She must have seen us together before -- working in the yard ..."
Kim uncovered the paper plate and snatched one of the tarts.
"She was uncomfortable," Aiko stoically repeated. "She saw you coming and took off."
"Maybe she was just shy," Kim said softly. "Maybe she just didn't know how to go about meeting us."
"Maybe," Aiko allowed, as she also helped herself to a tart. "But people tend to go by what they see and what they hear."
“When I let go of what I am, I become what I want to be.” – Lao Tzu
Kim and Aiko never saw their neighbor-who-brought-the-tarts again during their 17 years as Oak Ridge residents.
Over three decades after the "tart incident," Kim has a 21st Century walker instead of a solid oak cart for navigating the senior living facility he and Aiko have called home since 2011.
As an elder, he now realizes he has more opportunities than ever before to learn how to deal with vulnerability because his senior living neighbors more often than not are learning to manage some form of disability, perhaps for the first time in their lives. And he's finding that sharing stories such as his "tart incident" is among the most important ways they connect with each other — and themselves.
Kim's takeaway tip from his story: Gathering the courage to step outside of yourself can sometimes help you become the person you’re meant to be.
Here’s to mature-adult living!
Jim Hasse, ABC, GCDF retired, author of “52 Shades of Graying”
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