because of complications from arthritis and her brittle
diabetes.
“I walk,” Barrett objected from her motorized wheelchair.
Carson chuckled. “You don’t walk, Ruthie.”
“I don’t walka lot,”Barrett replied.
Somepeopleshrinktotwigsastheyage.Othersbecome
trunks. Barrett wasa trunk. Carson explainedthat she
needed twenty-four-hour assistance available and a
hydrauliclifttosafelymoveherfromherwheelchairto
the bed or toilet. Her memory had also faded.
“Mymemoryisverygood,”Barrettinsisted,leaninginto
me.Unfairly,Iaskedherhowoldshewas.“Fifty-five,”
she said, which was off by only three decades. She
rememberedthepast(atleastthedistantpast)reasonably
well, though. She never finished high school. She
married,hada child,anddivorced.Shewaitressedata
localdinerforyearstomakeendsmeet.Sheeventually
hadthreehusbandsin all.Shementionedoneofthem,
and I asked her to tell me about him.
“He never killed himself working,” she said.
Her desires were modest. She found comfort in her
routine—aleisurelybreakfast,musicontheradio,achat
withfriendsinthelobbyorherdaughteronthephone,an
afternoonsnooze. Three orfour nights aweek, people
gatheredtowatchmoviesonDVDinthelibrary,andshe
almostalwaysjoinedin.ShelovedgoingontheFriday
lunchoutings,evenifthestaffhadtoputherinatriple
layerofDependsandcleanherupwhenshereturned.She