Welma Dunn

White ceiling. Faded yellow walls. Oppressive dim lights.

Welma could not recall when she last had the luxury of sleeping in her own cottage – carpeted, warm, and cosy.

Cruel of them to think that this was what she needed.

Cruel of them not to bother visiting her.

“Where are they; when are they coming?” She called out to the caretaker, who was clearing away her lunch.

“Don’t worry, Ms Dunn,” responded the nurse, “They’ll be here next Friday.” What the nurse really wanted to say was: “Your nephew and niece were just here, precisely twenty minutes ago.” But she’d been trained to refrain from saying such things when dealing with patients. Besides, Welma Dunn was her favourite patient.

“Well, alright then, thank you, my dear. I think I’ll have my lunch now,” replied Welma.

“Yes, Ms Dunn, I’ll go grab that for you,” said the nurse, choosing to indulge Welma rather than remind her that she just had lunch. “Today’s lunch special is surely a winner,” she chimed as she walked out of the room.

But Welma had long stopped paying attention and was staring out the window from her father’s leather armchair (the one thing she fought vehemently to keep when they forced her out of her sanctuary).

On what was she fixated?

Outside, the jacaranda trees were in full bloom. But beyond the trees, she could see the busy road, with speeding taxis and slow traffic, with the occasional blaring of a car horn here and there. Beyond the road were the city buildings – malls and business complexes that had been developed in the last three decades. Whatever it looked like before all this hustle and bustle, she had lost to memory, but she was certain she liked it better before. What was it like before then? Before the gentrification of buildings and communities? Had it always seemed so pedantic, so uniform – lacking individualism, lacking character? The hum of the traffic outside – was it always so mechanical?

What was beyond those buildings? Well, she couldn’t see, but she knew that just beyond the city and the noise was a gorgeous field of wildflowers. She strained her ears… yes, now she could hear it too – the chirping of the cape grassbirds and sparrows, the buzzing of field bugs which would often find their way up your nostrils and into your ears during early spring, and the blessed earthy smell of mud that signalled the approach of rain in summer.

After a while, she stopped staring outside. Shocked. What was she doing here? Where was here? What was this yellow walled, dimly lit room, it had no business being in her lovely cottage.

“Excuse me,” she said to the young man who stood next to her, also staring out the window, “where are we, and what is this place?”

The man broke his gaze from the scene outside, looked at her and smiled. Welma recognised that smile – it was comforting, it was secure, it felt like home. His eyes – they were regular brown eyes, but they seemed to be regarding her soul, to know the very fabric of what it was made of. It was as if he knew something about her that she would never fully understand.

“Hmm, how often you’ve asked that question,” he chuckled.

“Apparently, old age does that to people”, thought Welma, slightly annoyed because lately that’s all people seem to point out – how often she asks the same question.

“And no,” he responded to her thought, “even if you had all your memories, you still wouldn’t be able to know. I’ve known you all your life, and often, you would wonder: 1. Where you are; or 2. Who you are? But I’ll give you the answer to the former using the answer you gave yourself eight decades ago, while lying in that open field with the wildflowers – as long as you have me, and I have you, it doesn’t matter where we are.”

“Oh, I certainly don’t remember saying that”, scoffed Welma, “and I remember everything from before I was forty years old.”

“Yes, I’m sure you remember many things, but perhaps not everything,” he replied with a warm smile. “So, now, dear friend,” he continued, “in relation to your second question, I’ll ask you this – who do you want to be when you grow up?”

Welma, at first perplexed, because even though she was unsure about her exact age, she was quite certain that she was already very grown. Her joints constantly ached. Her back hurt on most days. She couldn’t recall the last time she didn’t have a full head of grey hair. She raised her hands, hoping to demonstrate to the young man the evidence her body revealed of her age. But instead, she was astonished to find that in place of her wrinkled and arthritic fingers, there were chubby, child-like and ache-free fingers.

“Well, I…” she stuttered, stunned by her own voice, which was now higher-pitched.

“Me,” she continued, “that’s who I want to be…

Happy. That’s how I want to feel.

I want to be comfortable in my skin. Comfortable making mistakes.

To feel secure with who I am. To know who I am.

To not feel numb. Stuck. Lost.

I want to tear down those walls and allow her – me, the one I keep hidden, protected, imprisoned – to be free.

To be free. To speak my mind and not be ashamed for telling the truth or standing for what’s right and just.

To be free of seeking validation from humans, from strangers who’ll never know or understand me, nor accept or know my worth.

To allow myself to feel things deeply, but not be consumed by them.

To recognise that the ability to feel things deeply – empathy – is a gift. To know how to use my gifts as they were intended to be used.

To be centred.

To be wise.

To be loving.

To be kind.

To be compassionate, generous, adventurous, healthy.

To live a life worth living. To know what that life is and what it looks like.

To know my purpose.

To be passionate. To look forward to most days. To always know and trust that there’ll be better days.

To feel and know that I am wanted, loved, and that my existence matters.

To have good intuition. To be less neurotic.

To have no big regrets.

To not feel so alone. To not be alone.

To not wish or yearn for it to all end so soon.”

Welma paused and took a deep breath.

She resumed, “But there… there are all these things I didn’t learn… I didn’t learn or achieve. Anyway, it’s too late for me now, isn’t it?” She sighed.

“Ohhh, I must disagree”, the man said while pointing at the window, which was now bursting with coloured polaroids and home-style videos with flashes of Welma’s life.

“Oh,” Welma gasped, “I guess it wasn’t so bad, was it?” she chuckled.

“No, not bad at all. Welma Dunn, you really did well.”

“Thank you. But, all the same, I would very much like to go home now, if that’s alright with you.”

********************************************************

“Ms Dunn, I have your late afternoon tea,” sang the nurse as she walked back into the room.

She placed the tea and soft rusks on the coffee table and walked up to the window where Welma was sitting, sound asleep with a content smile on her face.

“Well she looks quite happy, never seen her with such a peaceful expression - she’s definitely having the sweetest of dreams” thought the nurse. “Agh, unfortunately, I must wake her up,” she groaned.

“Ms Dunn,” called the nurse a little louder as she reached out to touch her hand, “your tea will get…”

Cold. Cold was the hand of Ms Dunn.

“Farewell then,” whispered the nurse, with a sob caught in her throat, before rushing out of the room to call the resident doctor.