Baby is a woman about 35 years old that I see and work with daily at Shanti Dan, a home for mentally and physically handicapped women. She is active, an emotional whirlwind, and has an unstoppable sense of humor. She communicates well with hand signals and faces, frequently gesturing that she would gladly accept a neck massage. She is sensitive and very aware of her surroundings. Baby is both mentally and physically handicapped and can walk with a walker, but it's easier for her to pull herself along on the floor with one of her legs and both hands. Every day that I work in the physical therapy room in Shanti Dan, I find myself eagerly sneaking glances at the door for the moment that Baby will appear.
She almost always makes her entrance long before it's her turn on the mat to stretch her muscles and do her exercises. She crawls into the room and immediately starts instigating. We are told to never take her seriously, for she only jokes about wanting to hit you. The other residents are launched into fits of giggles at her antics and bouts of fake fighting with myself and the physical therapists. Even the mossis (nurses) tease her and let out a tender smile at her unfailing sass. Baby has the presence of a queen and is treated as such. One day, the men even lifted her up and placed her on a shelf about as tall as my chin, insisting that she sit up higher than everyone else in a throne-like position. Protesting ensues from Baby and always makes her trademark "I will hit you" motion.
For a few days, she didn't appear at the door no matter how many glances I stole. I asked the physical therapists and they said she was sick. As Baby's presence dictates the tone of my day, I was really disappointed when she didn't show up. I work in the physical therapist room until noon, and then find other odd jobs to do before we walk back to catch our bus at 12:30. At noon, and still no sign of baby, I walked out disappointed. I look up and to my surprise, Baby comes shuffling towards me with her walker. I wave a big hello and sit down to talk with her. After explaining she has a stomach ache, she starts to dig her nails into my arm, but not out of teasing or an attempt to play fight. Finally the light clicks on, she wants her fingernails cut. She points me in the right direction to find the mossi with access to the clippers and once her hand was in mine, Baby and I sat quietly together side by side on the short cement barrier. I had tuned out the rest of the people moving around me to complete this important and intimate task.
After the task was completed to the satisfaction of the queen, she released a beaming smile, pressed her hands together palm to palm and bowed her head in traditional Indian fashion meaning Namaskaar: the light in me recognizes the light in you. I returned the gesture graciously and as I lifted my head, the physical therapists walked out to head home for the day. All four men said her name loudly and gave her a hard time for not coming to therapy. She g ave them her trademark hand and strode off with her walker for lunch. I was left by myself, stunned at how much this woman made me feel needed.
Peacefully,
Emily Sanderson
Beautifully captured! She sounds amazing, as do you, for appreciating and understanding her. Love you!
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