Private Dancer (Part 1)

She was soaked to the skin as she made her way to her weekly class. The April's showers never came. Now, in the early May, it is bucketing down! This evening was to be her treat, it was what she almost lived for; during the whole week she had looked forward to this evening. Every week was the same.

The shower had just managed to catch her totally unprepared. She had not remembered to pick her umbrella from the car. She just realised this too late as she took her hand out of her big bag, abandoning the search for it. She would have borrowed one, from the last home she visited, if she had known this was going to be heavy, and continuous.

It was not going to be a simple quick shower. She did not want to go back, she knew she might be even further delayed if she does. Under her lips she swore once more, and continued her brisk walk towards the main high street. Maybe there would be some chance of catching a bus quickly or hunt down a taxi, fat chance!

This evening she had two late visits to complete. They both took longer than she had wished them, she was far too caring to cut corners. These home visits gave her some freedom away from the rigid hours of the hospital. On the other hand there was no way that one could ever bank on finishing on time or knowing what might await one next. The timing she planned for but time never kept to the slots she gave it.

Unlike the hospital, there were no one who could take over her shift if things ran over; the elderly were never predictable, neither in their physical complications nor in their state of mind. She went about her job and entered every home on her daily list knowing well that it is going to be unpredictable and nothing like the one she had visited there before.

The worse part of her job was often the traveling arrangements in the late evenings. Her old clapped-out car would pack up like clock works. Every few weeks something would put it out of action; it was the only reliable fact about her car: it would break down without fail. Her car had lately spent more time in the repair shop than it did being driven about by her. If it were not for the repair jobs of the worn out bits and parts then it was the lack of cash to pay for those repairs. These made sure that her car was perhaps more at home in the repair shop than it ever did being parked ready for use outside her own home.

Her last patient was in her mid seventies. She suffered with some uncomfortable back pains therefore she was ordered by her doctor to rest most days in that bed. She was more interested to complain and moan by telling her about her children who had not come over to visit her in the past few weeks. Her complaints were not about her back pains, not even once!

"They phone me. What was the use of that?" She told her, "If they ever come around they never stay, well not long enough, anyway after a few minutes they get itchy feet and they want to go. I don't know why they bother coming over at all,I told them that ...and now they haven't come at all,... they are not cruel you know, don't get me wrong, I am old and selfish, they want not to feel guilty, they come over but run away at once, I don't know why they bother, I told them that last time they were around....., and now they haven't again, not at all...". She spoke these gently and almost quietly as if she was guilty of some shame for speaking these thoughts aloud.

She continued examining her back and the lower spine. Her face soon showed her concerns. There were some bed soars on the poor woman's back but fortunately they could get better and heal soon, she interrupted her by seriously reiterating her familiar list of "the do-s and don't-s!", making notes in her book, and making sure that she'd inform her doctor of these notes too.

As a visiting nurse she was well used to these kinds of conversations. She was listening to one right now. Majority of her home visits were to deal with the elderly who suffered some mobility problems. It was very obvious that they all suffered more from their loneliness. Loneliness caused many of their pains, and if they were ill then their loneliness made them get and feel worse. They felt ashamed, being old and lonely, feeling guilty for what they had nothing to do with. This always upset her.

Many spoke to her of their overwhelming sense of abandonment. It was their children or grand children who kept away, or partners who had departed and died too early. They are from a different generation. They never expected to live alone in their old age. The physical pains and illnesses they could deal with, the long never ending hours of loneliness they could not.

Her bedside manners were impeccable. They all loved her. They adored her for her friendly cheerful conversations. She would take her time with them, she always told them about her own life.

She shared whatever she thought she could. She spoke of all, and for them it was about tasting life, that was what it was all about. The sweet and bitter waves of feelings, emotions, experiences and life's little gifts or mishaps, whatever life threw at her or she was thrown into, they created simple stories that many of her elderly patients looked forward to hearing them from her. Her almost regular weekly visits were always given some sparkles by what she told them about herself, her life. Even the trivia was welcomed, this made her feel embarrassed sometimes since there was not much to share.

Telling these strangers some of the most intimate parts of her life was rewarding for her too. It felt therapeutic, conditioning, and sometimes surprisingly interesting responses that she got back were worth anything under the Sun. Their advice was often freely and immediately available. They would give them even before she had asked for any.

The amusing part was that they were often spot on, they were right. They were uncompromising with the truth, and her interest was all that they had in mind. They knew that she valued this truth.

Although they were totally detached and unfamiliar with a lot in her world but their opinions, in advices they gave on her life, were usually more objective than any that her friends could give. There was truth as they saw them, naked and with no nonsense.

She always felt safe talking in those bedrooms, she knew whatever she shared would remain there, between those walls. What many of these elderly did not know was that there were others like themselves in many other bedrooms.

In that part of town there were other bedrooms where this nurse had shared same stories with. Others had also shown her good grounds for total trust, discretions and love. She was always assured of warm welcomes. They could not wait till her next visit at home.

She never thought that she would choose Nursing. It was not the last profession she would have gone for by choice, but it certainly was not one that she had contemplated in her teenage years or at school.

From the very early age she always dreamed of become a Dancer. That was her dream, only. Becoming a dancer could never be true for someone like her. Well, how could it possibly? Even speaking of it aloud would have resulted in her being ostracised by everyone she loved.

In a culture that choosing to become a Dancer equates to saying I want to become a Whore, this is something that one will never propose or speak of!

Of course, everyone would dance in their weddings, at the parties etc, the children are always encouraged to take the centre stage in every gathering and dance to the music. The children are encouraged only when they know of no shame being attached to dancing. Children are adored and cheered for being able to be creative, and charming with their attempts at keeping up with the music, melody and rhythm and beats. That is different, that is then!

To dance, to learn to dance, to become a professional dancer, or someone who could make a living by dancing, these are things that can never be entered into the cultural vocabulary of any respectful family's conversation.

The shame of talking about becoming a dancer is like talking of sexual intercourse with one's parents, no one would, it is not the done thing.

A dancer is seen to be worse than being a whore. A whore lives a private life. A dancer lives a public life! No girl would bring such shame to a family she loves. What cruel world when Shame determines all about life!

The shame is shame, it is the same, there is no difference between the shame felt by either women, the old who may speak it and the young who hides it well.

Looking at her watch she knows she will miss the class once again. She is wet all through her cloths but she smiles. She has kept her dancing shoes well protected, the pair is dry in their bag, she thinks the shoes are waiting and smiles happily again.

(....Private Dancer continues!)

A Short Tango Story by MilongaCat.