Evelyn.

The Empathy Project

*This piece was written in 2023.

Evelyn is the first person most people see when they enter our building. Her presence is neither particularly energetic nor lackluster; she simply is, and her soft disposition is a comfort to many. She can be recognized by her nails, which are often painted a bright pink, her large, doe-eyes, partially obscured by glasses, but which contain a constant, searching look, and her voice; a tinkering one that is not at all unpleasant. Evelyn’s presence at the front of the building and her dedication to welcoming every new resident earned her the title of “resident ambassador.” She wears her tag bearing her name and title with pride, though she tells me that doing so has its consequences, and some of the residents have become spiteful towards her in their jealousy. To be on the safe side, she tries to be kind to everyone and stay quiet when conflict arises.

This conflict is microscopic when compared to the inner battle that rages on inside Evelyn’s head. Almost a year ago, she revealed to me that she has anxiety. Sometimes, when she comes to my activities, she is too overwhelmed to participate, and it takes all of her effort to sit and watch instead of running to her room. Once in a while, her anxiety overwhelms her to the point of tears. But each time anxiety takes hold, Evelyn sits and breaths and lets the wave wash over her until she is safely back in the present moment. Her perseverance and courage through this returning battle inspires me. I wish she could see how strong she is. I wish I had the words to articulate how much her strength has inspired me; someone who understands the anxiety battle too well and is still early in my journey of coming to terms with the unfortunate truth that I am not in control; sometimes not even in my own mind. But instead, I keep doing my job creating art with the residents. I try to pour out my love for Evelyn in the art we make together. I hope she understands.

And yet, I sense that love, though it is something that Evelyn endlessly gives, is something she vey rarely receives, especially from the people that she longs to have approval from. It has taken a while for me to piece together Evelyn’s story, and even now, there are many things that I do not know and will never be able to discover. For many months, there was very little I knew. I knew that Evelyn had a social worker; that she did not come here by choice, even though she says she is happy to be here now. I knew she had a daughter who she loves more than anything in the world, and I knew she had a husband from the ring on her finger. It wasn’t until recently that I learned more. On August 19, I learned it was Evelyn’s birthday because she asked me to sing her favorite song, “Spoonful of Sugar” from Mary Poppins. I sang it twice for good measure. On August 20, it was her husband’s birthday. We marveled together about how fascinating it was that their birthdays are so close together, and how my close friend also has a birthday on August 20. Evelyn’s husband doesn’t live with her, and I’ve never asked where he is. Working at an assisted living home leads to assumptions that wives and husbands who are not present have since passed on. It’s a touchy subject; one that I try to avoid. But on her husband’s birthday, I began to realize that Evelyn’s husband may still be alive, for she said, “it is my husband’s birthday,” not it would have been.” Not a sure sign, but an indicator. And then, a week later, I learned more.

Evelyn came up to me while we were making tie blankets (to be donated to a local animal shelter) and said she had some bad news to share with me. I stopped knotting the paw-printed felt and looked into her wide eyes. She told me that she had visited her husband, who lives in a different care facility. She was excited to see him. Brought him his favorite soup. He asked if she would move in with him. She said no; not because she doesn’t love him, but because he has abused her throughout the duration of their marriage. She said it wouldn’t be healthy for them to live together. Because of this, he told her “we have nothing to say to each other.” And that was that; he walked away, and she was left alone by the man she still desperately loves. She tells me that a while ago she called her husband’s sister to wish her a happy birthday. The woman asked who was calling, not recognizing Evelyn on the other line. When she identified herself as “Evelyn, your sister-in-law,” the woman said, “I don’t have a sister-in-law named Evelyn anymore.” After telling me this story, Evelyn looked up at me and said in a half-whisper, “I feel useless.”

I don’t know all the details to Evelyn’s story, and even if I did, the story would be insufficient. The phrase “there are two sides to every story” is incomplete. The truth is, there are almost endless sides to our stories, and stories of abuse are infinitesimally complicated. But I do know this. Evelyn’s pain is real, and it is heartbreaking. When we think of elderly populations, we often pacify our discomfort surrounding aging by reflecting on the wisdom gained through becoming older. We herald the “wisdom of our elders,” reminding ourselves that they have the had the opportunity to experience so much, and by extension, learn and grow from these experiences. In fact, this gained wisdom often becomes the reason why this population is considered to be valuable. But what happens when those elderly people have never had the opportunity to gain wisdom from painful experiences? What if they are still trapped in their pain; unlikely to ever break free? What if our elders don’t always carry great wisdom...what if they are just human?

I look at Evelyn, her eyes filled with tears from years of pain, and I realize that I can’t fix anything. I cannot remove 50 years of pain with an art activity. And yet, I put down the scissors in my hand and do what I can. I wrap my arms around her and tell her she is valuable and deserving of love. I hold her hand and look into her eyes as I tell her that her husband’s behavior is a reflection of him, not her. I tell her that she was courageous to set the boundary she needed to keep herself safe and healthy. I don’t know if she believes me, and I know that nothing I have said will change anything. I’m not a therapist; I don’t know how to help Evelyn heal from her wounds. But I am human. And I know that often, we don’t expect people to get rid of our pain. Sometimes, we just need someone to help us hold the load of our hurt for a little while. I try to do that for Evelyn. I know that soon, she will be back outside in front of the building, greeting new residents with her soft demeanor and words of welcome.