musingsonwomenshealth.com

Reflections on 40 years as a doctor in Women's Health

Confusion now hath made his masterpiece


Funny day: I was accused of being a stalker -or was it a pervert?

I had been waiting patiently at a bus stop for what seemed like an inordinate amount of time and decided to re-check the schedule posted on a nearby pole. Nobody else was waiting except a lady leaning against the sign, talking on her phone. Dressed in a blue, ankle length woolen overcoat buttoned to her chin, she seemed like a standard-issue elderly person, complete with short, coifed lily-white hair and a worse-for-wear battered walker. I assumed she was waiting for a bus to deliver her to one of the old-folks homes that dotted its route a mile or so down the road; nothing about her stood out; nothing warned me…

Perhaps I got too close to her, but her head was blocking the bus schedule so I smiled and asked her if she could move a little. Apart from the fact that she seemed to be whispering as much to herself as to her phone, I didn’t really think much about my request until she started swearing at me.

I stepped back and broadened my smile. Then, in a failed attempt at gallows humour, I thanked her… I’m not sure why I did it, but she obviously took it the wrong way, wrinkled her already furrowed face, and described me to whomever was listening on her phone, as just another low-life faggot hanging around the bus stop. Then, after a few more unprintable words, glared at me as if I was about to attack her, and hissed that she was going to phone the police on me.

I have to admit that I don’t remember ever being ‘phoned on’ before (if that’s the correct characterization), so I started to walk away from her. Unfortunately, I think she felt I was trying to escape the consequences of my heinous proximity, and decided to follow me so she could attest to my motives when the arresting officer arrived. I wasn’t sure whether to flee or stand my ground, but I didn’t want to miss my bus, so I compromised and sat on the wooden seat in the adjacent tiny transit shelter.

She mumbled something into the phone, then followed me and planted herself and her walker just outside the shelter so I couldn’t escape. I quickly riffled through my admittedly limited knowledge of culturally-appropriate responses but, try as I might, came up barren -there wasn’t much information there on how to politely escape a bus shelter past an angry elder; I realized I had probably lived a rather pedestrian life.

She pointed her phone at me as if it were a weapon and, making sure she never lost eye contact with me, kept in whisper-contact with her unfortunate listener. I had a passing thought about how lucky she was that I was not a big, hulking younger man who, having lost patience with the harassment, would likely throw her flimsy walker into the street as he brushed her aside. Unfortunately, reality seldom matches my imagination, and she seemed unfazed by my size.

Clearly she was enmeshed in another worldview though, so I decided to try my own on her. “Are you waiting for the #250 bus as well?” I inquired politely, in an attempt to show her that I, too, was just an aging local.

This prompted a hurried whisper-consultation with the voice on her phone; I couldn’t quite make out her words, but from her expression, I don’t think I had reassured her very much. And she certainly wasn’t about to divulge which bus she intended to take.

Then she suddenly looked up from her phone with a surprised expression on her face. “Why should I do that?” There were some hurried words between the two of them, and then a shrug as she handed me the phone as if it was against her better judgement.

“Who is this?” a woman’s voice asked from the phone.

“Just a bystander at the bus stop,” I answered. “Who are you…?”

I heard a loud sigh from the phone. “I’m Deloris’s social worker. I gather she thinks you’ve been pestering her… She can be like that sometimes -especially with men; she’s easily upset.”

I shrugged, although only for myself, I suppose. “I’m just an old man waiting for a bus. Deloris seemed upset because I was trying to see the schedule behind where she was leaning.” Then I had a thought: “Is she okay…?” I asked. “I mean is there anything I can do for her?”

“Which bus is she waiting for?”

“I asked her, but she wouldn’t tell me.”

I heard a little chuckle from the phone. “Are you at Park Royal, in West Vancouver? She often ends up there.”

“Yes; I’m waiting for the #250 bus,” I said looking down the road. “If it ever gets here…” I added.

“Well, can I ask you for a favour…?” She hesitated, not knowing my name.

“G,” I answered. “Everybody calls me G…”

“I’m Ellen,” she said. “Can I ask you to do me and Deloris a big favour?” I nodded, feeling silly nodding to a phone. “Can you make sure she gets on the #250…” she hesitated for a moment. “Do you have a cell phone?” I nodded again, but maybe she knew I had one -even old people have them, I could almost hear her thinking. “Can you phone me when she gets on the bus? I’ll wait for her at her stop.”

“Of course,” I said and smiled to myself as Ellen told me her phone number. “Deloris seems more at ease now that I’ve talked to you.”

“Good, but just to be safe,” Ellen added, “Don’t get on the same bus with her -that’ll set her off again.”

“I’ll stay right here until the police come, okay?” We both laughed at that; Ellen seemed like a nice person.

“I’ve got to thank you for being so patient with her, G.” I could hear Ellen getting into her car. “Deloris is actually a wonderful lady, but she has anxiety issues.”

I didn’t mention that I had some of the same issues: I was going to miss my ferry…

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gozzter

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