No Ordinary Day (one)
Yesterday was no ordinary day. Yesterday I was not capable of writing because of it. Yesterday was full of tears, cupcakes, and drawing clear lines in the sand. Today there is a winter storm.
Yolande rocked a gold fedora hat like no one else I'd ever seen. She once said that she almost didn't buy it because she thought it was supposed to be a man's hat, but the salesperson told her it was actually a unisex hat. That was fine with Yolande, and when it was cold out, she wore that hat like a superstar with her floor-length brown faux shearling coat. Her style made me smile. Everyday. Born probably some time in the 1940s, she reminded me of times that I heard had existed - when ladies and gentlemen dressed like ladies and gentlemen: long gloves, driving gloves, tailored coats, pressed suits, and shoes shined to the ultimate glean.
She was not rich, so her clothes were not very expensive, but she was so elegant and beautiful that she could have worn a burlap bag cinched at the waist with a Christmas ribbon and made it look like something we should all be running out to get. One early morning she pulled me aside, distressed that she had not carefully considered the ensemble she donned before leaving the house for work. The colors would not have looked good at all on anyone else. No one. The cheery combination of a vivid forest green and a lively pink boldly accented her shirt, vest, and skirt in wide swaths of unapologetic strokes. She told me in a thoughtful whisper that she was going to change out of that blouse and put on this plain white t-shirt that she had just run out and purchased. I was confused about her concern, but finally ended up explaining to this beautiful woman that, hey, if I could pull off those colors the way you can, I certainly would not change a thing about what I was wearing. I went on in the way that I tend to do, telling her that no one can wear just about anything the way she can and make it look so incredibly good. The argument won her over, and she walked away poised to return the plain old white t-shirt, convinced that she looked marvelous the way she was. I was exceedingly pleased.
Though her style was impeccable, her goodness as a human being is what is especially remarkable. She brings an entirely new level to the term "giving benefit of the doubt," because she actually did. Lived that phrase word for word. The one of very few people in my life who I can say truly believed in the best of every human. I will never be as good a person as she was on just this point alone. She taught me about the strength that lies in patience, probably without even knowing. When a wayward client called wanting to know what his or her case status was, she would explain in her light, grounded, and gentle Trinidadian lilt: "Oh, you've got quite a few charges there...you need to change your ways and get yourself together..." Unfailingly, the client would respond with some humility and embarrassment, and agree wholeheartedly. There was something about Yolande that went straight to the center of your heart even if you encountered her only in passing.
In her moments of exasperation, she used to say, "Oh this job will kill you!"
We had visited her in the ICU in December, and I was worried for her then. I don't have much experience with seeing people bedridden and having tubes and other things hooked up to their bodies, so it was scary to see Yolande that way. She had collapsed on her way to church the previous day and was still disoriented by the time we got to see her the next day. I was afraid for her, but she pulled through. After a week in the hospital, she took a month-long break from work and her sister took care of her while she recuperated. Finally she came back to us in January, and I heaved a sigh of relief. She looked great. That glowing face smiling from one ear to the other, those twinkling eyes, and those Merrell boots that she knew I adored on her! Ah, everything was normal again. It felt really good.
Swamped with a million things and people coming at me at 11 in the morning, I was deep in the trenches with my work blinders on when I got the news. I was in such disbelief I think I said something completely inane like, Please tell me you're kidding. I heard the person on the other end choke and sniffle. "Okay, okay," I whispered feebly, more to myself than anyone else, as I clumsily adjusted the phone back into its cradle. "What's wrong?" I was asked. I couldn't respond. Only stared at the white of my desk. It was really stark. "What is it?" came the question again, more urgently this time. Lifting my gaze to him, I choked out the one word I could, "Yolande." The many moments after were a blur. People crying, consoling each other, boxes of tissue being rapidly depleted, long faces everywhere. Someone went out and bought a beautiful bouquet for her desk.
It was too cold yesterday. Not weather that she should have been walking around in. With wind chills in the single digits, I wish she would have stayed home.
I guess we all have to accept that this is the new normal now. Life without Yolande. I can't do it yet.
Yolande rocked a gold fedora hat like no one else I'd ever seen. She once said that she almost didn't buy it because she thought it was supposed to be a man's hat, but the salesperson told her it was actually a unisex hat. That was fine with Yolande, and when it was cold out, she wore that hat like a superstar with her floor-length brown faux shearling coat. Her style made me smile. Everyday. Born probably some time in the 1940s, she reminded me of times that I heard had existed - when ladies and gentlemen dressed like ladies and gentlemen: long gloves, driving gloves, tailored coats, pressed suits, and shoes shined to the ultimate glean.
She was not rich, so her clothes were not very expensive, but she was so elegant and beautiful that she could have worn a burlap bag cinched at the waist with a Christmas ribbon and made it look like something we should all be running out to get. One early morning she pulled me aside, distressed that she had not carefully considered the ensemble she donned before leaving the house for work. The colors would not have looked good at all on anyone else. No one. The cheery combination of a vivid forest green and a lively pink boldly accented her shirt, vest, and skirt in wide swaths of unapologetic strokes. She told me in a thoughtful whisper that she was going to change out of that blouse and put on this plain white t-shirt that she had just run out and purchased. I was confused about her concern, but finally ended up explaining to this beautiful woman that, hey, if I could pull off those colors the way you can, I certainly would not change a thing about what I was wearing. I went on in the way that I tend to do, telling her that no one can wear just about anything the way she can and make it look so incredibly good. The argument won her over, and she walked away poised to return the plain old white t-shirt, convinced that she looked marvelous the way she was. I was exceedingly pleased.
Though her style was impeccable, her goodness as a human being is what is especially remarkable. She brings an entirely new level to the term "giving benefit of the doubt," because she actually did. Lived that phrase word for word. The one of very few people in my life who I can say truly believed in the best of every human. I will never be as good a person as she was on just this point alone. She taught me about the strength that lies in patience, probably without even knowing. When a wayward client called wanting to know what his or her case status was, she would explain in her light, grounded, and gentle Trinidadian lilt: "Oh, you've got quite a few charges there...you need to change your ways and get yourself together..." Unfailingly, the client would respond with some humility and embarrassment, and agree wholeheartedly. There was something about Yolande that went straight to the center of your heart even if you encountered her only in passing.
In her moments of exasperation, she used to say, "Oh this job will kill you!"
We had visited her in the ICU in December, and I was worried for her then. I don't have much experience with seeing people bedridden and having tubes and other things hooked up to their bodies, so it was scary to see Yolande that way. She had collapsed on her way to church the previous day and was still disoriented by the time we got to see her the next day. I was afraid for her, but she pulled through. After a week in the hospital, she took a month-long break from work and her sister took care of her while she recuperated. Finally she came back to us in January, and I heaved a sigh of relief. She looked great. That glowing face smiling from one ear to the other, those twinkling eyes, and those Merrell boots that she knew I adored on her! Ah, everything was normal again. It felt really good.
Swamped with a million things and people coming at me at 11 in the morning, I was deep in the trenches with my work blinders on when I got the news. I was in such disbelief I think I said something completely inane like, Please tell me you're kidding. I heard the person on the other end choke and sniffle. "Okay, okay," I whispered feebly, more to myself than anyone else, as I clumsily adjusted the phone back into its cradle. "What's wrong?" I was asked. I couldn't respond. Only stared at the white of my desk. It was really stark. "What is it?" came the question again, more urgently this time. Lifting my gaze to him, I choked out the one word I could, "Yolande." The many moments after were a blur. People crying, consoling each other, boxes of tissue being rapidly depleted, long faces everywhere. Someone went out and bought a beautiful bouquet for her desk.
It was too cold yesterday. Not weather that she should have been walking around in. With wind chills in the single digits, I wish she would have stayed home.
I guess we all have to accept that this is the new normal now. Life without Yolande. I can't do it yet.