bogeyandruby

My number one, favourite client ever died this past July. After all that she had been through and survived, finding refuge in this country after lifetime of hardship and suffering, the final diagnosis was brutal. There was no time to say goodbye, to tell her what she meant to me. Her last days were spent in palliative care, a matriarch surrounded by those who knew her long before I did, whose lives would be turned upside down by her absence.

She had been in my caseload on and off for at least fifteen plus years, mostly on if I’m honest. I always thought if she hadn’t been my client, she would have been my friend. Truthfully, it was better to be her worker, someone who could advocate on her behalf in this intricate healthcare system. She faced bias regularly because of her skin colour, religion and size, dismissed by medical personnel who neglected to investigate her symptoms to the point on one occasion, of putting her life at risk.

She was not long in Canada, under the status of refugee, when I first met her and I ashamed to say, nearly dismissed her too. Once a rapport was established, she’d refer to me as the first white person to help her in Canada, which made me smile because, of course, I am more brown than white. Many years and interventions down the road, she would call me and her social worker her honorary sisters.

She was the bravest person I knew, the most determined, and at times the most disorganized. She’d registered for every adapted exercise class I’d recommend from aqua fit to chair Tai Chi to traveling by adapted transport from the West end of the Island to the East to work out for ten minutes at an adapted gym. She wanted a four-wheeled walker with a seat to get around so we applied to a government subsidized program, one with very strict criteria when it came to stairs, and I had to explain in great detail how she planned to hoist the walker up the stairs using her hijab, and lower it step by step by having it rest on her hips.

She had the best laugh. Oh, how we laughed at the ridiculous state of things, laughed with a compatibility that crossed so many barriers. She’d clutch my hand and her eyes would crinkle and tears would run down her face. Like when she lamented over the fact that she didn’t speak English and I suggested the best way to learn would be to get an English boyfriend. And the time she wheeled into a community resource with her walker to offer her services as a volunteer and they misunderstood and thought she was looking for services. Or the day she passed the exam for her Canadian citizenship wearing a kaftan with the map of Africa on it and I teased her that she should have worn her red and white outfit to be on the safe side. She asked me to take a photo of her that day. She is smiling her biggest smile, proudly holding her certificate. I still have that photo on my phone but I cannot share her joy that day, her having been my client and not my friend all those years.

Life goes on, the wait list turns over, and my caseload fills up, except of course, for that one particular slot, the one where my favourite client used to be.