A Woman Named Blanche

This is a blurry picture from the 60’s. It is of my friend Blanche. In 2007 I was living in a small and quaint neighborhood in Beverly Hills. Every morning I would walk to get coffee and would pass Blanche, who was usually outside her apartment two streets over, and smile and wave to her — she always responded so happily with a “Hi Honey!”. One morning she was sweeping leaves off the front lawn with a broom and I decided to stop. I asked if she needed help and she responded that she did not but quickly invited me into her apartment. I accepted the invitation. Quickly upon entering I noticed something was really wrong. It was as if I had entered a time machine back to the late 1950s. It was as if nothing had moved. Or had been cleaned since then. Years of dust were everywhere — along with stacks of magazines, newspapers, old food containers, medicine from the 90s and the list goes on. She offered me tea in a vintage and very dirty cup. After talking with her for a couple minutes I soon realized that she was no longer playing with a full deck in life. But who was she? Why was she alone? Why was she living in such squalor? Did she not have any family? To answer the last question she did not. She was all alone at 93. But how could this be going on in Beverly Hills I thought to myself? Not even a block over on streets like Rodeo Drive rich people threw charity events for people like her. How could they not know she needed help? How could this be going on in their backyard? I soon realized that this was my backyard too. I too had often walked past Blanche without engaging her. This was on me as much as it was on the people that wore $10,000 gowns while drinking champagne raising money for those who were just so unfortunate. So what did I do? I became her friend. I started grocery shopping for her and making sure she had fresh food to eat — I took her out. We drove in my sports car around Los Angeles and went to every Jewish deli I could think of. We got our nails done. She had a blast. I had a blast. I bought heavy duty rubber gloves and tons of bleach and started cleaning her apartment. This woman- who had pictures of herself at 30 in mink and pearls would have dignity again. But I soon realized this problem was larger than myself. I contacted Jewish Family Services and started the ball that took a few months to get her into assisted living. I promised myself that I would not drop the ball with Blanche. For the first time in my life I promised myself that I would see this through. It was no longer just about me but about a woman named Blanche who used to be someone’s wife, someone’s daughter, someone’s friend but was now no one and invisible. I would help her become visible. This story is long, as stories are often with me, but Blanche was put in a nursing home where she was clean and safe. Shortly after she had a stroke and became even more aloof. She forgot who I was. But I still would visit her. I loved her. She was amazing to me. When I left Los Angeles I made one last visit to her — I said goodbye. I could tell by her face that she didn’t know who I was but I left feeling content. This woman would spend the rest of her life with more dignity than when I met her. I tell this story not to brag and say “look at me and what a good person I am” but to say that I learned a lot. One person can make a difference. I unequivocally believe that. Look in your own backyard — there is someone that needs your help — I promise you. And if you go out of your comfort zone and make an attempt to make a connection/reach out to someone — you are the one that will forever be changed.