Ilona
The house I park in front of is a pocket-sized, two-story frame house painted a soft shade of yellow. Mature trees and shrubbery surround the house and an overgrown walk leads to its front door. A cottage, more than a house, I think. An old, bent woman with silver hair pulled back into a bun and wearing a sensible house dress with sensible shoes opens the door. She keeps the glass screen door closed.
I begin my pitch in a louder than normal volume both because I'm speaking to a much older woman and because I'm talking through security glass.
The woman sizes me up. Deciding I'm a safe person, she pushes her screen door open to hear me better. I start my much-rehearsed introduction all over again. But this time I pace my words more slowly as I can't discern if she looks confused because she is hard of hearing or because she doesn't understand. A minute into my presentation, a small white dog escapes through the open door and into the yard. The woman seems unphased "Come, Maxie!" she tells the dog. "Come here." Her tone is calm and her words are laced with an Eastern European accent.
Maxie is a good dog and returns to the porch. I proceed with the reason for my visit. I ask, "Do you have five minutes to complete a health survey with me on my computer?"
"Come inside," she says.
This have never happened to me in all the weeks I've been doing this job. I've always been left standing on the front porch, balancing my tablet on a stair or a box or some other object. I thank her sincerely for the invite and follow her inside.
The room we enter is filled with all the things one accumulates in a lifetime. The dining table is covered with books and papers and small treasures. The sofa is the only available place to sit. The woman sits there and motions for me to sit beside her.
"Come. Sit." she commands. I obey.
I open my tablet and begin the survey.
I confirm her address. I ask for her first name. "Ilona" she says and spells her name for me, studying what I enter into my computer.
How old are you, Ilona?
Eighty-three she answers. I enter the number 83 glancing over at her as I do. She is so small sitting next to me. The sofa has swallowed her in its overstuffed cushions.
Are you a male or female?
This gives her pause. I've learned to remain quiet and wait for the response to this awkward question, rather than try to explain or justify. Ilona is quiet while she studies her hands in her lap. After whole seconds of silence, "I am woman," she eventually declares. "Always have been."
I smile, log her response and attempt to continue with the survey.
She draws my attention to Maxie across the room and how much he is enjoying his bone. He's eight years old, Ilona says. But small dogs live longer.
I nod.
He's a poodle mix. Poodles are smart dogs.
I agree.
I don't have to teach him anything, Ilona says. "He already knows.
That's great, I say.
She also had another dog and a cat, before, but they both got old and died. Her husband also died a few years before.
I nod understanding, and pause a bit longer before continuing.
I ask her a long question about tobacco and nicotine use. She emphatically says she never smoked. "Never, ever."
But her father smoked. Smoked incessantly, she says. Died at forty-five. None of her brothers or sisters ever smoked, Ilona explains, because of how they saw their father die.
But that was back in Hungary, where she grew up. Came to the United States in 1985, she says. "Forty one years ago." I do some quick math and deduce Ilona was already middle aged when she arrived in the US.
I ask if she owns or rents the house we are in. It's one of the survey questions.
Own. Bought it in 1993. She and her husband bought it. It wasn't new then. But newer. Her husband died a few years ago, she tells me again. It's just her in the house now. Just her and Maxie.
She looks into my eyes when saying this.
I'm not sure what she hopes to see. "Thank goodness for Maxie, " I say, trying to keep the mood upbeat.
The survey has me ask if she is currently in the armed forces. I have to ask all questions to everyone, even when the answer is obvious.
No, she tells me. But her son was in the Navy. There's probably a story to share here, but I press on with the survey.
The next three questions all have a forced response: Excellent, Good, Fair or Poor. Of all the people I've done this survey with to date, all have responded with either Excellent or Good to all three questions.
"Rate the overall quality of your health, Ilona" I say. "Is it Excellent? Good? Fair? Or, Poor?"
"Fair," she says. To me, Ilona looks pretty good for an eighty-three year. old I wonder what health issue she has.
"Rate the overall quality of your life. Excellent? Good? Fair? Poor?"
"Fair," she says again. And again I wonder why.
"Rate the the overall quality of your social activities and interactions?" I ask the third and last question. Ilona is quiet. I look over at her and she appears to be rereading the question on my computer screen.
I rephrase. "How is your social life, Ilona?" I'm not sure if she understands the question. "Your family, friends, neighbors?" (In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have rephrased so much.)
"Oh..." her voice trails off.
"Not good," she almost whispers.
"Poor," she clarifies. "Very poor."
That was the end of my survey. I press a button for the computer to do some calculating based on her responses. She is not selected to participate in the full health study.
This was just a screening survey, we call it. And unlike those before her who also were not selected, Ilona does not seem relieved. If anything, she seems a little sad to not have been chosen.
I say my goodbyes. Thank her again for her time. I rub Maxie behind the ears once more and walk back to my car.
Driving away, I realize I am a little bit sad, too.
