Whenever I come into the Mansion, I usually run into Alice.

She was very diligent about using her walker, she walked the hallways back and forth, all day and much of the night. She always attended my readings, my meditation classes.

Lately, she seemed to be walking in circles. I think of Alice often today, she is gone, “disappeared,” as I call it. I think of her sitting with Maria, holding her hands. I think of her dancing with me, and asking me to escort her across streets and around the Mansion.

I knew she was getting weak and frail and confused, and I hadn’t seen her for a week or so. I knew what had happened. I can tell by now. I used to flit in and out of assisted care facilities, hiding behind a dog. I know the Mansion very differently.

Yesterday, I finally worked myself up to ask an aide what I already knew: “Is Alice gone?”

The aide knows me well. I never ask about medical or other personal details, I keep my boundaries, and so do they. But she nodded.

“Nursing home?” I asked. She nodded again. I don’t know where Alice went or why, and I won’t ask any more about it. And no one will tell me unless there’s some reason I need to know.

It would have been so easy to be sucked into an emotional vortex over the inevitable and continuous sickness, death, and disappearance.

Both are common in an assisted care facility.

I keep to my place; it’s the best way for me to be helpful.

The Mansion is an assisted care facility, not a nursing home, and residents go elsewhere if they need special care or are sick and dying.  It is not a place where people can die, which is sad, because so many of the residents consider it their home and would prefer to end their lives there.

State and federal laws do not permit the Mansion to offer nursing care.

It is the hardest part of my volunteer work, this vanishing. People disappear, and I never see them go or get to say goodbye. I sometimes know if and when they die, but not always.

The good volunteer is seen and felt but not heard. I’ve worked hard to earn the trust of the staff, and one reason is that I don’t ask about things I’m not entitled to know. Letting go of someone you’ve been trying to help care for over time is complex.

I have sweet memories of Alice.  So does Maria, Alice, loved to sit with her on a sofa and hold hands and talk, and lately, hold hands.  She was always in the Activity Room when I came in to read.

Alice was especially sweet and shy, but she did have a devilish streak in her, I saw it when she came on our annual boat ride on Lake George. I danced with her and saw her laugh and smile in a way I had not seen before.

She went out onto the deck in a strong wind with me and told me stories of her husband, how the two of them loved to go on boat rides.  I could see her face change as those memories came rushing back.

We joked about “dating,” and whenever she needs to cross a street or a helping hand, I would offer her my arm, and we would walk together. I told her she was my official girlfriend when there was an appropriate occasion. She loved that joke.

As Alice grew feeble and confused, I knew it was only a matter of time before she would need more care than the Mansion can or is permitted to offer.

I must be honest; I am never shocked when someone at the Mansion disappears. Usually, the mind or the body begins to let go, and they need more care than the aides can provide. I called this “when the lights go out” in a piece that I wrote, and some people got quite upset at the thought of their mothers letting go like that.

But it isn’t a conscious or unexpected transformation, the body and soul are getting ready to leave the world. I thought Alice was close, the last time I saw her. The aides, of course, knew long before I did. They go through this all the time. They are much more emotionally engaged than I am.

It’s hard work.

Whenever I saw Alice, she would smile at me and ask, “where is your wife?” Maria seemed especially drawn to her, and if she were with me, she and Alice would find a place to sit.

If Maria was not available, I would do, although we didn’t hold hands. She still thought of me as a boyfriend.

I think my most potent memory of gentle and sweet Alice was on that big boat on Lake George, her hair blown straight up by the wind, her body swaying to the loud but awful music playing on the boat’s band. For a few minutes, she was transported back in time, and I could see the beauty and joy in her face.

The ride on the water seemed to bring her back to a life she had left behind.

I often ended up guiding Alice back to her room when she got lost or drifted too close to the outside door.

She always had a broad smile for me, as if we both shared a joke about the meaning of life. Perhaps we did. She seemed to grasp the irony of being in a place like the Mansion; she was always ready to smile and laugh.

Alice was thin and frail, she always needed warm pajamas and shoes, and I kept getting her new and soft sneakers. I don’t think she ever did quite get my name,  or Maria’s, but she knew Red and always had some kind words for him.

Alice was accepting; I never heard her complain or show anger or irritation.  She was very interested in the few meditation classes she took; she closed her eyes and seemed to settle quickly. She never once said what she was thinking or feeling in meditation, that was her generation.

I keep a boundary in mind at the Mansion because there is only one outcome for relationships at the Mansion: they will inevitably end. That’s how people like me burn out, and I won’t let that happen here.

The dogs help me because there is often something between me and then. The dogs draw attention away from me and protect me from too much intimacy. Red seemed to grasp that he always got between the residents and me.

Still, I can’t say it doesn’t hurt or leave me feeling empty sometimes.

I have no idea where you are, Alice, or even if you are alive for sure. Your smile, even just a few weeks ago in this photo, never quit on you. I’m glad I got to take your portrait. How do I say goodbye to you?

Thanks to those of you who wrote her letters.

She loved it when I read the letters to her. She is a beautiful spirit, an angel in her own right, and wherever she is or goes, or is, I wish her the most peaceful and beautiful journey.