THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Monday, March 13, 1995 TAG: 9503110050
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: By DEBRA GORDON, STAFF WRITER
LENGTH: Long : 182 lines
LET'S GET ONE thing straight. Florence ``Fuzzy'' Dey does not want to do this story.
She does not want a reporter and photographer trailing her as she makes her daily rounds, visiting the frail women who inhabit shadowy rooms in retirement and nursing homes.
She does not want someone scribbling down her every word, questioning her about the intimate details of her life, and snapping pictures of her softly lined face.
And she most definitely does not want someone putting her name in the newspaper.
For Fuzzy, 77, hails from that generation that believed a lady only appeared in the newspaper three times - when she was born, when she married and when she died. And since Fuzzy never married, and obviously isn't dead, this story is one time too many.
But Fuzzy is nothing if not obedient. So when her pastor told her to do the story, she listened.
Maybe, she thought, it would convince one more person to visit a friend or family member in a nursing home, to hold an aging person's hand, to reach out to a housebound 93-year-old.
``I'll do it,'' she growled over the phone in her deep, husky voice, the result of 40 years spent sucking on two-and-a-half packs of Camel cigarettes a day. ``I don't like it, but I'll do it.''
Blame Mary Lyall Ramsey, then. Mary Lyall, 58, a Norfolk woman who has known Fuzzy for more than 15 years, thought someone should write a story about this woman who spends much of her week driving around town in her '89 Buick Skylark visiting people in nursing homes.
``She's one of God's special angels put here to bring love and joy and pleasure and kindness to other people.''
On this unusually warm day in late February, when the soft breeze carries the first scent of spring, Fuzzy is smartly dressed in a teal-and-black checked wool skirt, electric blue jacket and white blouse. She's wearing a pair of sensible black lace-ups, carrying her boxy purse on her left arm, ready to hit the road.
This is what she's done ever since retiring from United Airlines in 1980, where she was a reservations clerk for 35 years. She wanted to give back to her church, The Good Shepherd, but didn't have the money to contribute the way she wanted. So two or three days a week, Fuzzy, as part of the church's pastoral care committee, makes her calls.
The smell of cinnamon potpourri wafts through the halls at the Westminster Canterbury nursing home in Virginia Beach, where Fuzzy strides into the sunny day room, heading straight for the 93-year-old, white-haired woman in the wheelchair.
``Oh, you look so pretty today,'' she croons, holding the woman's hand.
This resident is an old, old friend. She has little memory left, confides her nurse, but she always remembers Fuzzy's visits.
``Ohh, I hurt so bad,'' the woman moans, then, notices Fuzzy. ``I don't know what I'd do without you,'' she says, gripping the younger woman's hand tightly.
It is not a pleasant thing to visit people in nursing homes. There are the smells. The sounds. The sight of so many old people just sitting, staring into space. That's why so many nursing home residents lie forgotten by friends and family, unless they have a Fuzzy to visit them.
Fuzzy Dey (pronounced ``Die''), does it in memory of her mother, who spent the last year-and-a-half of her life in a nursing home before dying at age 93. Fuzzy visited every day but two - once because of snow and once because she had a cold.
People told her not to bother, that her mother didn't recognize her. But Fuzzy insisted. ``Even if she's unconscious or out of it, I'm sure convinced of the fact that she knows whether I'm there or not,'' she'd tell them. ``That's why it's so important for people to go to see their relatives in a home.''
A short walk up an elegant hallway, and Fuzzy is in the assisted living section of Westminster Canterbury. Here live those who are too frail for independent living, but who don't need the total care of the nursing home.
Here lives Mildred Clarkson, a round, sunny lady of 93. Fuzzy, says Mildred, ``has been an inspiration to so many, and a love to me.''
Even though the visits, like this one, last only a few minutes, with Fuzzy perched on the edge of the floral couch, and Mildred comfortably ensconced in the easy chair, they bring a breath of fresh air into her sealed world. ``It would be a lonely place to be here with only sick people,'' says Mildred.
Fuzzy and Mildred talk knowingly of the old woman in the nursing home whom Fuzzy has just left. It is time, they agree, for her to pass on. For her to have some peace.
It doesn't strike Fuzzy as strange that she, an elderly woman herself, spends her days visiting the old. ``I'm ageless,'' she declares, a sentiment her friend Mary Lyall echoes.
``She has a wonderful gift of being a good friend to all ages. She was a friend to my mother, who was in her 90s, to me, and to my daughter, who is in her 20s. She relates to every stage in life and in a way that's personal and not surface. She just becomes a true friend, one on one.''
``Everyone knows Fuzzy,'' says John Eidam, associate rector at Good Shepherd.``All you have to do is say `Fuzzy,' and people know who you're talking about. . . . Her greatest gift to people is her ability to tell them they're special, and by the way she tells them, you can tell she means it.''
Fuzzy was one of the first people Eidam met when he came to Norfolk a year-and-a-half ago. ``Ever place I went, every hospital I went to visit, Fuzzy had either been there just before me or was coming out while I was going in, or vice-versa. You just can't meet Fuzzy and not walk away a different person.''
Lunch time at Marriott's Brighton Gardens in Virginia Beach and, as she does several times a month, Fuzzy is spending it with her friend Lyall Stockes, the 97-year-old doyenne of this elegant assisted living facility.
But Lyall isn't the only friend she'll visit. ``I see all my people out here.''
Like 97-year-old Mary Deal, a tiny, stooped woman dressed in red. ``Come right in, I'm so glad to see you all,'' says Mary when she opens her door in response to Fuzzy's knock. ``Are you from the church?'' she asks, her face confused. Gently, Fuzzy explains that she is, hugs Mary and continues down the hall to Althea Tisch's room. Althea, in her 90s, is on her way to the beauty parlor. ``I'll be expecting a longer visit next week,'' she says, shaking her finger at Fuzzy.
It is not inconceivable that one day Fuzzy, too, will be here. So far, she's managed to continue living independently in her Edgewater home in Norfolk, but only because she has a boarder who helps maintain it.
She lives there with her two miniature poodles, Ginger and Brandy. And she's never lonely. For company she has her books, (Danielle Steel and Barbara Taylor Bradford), and her basketball games.
Whenever there is an ACC basketball game, you can be sure Fuzzy will be watching it, cycling furiously on her stationary bicycle.
Her favorite is her family's alma mater, the University of Virginia, and during one memorable game that went into double overtime, Fuzzy cycled 16 miles.
During lunch, between bites of meatloaf and mashed potatoes, the secret to a long life and a clear mind emerges.
``Optimism,'' says Lyall. ``Nothing is worse than being pessimistic. No one wants to hear about your troubles.''
Fuzzy doesn't mind. ``It's very important in life to be a good listener,'' she said.
But last year, when she learned she had lung cancer, she closed ranks. Thirty-two people offered to go with her for radiation treatments, but she refused.
``I didn't want to burden anyone.''
And she refuses to talk about her continuing battle with the disease. Even to complain about how she's lost her sense of taste from the radiation.
That's the problem with Fuzzy, says Eidam. ``She doesn't believe she's special.''
Two in the afternoon and the last stop of the day is this vine-covered cottage on Norfolk's west side. This is where 93-year-old Marjorie Wescott lives.
``She shouldn't be living alone,'' Fuzzy fusses as she heads up the walk.
But Marjorie has lived here nearly 40 years and she doesn't want to leave, even though her only family, a daughter, lives in Atlanta.
And so Fuzzy checks in on her several times a week, and calls every night before she goes to bed.
When she hears that Marjorie has fallen again, she becomes angry.
``Why didn't you call me?''
``I didn't need anyone,'' Marjorie says. ``I was all right.''
``You should tell me when you do things like that,'' Fuzzy scolds.
They walk back to the glass-enclosed den, where Marjorie spends most of her time these days. Fuzzy has brought a cassette tape of their minister's sermon, since Marjorie is no longer supposed to leave the house, not even to go to church.
The conversation, as they sit on the worn couch in this sun-filled room, is mundane, drifting. Questions about when Marjorie's daughter will visit again. About their church, which Marjorie misses keenly.
``I think you are wonderful,'' says the older woman, her hand clasped tightly in Fuzzy's. ``I couldn't live without you.''
``But you deserve it, dear,'' comes the heartfelt answer. ``Yes, you do.'' ILLUSTRATION: TAMARA VONINSKI/Staff photos
Fuzzy, left, has lunch at Marriott's Brighton Gardens in Virginia
Beach and visits with 97-year-old Lyall Stockes as she does several
times a month.
Fuzzy says goodbye to her pal Marjorie Wescott, 93, who lives by
herself in her Norfolk cottage. Fuzzy calls Wescott every night
before going to bed.
by CNB