Meeting the Two Sisters
Shortly after we purchased our first car, the Pacer started acting up. One day, my mother and I went to the supermarket and when we were ready to leave, the car wouldn’t start. I tried and tried, to no avail. While we were there, not knowing what to do, two elderly (American) women, sisters stopped to see what the matter was. We got to talk and they stayed with us while we went into a nearby store to purchase jumper cables. Then they gave us a jump with their car. After that, they followed us home to make sure we were OK.
After that, we stayed in touch. We invited them to our small apartment and they seemed fascinated by our story. Much to our surprise, when Christmas was coming near, they called and invited us to spend Christmas Eve with their large, extended family. There was nobody else there except their family and we were treated like honored members of their family. We felt like we were the guests of honor. Everybody fussed about us, everybody wanted to meet and talk with us. They were very curious about life in Romania and life of a new immigrant. The Christmas feast was impressive. Then it was time for the presents. We had bought just small, token presents for the two sisters. We, however, received lavish gifts from each and every one in their family. We didn’t even know what to say, how to thank them. We seemed to be tongue-tied. In the end, they helped load up our car with all the presents.
After that, it became a yearly Christmas tradition. Every year we would be invited and every year, all seemed to be genuinely happy to see us and hear what had happened to us since the previous Christmas. And we always had stories. Lots of things were happening, generally not very happy ones. And they always had so many presents for us that it was embarrassing. Every year, while we lived in the area, even after my husband arrived, we would be invited to spend this most-family-oriented holiday with them. But, as our situation slowly improved, we did not seem as interesting as before, when we had one “horror” story after the next.
My Mother
As I mentioned, my mother was 53 when we arrived in the States. She had worked as a Pharmacist in Romania for 31 years. In Romania, she was extremely appreciated. The function of a pharmacist in Romania was much different. She was compounding recipes, most of the time using the mortar and pestle. A lot of medicines had to be made from scratch. She particularly like to make creams, lotions, ointments. She developed her own “recipes” and had quite a following for her creams. Too bad she was in a communist system. She could have made a fortune with her preparations. As such, she couldn’t reap the benefits because she was an employee in a state pharmacy.
She was full of life, which she enjoyed to the max. She always liked to be involved in anything. She was very outgoing. She had hoped to be a pharmacist again. But soon, she realized that it would take a gigantic effort on her part. Her English was non-existent when we arrived but developed very nicely in a short period of time.
She had found out that she needed hundreds of hours of internship as one of the requirements to becoming a pharmacist again. She offered her services to lots of pharmacies. She even offered to do anything there for free. But she was refused, over and over again. At one point, through a social services program, she was offered a one-month internship in a pharmacy run by an Oriental couple. My mother was very active, tried to do as much as she could but they wouldn’t teach or show her anything. One day, my mother started checking expiration dates and noticed that many pills were out of warranty. She had just started to toss them out. She was severely criticized for her initiative. The pharmacist told her that the pills were fine.
The pharmacist there made a lot of mistakes that could have been fatal. Quite a few people returned and said they had been given something else. The pharmacist had a knack of laughing it off. He laughed a lot. My mother wasn’t laughing when she saw that. In the end, the pharmacist had to give my mother a written evaluation. Not surprisingly, it was bad. My mother was not given another chance, like I had been given with my medical assisting internship. Being older, speaking with a very noticeable accent did not work out for her.
