Blog: My Visits with the Veterans

Getting Back to Bill

4/26/2015

I didn't realize until I saw this picture that Bill actually was connecting with me -- through eye contact, anyway. (Photo: Brady Wolf Photography)

Saturday, April 25, 2015

Today was Phase Two of Soldiers Home re-entry, also known as Bill Day. That quick, astonishing glimpse I’d gotten of Bill on Tuesday haunted me the rest of the week—I’m not sure he even recognized me, but the simple fact that he was still alive made me realize I shouldn’t let much more time pass without checking in.

My photographer friend Brady came out with me—I had lured him with the promise of a lively Bluegrass Jam in Chilson Hall, but I also really, really wanted a picture of Bill and me. And possibly a hug.

To our surprise, there was no Bluegrass Jam in Chilson Hall. In fact, there was no one at all in Chilson Hall—and really not many signs of life anywhere.

We walked through Roosevelt Barracks and, increasingly desperate for human contact, knocked on Dorothy’s door. She answered immediately and seemed happy to see us. But she was watching a movie, so we stayed just long enough to ensure that now everyone at the Soldiers Home will know that I brought A Man out there with me.

Brady and I walked over to the Nursing Center in hopes of finding Bill in his room. But first, we ran into Doug in the hallway. Doug shook hands with Brady—“heartily” would be an understatement—and kind of refused to let go.

“That’s quite a grip you’ve got there,” Brady said.

Bill was not in his room, but an aide told us we probably could find him in the Activity Center.

I told Brady I was going to peek around the corner first to see just how active the Activity Center was. As much as I needed to connect with Bill, I really wasn’t prepared to do so in front of a lot of people.

I took a furtive look, and there sat Bill, alone, adrift, away from everyone else—and staring right at me. Guess we were going in.

I wheeled Bill to a quieter place and introduced him to Brady. Bill smiled and launched right into talking, but his speech has deteriorated even further, and I found myself uncertainly smiling when he smiled and trying desperately to understand even one word.

And then Bill said something familiar: Looking at Brady, Bill retold that baffling story I’ve heard for years, about him seeing me in the back seat of a car with someone some night, somewhere. Of course, that wasn’t Brady—it wasn’t anybody—but I was so happy to finally get something, I glommed on to it.

I asked Bill whether it’d be OK for Brady to take a few pictures. Bill said he still has the picture of us from our Valentine’s dinner, but I don’t think he does. I showed him a picture from a long-ago Family Picnic at the Soldiers Home, and he asked how much my phone cost. I asked him about a chain around his neck, which I don’t remember seeing before, but I didn’t understand his answer.

I felt unusually awkward, which made me feel guilty, and I told Bill I would put him back where he’d been—but at least pointed toward the TV instead of outer space.

I hugged him goodbye and told him I would not stay away for so long this time.

On the way out, I asked Brady whether that not-quite-comfortable encounter had served any positive purpose at all for Bill.

“He smiled when he saw you,” Brady said.

I’ll take that.

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Finally

4/22/2015

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On a pretty uncomfortable day, there was great comfort in the familiarity of longtime volunteers, and the annual Volunteer Appreciation Luncheon (including the slideshow, balloons and raffle plants!).

Tuesday, April 21, 2015

It took nearly six months to steel myself for the Soldiers Home after the death of my life-changing friend Raymond McDade. But today was the annual Volunteer Appreciation Luncheon—and so I went (painfully aware that my half-year absence really did not qualify me for a free lunch).

I cried a little on Monday, worried about how much I’d cry on Tuesday. I teared up again as I pulled in to the Soldiers Home—it used to be so automatic, so routine, and now even getting this close had become A Big Deal.

And then I walked in.

I spotted a spare chair in the back row, by Eileen and Erin of the Recreation staff. Eileen stood up, hugged me warmly and told me she’d get me a plate. I cried again.

Eileen has worked at the Soldiers Home more than 30 years. She is empathetic and engaged and does not miss much. She let me sit for a couple minutes.

“I have something for you in my office,” she said.

Eileen told me she’d saved Ray’s room nameplate for me—since October—knowing I would need it someday.

That really made me cry.

We ate lunch and chatted—some might call it subtle (and very effective) counseling. Eileen told me people come and people go at the Soldiers Home, and all we can do is try to touch them while they’re here. She said she understands how deeply I connected with Ray, and Mike Marquie, and Gary Walling—all gone now—and then she said, “There are others. There are always others.”

After lunch, we walked together to her office in the Nursing Center, where Ray, Mike and Gary had lived.

“Take a deep breath,” she said. “Just walk the halls.”

We passed the Bingo room, filled with residents for lunch. We passed the assisted dining room, and—to my absolute disbelief—there sat Bill Crowell. I might or might not have saved Bill's life during Bingo a long time ago. Ever since, he has considered me his guardian angel. But he had gone downhill horribly sideways before Ray died, and I simply could not imagine how Bill had held on so long. I could imagine, though, that he must've thought his guardian angel had flown off and deserted him.

I cried again.

“I was afraid to ask about Bill,” I told Eileen.

“I know you were,” she said.

In her office, Eileen reached under her computer monitor and handed me the last remaining tangible reminder of Ray McDade’s life at the Soldiers Home.

I cried again and hugged her.

On our way out, Eileen told me not to try to visit anyone today. To ease back in. To take things slowly.

I did wave to Bill as we passed, though, and to Leo Martell in the lunchroom. Outside, we ran into Wes Gourley, who’s now working to deliver snack-bar meals to staffers. And then we saw Dorothy in her brighter-than-bright-orange jacket.

“You can handle Dorothy,” Eileen said, and then she said to Dorothy, “Do you know this woman?”

Dorothy is one of the most regular regulars at Bingo, and we've talked a lot, often. I hugged her as if she were a life ring in 30-foot waves.

We talked a long time—about her daughter in Florida, about Bingo and its inevitable ups and downs, and about men we've known and … you know … that way they can be. (Dorothy: “Have you ever noticed it’s always OUR fault?”)

I hugged Dorothy goodbye, and she said, “I know it hurts, and I know you miss people, but every day gets a little easier—and you can always look at me and laugh: ‘The old bag’s still here!’”

As I left the Soldiers Home, I was smiling.

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Strength

11/2/2014

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Raymond McDade, Valentines Dinner 2012.

Sunday, November 2, 2014
The last time I wrote about Raymond McDade, he had been admitted to the hospital, possibly technically dead at one point and certainly near death by any standard. What standards fail to consider, however, is the inexplicable resilience of the human spirit—and the near-miraculous resilience of one human in particular.

Ray had collapsed at the Soldiers Home on Oct. 9. I visited him on Oct. 10, during what should have been a regular Bingo Friday, and I said goodbye to him on Oct. 11, when I had more than two hours alone with him in the hospital.

At the request of his family, Ray received only “comfort care” since his admittance—no nourishment, no medical treatment, no extraordinary measures to sustain his life.

He did that, on his own, for 22 days.

Raymond McDade, 91, died on Friday, Oct. 31.

When I walked into Ray’s hospital room on Oct. 10, his priest, Tony, was with him. Tony promised he would call me when there was a change in Ray’s condition.

I called the hospital daily, and when I talked to a nurse on Oct. 16, she said Ray was stable, sometimes responsive and alone.

So I went to the hospital again that night. When I walked into Ray’s room, I thought I was in the wrong place. The man in the bed had no hair and frighteningly sunken cheeks. The body in the bed was not moving at all. The setting on the morphine drip was five times greater than it had been a week earlier.

I had to sit. I leaned into Ray’s ear and said, “Hello, Raymond.” His eyes fluttered, but I saw no sign of recognition—or, honestly, of life—in the watery little beads that struggled to open and focus. I turned Ray’s TV to the “soothing music” channel and sat—mostly quietly, decidedly in shock.

This time, when I left, I did not say goodbye. I kissed Ray and told him I loved him and said goodnight.

The next morning, Ray’s family had him transferred to a private hospice a couple hours away. I harassed Tony for news, wondering why he hadn’t called about a funeral service.

He hadn’t called because Ray just kept on living.

I called Tony on Oct. 30. “He’s still with us,” Tony said.

“How can that possibly be?” I asked him.

“That’s what everyone else is asking, too,” Tony said.

Ray served on a Navy ship as Kamikaze planes dive-bombed around him in World War II. At the Soldiers Home, he took advantage of every opportunity to remain engaged and active. He prayed. He beat lymphoma. He beat infections. He had stopped breathing once before at the Soldiers Home but popped right back to Bingo within days.

Ray was a survivor. And he was one of my best friends in the world.

With Ray’s death, I have lost all three of my best friends at the Soldiers Home—three men who were alone and sick and could have been forgiven for giving up at any point. But they never, ever did. Instead, they welcomed my friendship—and my family, and even my puppy—and generously shared their lives and their wisdom and their time and their hearts with me.

To my life-changing friends Raymond McDade, Michael Marquie and Gary Walling: Thank you. I miss you. Please send resilience.

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Crisis Management

10/12/2014

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For last year's Christmas Bazaar at the Soldiers Home, Ray McDade met me with less than five minutes' notice.

I have not abandoned the Soldiers Home, or Bingo, but I sure have neglected the website. I have random Soldiers Home notes lying around for That Day When I Have Time to Update—and then, out of nowhere, I’m pulled back in by an update I can’t put off.

My friend Raymond McDade, far and away among my three favorite men in the world, is in the hospital. He is not expected to survive.

Everything happened so quickly and unexpectedly. I just started a new job at work and on Thursday cleared my Friday volunteer Bingo sessions with my new boss.

And this week I really needed a Friday Bingo session at the Soldiers Home—for perspective, for friendship, for a feeling of appreciation and purpose.

I walked in like any other Friday and noticed immediately that Ray was not at his table. I caught up with Dorothy for 10 minutes or so and waved to Harriet and Leo. Dorothy said Ray must be napping.

“Then I’m just going to have to go get his butt out of bed and bring him down here,” I told her.

When I got to Ray’s room, his scooter was there, but his bed was empty. I thought he might be in the restroom, but his new roommate asked, cryptically, “How is he?”

“Where is he?” I asked in return.

Ray’s roommate told me Ray had collapsed the night before, and when the EMTs arrived, he was unconscious and not breathing. Ray was in the hospital, if he was alive.

My heart was beating too hard. I kind of jogged to the nursing station and asked which hospital he’d been taken to. I stopped in Bingo and told the other volunteers I had to leave. I told Dorothy where I was going. She was shocked, too, which is shocking in itself: Usually everyone at the Soldiers Home knows everyone’s business.

I cried on the way to the hospital. Selfishly, I thought: This is a really bad time to lose a friend. Unselfishly, I thought: Ray needs to know people care about him.

When I got to his room, his church friends Tony and Kathy were there. Tony had been called because Ray had asked for a priest. Kathy was holding Ray’s hand. They filled me in on a little of the medical background—Ray was comatose upon arrival and not expected to live through Thursday night—and I leaned down to Ray and said, “Hello, Raymond,” right in his good ear.

He opened his eyes and even smiled a little. The three of us sat with him—Kathy holding his hand and me rubbing his shoulder and his head—until Ray’s wife and her daughter arrived. I told Ray I loved him and kissed him goodbye.

Ray made it through Friday and Friday night, and when I called on Saturday, he was alone.

With so many people there on Friday, I didn’t feel as if I’d told Ray everything I’d wanted to tell him, so I went back to the hospital.

He was alone.

For more than two hours I held his hand. He was drugged to the gills but didn’t sleep. Instead he’d doze briefly, raise his eyebrows, wake up and look right at me—and grin. He asked for orange juice. I brushed his hair. I showed him pictures of us on my phone. I reminded him how we’d met, told him he was the best friend ever and ran through a highlight reel of things we’d done together. I told him my parents, my son and my dog love him.

My goal was to smile at Ray every time he looked at me. I think I did this, except for twice: At one point Ray squeezed my hand and said, “Sandy, I’m going to have to go.”

He was looking right at me, but I was not smiling. I was crying. “Where you going, Raymond?” I asked.

“Right here in Orting,” he said.

Half an hour or so later, he looked at me and said, “Somewhere along the line … thank you, Sandy.”

I cried again.

“Thank you, Ray,” I told him.

When his friend Tony walked in, I was leaning over Ray and holding his hand with both of mine.

“Tony,” Ray said, and smiled.

“I’m going to let you boys talk,” I told Ray. I kissed him and told him, again, that I love him.

Thank God I had that chance. Thank God I went to Bingo on Friday.

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Long Time, No Post

6/9/2014

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From left, Ray McDade, a Tacoma HOG volunteer and Leo Mortell try their luck at the blackjack table.

Ray snags a tiny plastic fish. It is NOT easy!

The bad news: It’s been a looooong time since I’ve written.

The not-as-bad news: It has not been this long since I’ve visited the Soldiers Home. I’ve been there for Reno Day, Volunteer Day, Memorial Day and several assorted Bingo days in between.

Here’s a quick catch-up of highlights:

1.      March 8: Reno Day. The Tacoma Harley Owners Group roared out again to turn Chilson Hall into a gambling haven. And I turned out again to help staff the refreshment area, which grows more elaborate every year. This year we had two Crock-Pots with two kinds of meatballs; the traditional VFW Auxiliary sandwiches, fruit and chips; PLUS a giant street-vendor warming cart with fried cheese sticks and fried chicken strips.
   I watched Ray McDade catch tiny plastic fish with a magnet. I delivered drinks to thirsty players. But my favorite encounter of the day was at the blackjack table, where Leo Mortell was racking in the chips.
   From one end of the curved card table, I asked Leo whether he wanted a drink. From the other end, Leo yelled: “Did you ever dump that chump you were with?”
   I didn’t know whether Leo was kidding or serious, but it didn’t really matter. I laughed out loud and said, in fact, I had.
   “And thanks for yelling that across the table so everyone could hear ,” I said. He laughed, too.

2. April 10: Volunteer Appreciation Lunch. After missing a couple of these because of work, I was thrilled I could make it to the annual midweek, midday luncheon this year. The decorations were lovely. The tables were filled with volunteers. And there were things that looked like gifts (!) spread along a giant table near the stage in Chilson Hall.
   Turns out they were gifts, and each of us got to pick one as we walked to the front of the hall to accept our official volunteer certificate. I was thrilled with my volunteer water bottle, but not so thrilled that we all were expected to say a little something. Thankfully, just as I started to mumble, one of the Recreation staffers said, “All the Bingo players are thankful for everything you do,”—and suddenly I had my “speech.”
   “I just wish I could do more,” I said.
   And then I won a flower/plant during the raffle.
   A good day for the not-so-selfless volunteer.

3. May 26: Memorial Day. I’ve developed a comforting routine for these big, crowded services: I walk in and say hi to my fellow cake-and-punch servers, then look for the flag on the back of Ray McDade’s wheelchair near the front row.
   This year I couldn’t find it. I had one panicky Memorial Day moment of, “Oh, no, no, no, no.” Ray is never not near the front row, early, for any Chilson Hall event.
   Finally I saw his flag—not near the front row, but facing the front row. Among the ceremony participants. I grabbed my program and looked for his name: Ray was delivering the Roll Call this year—the list of all the Soldiers Home residents who had died since the last Memorial Day service.
   The service was packed. People were crowding into the area between the last row of chairs and our refreshment table. Boy Scouts were twitching and giggling. I tried so hard to stay focused on the ceremony and not on my irritation, but it wasn’t working—until someone at the podium announced Ray’s name and I heard his voice over the microphone.
    I got goosebumps. Roll Call is always moving, but hearing Ray read it was heartbreaking.
   Afterward, he came back for cake, and I hugged him and told him he’d done a great job. A man next to us said, “Who’s the blonde?” And Ray said, “This is my friend, Sandy,” and squeezed my hand.

4. Bingo, Bango, Bongo. I’ve been to three or so Bingos lately, and not much has changed—except the start time for afternoon Bingo (now 2:30!).
   The biggest Bingo laugh was when Leo Mortell announced that it was “bullshit” that his postage-stamp Bingo didn’t count. I laughed and said, “No swearing at Bingo!” And Leo said, “Well, goddammit, why not?”
   My favorite post-Bingo moment was with Ray McDade, on June 7, one day after the 70th anniversary of D-Day. My mom had asked whether Ray had participated in D-Day. I didn’t think he had, because Ray told me his WWII story, but I didn’t know where Ray had been. So I asked him: “Where were you on D-Day?”
Ray’s mind is amazing.
   “June 6, 1944,” Ray said. “I was at the prom at Vassar. It was a blind date.”
   I laughed out loud. “What?”
   Ray told me his whole story: He was in the Navy, at Columbia College, and someone from Vassar had posted a sign: “Five men needed as prom dates.” Ray and his friends had gone, for the whole weekend. They paired off and went to prom, played softball, had a picnic—and they took a special picture.
    After that weekend, Ray went back to Columbia. He wanted to contact his date again. But, Ray said, “It was the height of the war, and I lost her information.”
In desperation—and wisdom—Ray sent the photo to Vassar and asked someone, anyone, to please help him contact his date. No one did.
   “All I knew was that she was a Math major,” Ray said, and shook his head.
   “Vassar," Ray said. "That was my one claim to fame.”
   Ray later served on a ship off the coast of Japan as kamikazes crashed in flames behind him. He’s a father, a husband, a businessman, a friend and the best storyteller I’ve ever known.
   “I think you’ve had a few others,” I told him, and I hugged him goodbye. Till next time.

Terry, left, and Cathleen, right, present my volunteer friend Doreen with her Volunteer Day certificate.

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A Break in Tradition, a Return to Action and the Evolution of Bill

2/23/2014

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February 21, 2014

For the first time in six years, I did not have a date for the Soldiers Home Valentines Dinner. Technically, Bill Crowell had asked me five minutes after last year’s dinner, but he has deteriorated so thoroughly since then, I couldn’t imagine him making it through dinner—or remembering that he had asked.

Just to be sure, though, I called Eileen in Activities. I wanted to make sure Bill hadn’t remembered—or rebounded—and he had not. “I’m not even going to mention it to him,” Eileen said. “It would just cause him too much anxiety.”

I sighed, and she thanked me for checking, and I was dateless.

Before we hung up, I told Eileen how sorry I was that I hadn’t been out for so long. I told her I’d received all sorts of copies of this month’s activities calendar, and I really hoped to be able to take a little break from work on the 21st for “volunteer extraordinaire” bingo. I certainly had not been an extraordinary volunteer lately.

On the 21st, Terry the volunteer coordinator called me at work to see whether I could make it. I said I’d try as hard as I could.

I did try, and I did go. And when I walked in, I almost cried. Life has gone on just fine without me at the Soldiers Home. While I’ve been working too hard all week, and trying to soak up as much time as possible with my college son on weekends, everyone there has carried on. (Which is good news in itself: I didn’t notice a single bad-news absence of a single bingo “usual.”)

I felt better about myself in that one moment, walking into bingo, than I have in months. This place has become a part of me, and I’ve missed it more than I even realized.

Even better, all the usuals seemed happy to see me.

“Well,” Ray McDade said, clasping my hand. “Look who’s here!” Eileen said, and promptly turned over the prize cart. “Nice to see you, lovely lady,” Leo Martell barked. “You’re looking good,” Dorothy said.

“It’s been a while,” said sweet Harriet. And a faraway light bulb went off. “Did you just have a birthday?” I asked her. She seemed surprised. I kind of was, too. “I did!” she smiled. And we talked about the benefits of February birthdays (we water bearers stick together!).

And then, after saying or waving hi to long-lost friends I’ve known for years, amazingly—almost unbelievably—I noticed Bill Crowell, looking alert and nicely put-together and, forgive me, alive, looking down at his Bingo card. I might have squealed.

I hugged his shoulders and asked how he was. “I’m just sitting here in space,” he said, showing me his empty card. I got him caught up and told him how happy I was to see him, and while he didn’t really respond, he did look at me, and I saw Bill, still, in his eyes.

That was a singular, personal miracle, but even overall, I couldn’t believe how restorative it felt to push a silly prize cart (even a challenging, uneven, rickety prize cart). Leo won often and raised his hand for me, the “candy lady.” Harriet, Doris and Dorothy won even more often. Ray won enough to fill his bag with his Bingo staples—mixed nuts and whole-wheat crackers.

No one chose the purple sand pail on the cart, so when Leo won, I suggested it might make a nice hat. He laughed and said, “Want to play in my sand pit, little girl?” I might have snorted.

After Bingo, I caught up briefly with Ray. I told him I still owe him a birthday present (he’s now 91 and looks amazingly good). We hugged goodbye. Terry the number-caller thanked everyone for coming, and Leo yelled, “And thanks to the nice young lady for coming back!”

Bill asked for a push back to his room. I parked him in front of his TV and asked an aide to please move him onto his bed. He looked tired, but by God, he was up, and he came to Bingo, and something in him that I thought was lost forever had kicked back in.

I buzzed back to work, smiling. My friends are still there—have been all along. Turns out I need them more than they ever needed me.

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Trying to Catch Up

2/23/2014

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December 14, 2013

I am so far behind. I am so out of touch with the Soldiers Home. I am so sorry.

I’ve had this wonderful photo of Ray and me for two months. I was on my way to the annual Soldiers Home Christmas Bazaar and called him from the car (possibly illegally) to see whether he’d like to join me. He did.

We took a couple laps around Chilson Hall to scan all the goodies—stopping to talk to Dorothy, at her usual spot next to the giant Christmas tree, and to Greg, also in his usual spot, but with a new dog (!)—and settled in front of the fudge booth, so I could take some back to work.

We asked the fudge-booth lady to take our picture—and she did, about 40 times. She had shots of our torsos, of one head but not the other, of a random hand, of everything but both of us in the same frame at the same time, and we were laughing like eggnogged Christmas elves. But then, suddenly: a Christmas miracle!

Just to be safe, I took this selfie, too, which I love. And I thanked Ray for coming on such short notice. I love him, too.

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Thanksgiving Gratitude ... and Other Emotions

12/12/2013

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Friday, November 29, 2013

Although last Thanksgiving at the Soldiers Home was kind of magical, I didn’t make it out there this year because my son and I were having some “second-family” magic of our own, and time got away from us. I did, though, have a lovely holiday email exchange with Ray McDade on Thursday—and, on Friday, I made sure to see him—and as many other Soldiers Home friends as I could.

I got there just as an outside group’s Bingo ended, so I ran into quite a few people right on the sidewalk. I said a passing hi to Greg, and Faith stopped briefly to tell me about her Thanksgiving—she had spent it with family, and had had four pies.

Dorothy stopped for longer, and we covered a lot of ground. She told me all about Bingo, clued me in to AMC’s ongoing movie marathons (she had watched Gone with the Wind) and reminded me about the Soldiers Home Christmas Bazaar on Dec. 13-14 (it’ll be her 16th year manning a table of goodies).

Inside I passed a man I’d never met. “You’re dressed like it’s cold outside,” he said. “Oh, it is,” I said. “Freezing.” He smiled and shivered. “I can’t imagine,” he said.

I knocked on Ray’s door and peeked in when no one answered. Ray was not there, but his roommate was. “Is Ray around?” I asked Jim. “Do you see him?” Jim answered. Well. No. I guess I didn’t. But I had a pretty good guess where I might find him.

I walked to the Activity Center, where I figured folks would be watching the Apple Cup. I was mostly right: Seven or eight men were gathered there, but only Ray was really watching the big-screen game.

We hugged, and he held my hand for a minute, and we talked for longer than we’ve talked in a long time. Ray looked wonderful, and he is always—always—sharp and engaging and just A Lovely Man. I settled in and really relaxed—for once, I had nowhere I had to rush off to—and we watched football and talked about college, Thanksgiving (his family had taken him out to the Ram for dinner), divorce, kids, shopping and, finally, Bill Crowell.

Ray said Bill was doing even worse. Ray advised me to accept another invitation to the Valentine’s Dinner, should I get one, in case Bill’s not up for it. And Ray encouraged me to stop in to see Bill.

I said I would. By now it was time for Ray’s dinner, anyway, so I gave him a huge hug goodbye.

Bill was asleep and slouched in his wheelchair when I walked into his room. He opened his eyes—but I’m not sure he ever really awoke. He talked, but we did not have a conversation, and I had a hard time picking out words.

The contrast between my experience with Ray and my experience with Bill could not have been clearer. When I left Ray, I was smiling and relaxed and grateful and a little in awe at his 90-year-old mind and heart. When I left Bill, I was wondering whether either of us got even one positive element out of the visit.

I wish he could tell me.

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A Full Veterans Day

11/29/2013

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Monday, November 11, 2013

Today was my fifth Veterans Day at the Soldiers Home—and the most crowded ceremony I’ve ever seen there.

When I drove in, families were taking pictures on the display tank. Dozens of Boy Scouts awaited their orders at the door to Chilson Hall. And chairs were filling quickly inside.

First I greeted my partners in punch at the refreshment table. (First impression: Whew. “Veterans” was spelled correctly on the cakes.). Then I looked for Ray McDade, who’s always one of the first residents to arrive, and I found his wheelchair-mounted signal flag in the front row. His usual spot.

We hugged and said hi, and on my way back to the cake table I waved hi to Faith, Gus and Harold. I took my post (how did I end up behind the impossible-to-cut carrot cake?), and within minutes it was standing-room-only all the way back to us. Soldiers Home staffers kept bringing out more chairs, and they kept filling. Finally, a gaggle of Scouts stood and opened a couple of prime rows in the center.

A man dressed in unofficial military gear waltzed behind the refreshment table with his family and just stood there. They were a little close for comfort—and right in front of the empty punch bowl I had to fill. So when I said, “A row of chairs just opened up in the middle,” it's possible I was being half helpful and half territorial.

“We’re staying here,” the man said, not exactly pleasantly.

And I realized—here stands a veteran, for crying out loud. On Veterans Day. I adjusted my attitude (and my position), and we co-existed just fine.

The ceremony was familiar but shorter than ever. The junior ROTC presented the colors. Gary S. read the proclamation from the governor. The Puyallup Valley Community Band played all the standards. And the guest speaker, an Army major, got too choked up to speak for more than a minute or two so simply expressed gratitude. He got a standing ovation.

There were touching moments throughout, but I didn’t cry, and I felt guilty about that. The time finally came when I had to ask the veteran next to me to move so I could make the punch. (He did so graciously.) And before we knew it, a swarm of Scouts and kids and ROTC members swooped up our offerings. I was worried there wouldn’t be enough by the time the actual veterans got to the table, and we actually did run out early.

We were so busy cutting and ladling and stirring and serving, I never saw Ray leave.

But I did personally offer punch to the veteran’s family I had to displace. It seemed the least I could do.

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Extremes

10/13/2013

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Friday, October 11, 2013
I knew it’d been too long since I’d visited the Soldiers Home—in the last month or so, I’ve been a little crazily preoccupied with changing jobs, changing houses and sending my son off to college—but I didn’t realize how long it’d been until I got this email from my wonderful friend Ray McDade:

“Dear Sandy,
Where are you? Everyone at bingo is asking about you including me. I remember you were going south. Is everything OK? Love and God Bless You.
Ray”

I’m not sure what Ray meant by “going south”—geographically or emotionally—but I wrote him back immediately.

And then I got my butt out to Bingo.

The room was packed, and I was so happy to see Ray in his usual place, I almost cried. (This is not really newsworthy. I also have been on the verge of tears—or engulfed in them—for the last month.)

“Well, Sandy! Bless your heart,” Ray said, as he usually does. I told Ray he looked really good. “It’s a good hair day!” he said.

I hugged Ray and he squeezed my hand, and we talked briefly—but Bingo was under way, so I got to work.

I talked to Dorothy, who had heard I was moving but wasn’t quite sure about the details. “Did your husband move with you?” she asked. “Oh, no,” I said. “I haven’t had one of those for a while.” She smiled.

I talked to Harriet and Doris, who both looked spry and healthy and happy, thank God. I was smiling—genuinely smiling—as I walked up to Leo Martell.

I patted his shoulder, and he said, “It sure is good to see your smiling face.” I thought: It sure is good to smile.

I hovered over David Fox’s shoulder and pointed out a couple Bingos he might have missed. Each time, he looked me in the eyes and thanked me.

Gary C. won a calculator and wondered whether he’d have to win batteries, too. I pushed a button, and it came right on.

“Test it!” he said. “Try 2 +2!”

Four! Whew. Crisis averted.

Leo picked a stuffed bear. He always picks stuffed somethings. “Is this the one you want?” he asked me. “I’m not taking your bear,” I said. But he pushed it toward me, and I pushed it back, at least three round-trips.

I sat with Ray after Bingo, and David came over to thank me again.

Ray and I talked about my son’s college experience, my new house, my puppy—and Bill Crowell.

“He’s not doing well,” Ray said. “I can’t understand anything he says, but I hope you’ll spend some time with him.”

“I always lean way in,” I told Ray. “I get bits and pieces.”

Ray and I hugged goodbye, and I promised not to stay away so long again.

When I walked into Bill’s room, he was on his bed in a terrifying V position, as if he’d been doing sit-ups and gotten stuck. He couldn’t lean forward, and he couldn’t lean back.

I hugged him and wedged a pillow under his upper back and neck. He looked a little better—maybe more like a slightly uncomfortable J.

Bill talked and talked and talked. I leaned way in, but I couldn’t make out much. He apologized for his speech, but I was more worried about the words I did pick up. At one point he wondered who would watch the German shepherd if he had to go to the hospital. Bill is not doing well.

I stayed longer than I was comfortable, because Bill kept talking. Finally he asked for a hug, and he got one.

I told him I’d see him soon—but with Bill, I didn’t promise.

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My name is Sandy Deneau Dunham. I'm a journalist who’s worked at The Phoenix Gazette, The (Tacoma) News Tribune, The Seattle Times, Town Hall Seattle and Pacific Lutheran University. I'm now back at The Seattle Times, as associate editor of its gorgeously glossy Pacific NW magazine. I've been a volunteer at the Washington Soldiers Home and Colony in Orting, Washington, since January 2009, and I am still a remedial videographer.

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