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.
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.