I like this "official" picture of Bill and me because 1) he has slipped on his fancy jacket (and I somehow got his rose attached to it!) and 2) he looks very happy.
Friday, February 22, 2013
Bingo was more packed today than I can ever remember—I lost count at 30 players, and then lost my bearings over all the new faces: At the Soldiers Home, new people move in only when other people leave, one way or another, and I just couldn’t fathom how many people suddenly must be missing, and whom they might be.
All the Bingo regulars were there, though, so I reassured myself that I hadn’t lost a treasured friend this week, and moved on to my next struggle: trying to find a path for the prize cart through all those feet and wheelchair wheels and walkers. It was so crowded, I had to travel the perimeter—certainly not the shortest distance between two points, and noticeably not the fastest route to prize-winners. There was a lot of impatient, “Hey! Over here!!”-ing today.
“You’re going to run your legs right off,” sweet Harriet told me.
Leo Martell just kept winning, and thankfully spotted what he wanted from the cart before I had to try to maneuver it in next to him. “What is that pussycat on there?” he asked. It was a big stuffed blue toy, which he said he’d better take. (I am still smiling that he said, “pussycat.”)
I talked to Ray McDade, David and Dorothy—but my happiest breakthrough was with Michael, who had bristled a couple Bingos ago when I’d picked up the bandana he’d dropped. Michael was having a good Bingo day, so I was visiting often with the cart. Afterward, I commented on his impressive stash of loot and asked whether he’d like a bag for all of it. He smiled and said yes, and my heart melted. “I did all this with my lucky Irish charm all the way over there,” he said. There was something green and buttonlike at the other end of the table. I picked it up and said, “This?” And he smiled again. “Hold on to that,” I told him, smiling back like an idiot. “It seems to work.”
There was a new Bingo caller today—Erin from Recreation told me the Sergeants Association is about to start hosting a monthly Bingo, and she was training members to call the numbers. This man was pleasant and respectful and very capable, and on his way out, we thanked each other.
Eileen from Recreation had given me the official Soldiers Home photo of Bill Crowell and me from our Valentine’s Dinner, so I thought on my way out I’d stop and show it to Bill.
Bill was lying almost diagonally on his bed but apparently not quite asleep, because he started talking the second I walked in.
“I was just thinking about you,” Bill said. I hugged him and showed him our picture (he already had a copy, tacked to the bulletin board right above his head). “That night was spectacular,” Bill said—and then he launched into a monologue that was sweet, sometimes-incomprehensible and a tiny bit worrisome.
I didn’t get it all, but I did get that he needs to talk to me; that his phone hasn’t been working; that he loves me and would like to hug, caress and/or marry me; and that he can’t stop thinking about “the other side, where everything is perfect,” and how we’ll be together there. Forever.
My head was reeling: At the same time I was trying to understand him and really hear him, I was trying desperately to think of The Right Response. Quickly.
I’m not sure I landed on it. “I’m very glad we’re good friends,” I told Bill.
I’m not sure he really heard me. He asked me to help him sit up so he could hug me better. I said maybe it’d be best if he just rested where he was. And then I thanked him again, for his friendship, and for Valentine’s Dinner, as I hugged him goodbye.
Bingo was more packed today than I can ever remember—I lost count at 30 players, and then lost my bearings over all the new faces: At the Soldiers Home, new people move in only when other people leave, one way or another, and I just couldn’t fathom how many people suddenly must be missing, and whom they might be.
All the Bingo regulars were there, though, so I reassured myself that I hadn’t lost a treasured friend this week, and moved on to my next struggle: trying to find a path for the prize cart through all those feet and wheelchair wheels and walkers. It was so crowded, I had to travel the perimeter—certainly not the shortest distance between two points, and noticeably not the fastest route to prize-winners. There was a lot of impatient, “Hey! Over here!!”-ing today.
“You’re going to run your legs right off,” sweet Harriet told me.
Leo Martell just kept winning, and thankfully spotted what he wanted from the cart before I had to try to maneuver it in next to him. “What is that pussycat on there?” he asked. It was a big stuffed blue toy, which he said he’d better take. (I am still smiling that he said, “pussycat.”)
I talked to Ray McDade, David and Dorothy—but my happiest breakthrough was with Michael, who had bristled a couple Bingos ago when I’d picked up the bandana he’d dropped. Michael was having a good Bingo day, so I was visiting often with the cart. Afterward, I commented on his impressive stash of loot and asked whether he’d like a bag for all of it. He smiled and said yes, and my heart melted. “I did all this with my lucky Irish charm all the way over there,” he said. There was something green and buttonlike at the other end of the table. I picked it up and said, “This?” And he smiled again. “Hold on to that,” I told him, smiling back like an idiot. “It seems to work.”
There was a new Bingo caller today—Erin from Recreation told me the Sergeants Association is about to start hosting a monthly Bingo, and she was training members to call the numbers. This man was pleasant and respectful and very capable, and on his way out, we thanked each other.
Eileen from Recreation had given me the official Soldiers Home photo of Bill Crowell and me from our Valentine’s Dinner, so I thought on my way out I’d stop and show it to Bill.
Bill was lying almost diagonally on his bed but apparently not quite asleep, because he started talking the second I walked in.
“I was just thinking about you,” Bill said. I hugged him and showed him our picture (he already had a copy, tacked to the bulletin board right above his head). “That night was spectacular,” Bill said—and then he launched into a monologue that was sweet, sometimes-incomprehensible and a tiny bit worrisome.
I didn’t get it all, but I did get that he needs to talk to me; that his phone hasn’t been working; that he loves me and would like to hug, caress and/or marry me; and that he can’t stop thinking about “the other side, where everything is perfect,” and how we’ll be together there. Forever.
My head was reeling: At the same time I was trying to understand him and really hear him, I was trying desperately to think of The Right Response. Quickly.
I’m not sure I landed on it. “I’m very glad we’re good friends,” I told Bill.
I’m not sure he really heard me. He asked me to help him sit up so he could hug me better. I said maybe it’d be best if he just rested where he was. And then I thanked him again, for his friendship, and for Valentine’s Dinner, as I hugged him goodbye.
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