A Premature Goodbye, and The Doctor is Out

Wesley and me, at the pond.

Thursday, May 27, 2010

I said goodbye to a good friend today—but thankfully, it wasn’t a final goodbye. Wesley Gourley is moving out and moving on. He’ll be the first of my friends to leave the Soldiers Home under any circumstance, and as far as leaving-the-Soldiers-Home circumstances go, it’s a happy one: As I’d mentioned earlier, Wesley plans to return to San Diego, where he has family. And last I’d heard, he was leaving this week.

Which leads to another reason this wasn’t a final goodbye: Now he’s not leaving until June 1.

But I didn’t know that when I found him at the pond and presented him with the framed 8x10 photo I’d taken of him with his Bingo buddies. Nor when I hugged him goodbye, or asked another resident to take a photo of the two of us. So it still felt like goodbye, anyway—at least until I realized I’d probably see Wesley again Monday, during the Memorial Day service.

Oh well.

Compared to my last visit, especially, today was much more rewarding all-around:

1. I made the rounds to deliver photos I’d taken of residents during their interviews. Jim Wunders was thrilled I’d finally remembered—plus, it was his birthday. "I turned 90 today," he said. "And started on my way to 91."
2. Ken spent a long time looking at the photo of him with his wife. They certainly are a sweet couple.
3. Stan liked his pile o’ photos, too (one for him, plus four for his kids), and he went above and beyond in his gratitude: He lined up two more interview subjects for me. Stan led me into the dining room, introduced me to Leo Burton and sat me right down at his lunch table, along with Bingo regular Cal Bush. I’m interviewing them Monday and Tuesday, and I’m predicting they will tell some amazing stories.
4. Mike had been sleeping when I arrived, but he later found me halfway to the pond and was the peppiest I’d seen him in weeks. I asked how his newly souped-up chair was holding up, and he practically cooed: "I love this chair! This is the best chair in the world—yes it is!" (I talk to my car like that sometimes, too, just so it won’t turn on me unexpectedly. It is a Toyota, after all.)
      We went into Chilson Hall so Mike could secure a spot for the residents’ 2 p.m. meeting with the Home’s new doctor. Inside were dozens of chairs lined up in precise rows and a decorated podium flanked by at least 20 king-size flags. "Wow," Mike said. "This doctor must be from the Mayo Clinic or something." I laughed out loud. "I kinda think this might be for the Memorial Day service," I told him, in my best smart-ass tone. He laughed, too—a good, strong Mike laugh—and then made a joke out of it for a few more people.
      I told Mike about a resident who had fallen earlier and scraped his forehead. "Oh, God," Mike laughed. "He’s going to wish he had died, there’s going to be so much paperwork."
      By the time I had to leave at 2, the good doctor still hadn’t shown up for her introductory meeting, and neither had many residents. Figuring maybe doctors everywhere run on their own timetables, Mike left for a minute to see me to my car. Just outside, a resident told Mike the nurses were looking for him to give him his medication.
      "I don’t take medicine until 2 o’clock," Mike said.
      "Hell-ooo," said the other resident.
      Mike looked at me and laughed that good laugh again. "Oh. Look. It’s 2 o’clock."
   
      Given my last visit, and thinking this was my last visit with Wesley, I had prepared for a downer kind of day. But I was laughing as I left, feeling the best I’ve felt about Mike in a long time—and looking forward to one more good Wesley goodbye.