Friday, June 11, 2010
It was Bingo night tonight, and on my way to Mike’s room, I noticed, and sensed, something different. Usually I just kind of casually glance into the rooms along his hallway, but tonight something stopped me outside Mary and Libby’s room. Something was off. My first clue: The back shelf of their room was no longer lined with all the stuffed animals Mary had collected at Bingo.
In another second, I realized there was only one bed in the room. And then, that Mary’s name was no longer on the door. I had a bad feeling.
But I didn’t want to spread it, so I innocently asked Mike whether Mary had moved to a different room. He hadn’t heard.
On our way outside, though, he stopped and asked the nurses.
Mary had passed away.
I felt horrible. I’d led Mike into this discovery totally unprepared. I felt sad about Mary, but I also felt an actual pang of physical pain, as if the entire atmosphere in the hallway had changed, and I couldn’t adjust to the air pressure. Mike got very quiet.
"I had no idea," he said.
Mike and Mary had history. The first day I met Mike, he told me how they used to "raise hell" at the Soldiers Home. She was sweet and mostly quiet at Bingo (unless you didn’t hear her the first time she called "bingo"), but her eyes still sparkled with hints of her hell-raising past (and, possibly, potential).
"I just saw her," Mike said. "She was moving awfully slowly."
Mike and I went outside, not saying much, and checked out the impromptu collection of campers and trailers on the grounds. There’s a two-day Bluegrass Festival at the Home, and the musicians camp out, build bonfires and jam when they’re not officially playing on stage.
I dropped Mike off inside Chilson Hall, where a group was playing and a crowd had gathered. He seemed subdued and said he’d rather stay there than go to Bingo.
Which was probably a good call, because the disturbing news just kept on coming:
It was Bingo night tonight, and on my way to Mike’s room, I noticed, and sensed, something different. Usually I just kind of casually glance into the rooms along his hallway, but tonight something stopped me outside Mary and Libby’s room. Something was off. My first clue: The back shelf of their room was no longer lined with all the stuffed animals Mary had collected at Bingo.
In another second, I realized there was only one bed in the room. And then, that Mary’s name was no longer on the door. I had a bad feeling.
But I didn’t want to spread it, so I innocently asked Mike whether Mary had moved to a different room. He hadn’t heard.
On our way outside, though, he stopped and asked the nurses.
Mary had passed away.
I felt horrible. I’d led Mike into this discovery totally unprepared. I felt sad about Mary, but I also felt an actual pang of physical pain, as if the entire atmosphere in the hallway had changed, and I couldn’t adjust to the air pressure. Mike got very quiet.
"I had no idea," he said.
Mike and Mary had history. The first day I met Mike, he told me how they used to "raise hell" at the Soldiers Home. She was sweet and mostly quiet at Bingo (unless you didn’t hear her the first time she called "bingo"), but her eyes still sparkled with hints of her hell-raising past (and, possibly, potential).
"I just saw her," Mike said. "She was moving awfully slowly."
Mike and I went outside, not saying much, and checked out the impromptu collection of campers and trailers on the grounds. There’s a two-day Bluegrass Festival at the Home, and the musicians camp out, build bonfires and jam when they’re not officially playing on stage.
I dropped Mike off inside Chilson Hall, where a group was playing and a crowd had gathered. He seemed subdued and said he’d rather stay there than go to Bingo.
Which was probably a good call, because the disturbing news just kept on coming:
- One resident called me over to tell me he’d had an accident. He’d been on a shopping trip, and his wheelchair had launched over the edge of a curb and thrown him. His knee hurts, his chair had to be repaired and his right hand is the color of a good Beaujolais, but he’s OK. And, we both agreed, he’s lucky it wasn’t worse.
- I learned another resident has been hospitalized with a potentially serious infection. Apparently he could be quarantined for up to 30 days.
- Another resident told me he’s been having heart pains. "Heart pains?!?" I said, probably one octave higher than normal. "Oh, they’re under control," he said, reassuringly—and then he took a bandage off his arm, and it started gushing blood. I was starting to think I’d better not talk to anyone else.
- But Ray McDade came in, and I can’t resist Ray. I walked over and, against my better judgment, asked how he was doing. "Oh, I’ve been having some trouble," he said. Naturally. I steeled myself for more. But Ray’s trouble was benign, comparatively. "I just couldn’t decide between the bluegrass music and Bingo," he said. I think I laughed, which probably seemed inappropriate, but … whew.
Other than all of that, Bingo went fine, and fast. I stopped in Mike’s room on my way out, but he was only half awake. "You look how I feel," I told him. "And you look pooped," he said. And then his eyelids drooped, so I left him to sleep.
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