Ray, left, and Bill reconnect at Bingo. Saturday, May 4, 2013
Today I crashed Doreen’s VFW Bingo out of desperation—and selfishness. I’d been absent so long, I really needed perspective and connection. And, in all honesty, I needed to make sure Bill Crowell was still alive.
I got there early so I could check on/talk to Bill before Bingo, but Dorothy already was pushing her walker up the sidewalk to the Bingo room. I had seen the Soldiers Home newsletter just that week and somehow managed to remember her birthday had been listed. I told her happy belated birthday, and she beamed.
“My daughter sent me a card,” she said, and dug through her stuff to find it.
I left her in the hallway outside the Bingo room and told her I needed to check on Bill.
He was alive, but he was not exactly Bill.
I woke him when I walked into his room and, as he often does, he launched into a rambling monologue. But this one was especially disturbing on several levels.
Bill mumbled something about me standing at a podium, turning around to look back at him and walking away. “And then there was that time in the car,” he said. I was really struggling to understand him—and calm him—but Bill seemed to think he had upset me. He seemed half apologetic, and half mad that I was mad. But, of course, I was never mad.
So I told him that.
“You haven’t been out here for a long time,” he said sadly.
I told him I was sorry, but I had been (and still am) horrifyingly busy and stressed trying to juggle my son’s senior year of high school and my job.
“Do you work at night?” he asked.
Ouch.
I told Bill I was not upset with him, and he said he’d forgive me. I asked him to come to Bingo, just to get him up and out of his room, which set off a 15-minute process of getting his shoes on (which I did) and getting him into his wheelchair (which I asked a staffer to do).
Bill was wearing sweatpants, which was new—and symbolically more sad than you might think. Worse, they had a scary dark stain on one thigh. “What happened there?” I asked. “Must be spilled tomato juice,” he said. I didn’t push it.
I wheeled him into Bingo and was thrilled to see Ray McDade already at his table. Ray was thrilled to see Bill, but Bill barely reacted. I sat with them both, but only Ray was carrying on a conversation.
He asked about my son, and I told him Carson had committed to the University of Washington. “What are you talking about?” Ray asked. He’d thought my son was a sophomore. No such luck. I showed Ray, George and Bill a picture on my phone of Carson and his lovely prom date.
“How much did that cost?” George asked. I told him the tuxedo was almost $200, which seemed ridiculous. George shook his head. He had meant my phone.
Ray asked how much college costs. I told him. It’s quite a bit more ridiculous than a tuxedo.
“When I graduated from high school, my dad gave me $50,” Ray said. “I took that to college, and it paid for my entire first semester—tuition, room and board.”
I sighed. “That sure sounds good,” I said.
Bingo went smoothly. Doreen hands out cash instead of prizes, which speeds the whole reward process immensely, and tends to make the winners very happy.
I talked to all the regulars—Leo Martell (who said he was saving his dollars to take me to dinner), Harriett, David, Royal, Robert and Billy—and found myself genuinely smiling in gratitude. I’d missed these people.
I stopped by often to check on Bill, but he wasn’t keeping up, and he kept saying he couldn’t see the number board.
While I was tidying up after Bingo, I could overhear Ray talking to Bill. “Don’t be in a rush,” Ray said. I turned around. I couldn’t imagine Bill rushing to do anything today. “Do not be in a hurry to die,” Ray added, and I almost cried right there. “You drag it out as long as you can.”
I told Bill I’d wheel him back to his room, and I hugged Ray goodbye. Tightly. “He’s fading fast,” Ray told me. “I’ll stop in every day and say the Rosary with him, but he won’t know I’m there.”
I thanked Ray and settled Bill back in his bed.
“So all is forgiven,” Bill said. I still didn’t know which one of us was forgiving, or forgiven, but I said yes.
“I can call you?” Bill asked? I said yes again.
“I love you,” Bill said. And I told him I love him, too.
Today I crashed Doreen’s VFW Bingo out of desperation—and selfishness. I’d been absent so long, I really needed perspective and connection. And, in all honesty, I needed to make sure Bill Crowell was still alive.
I got there early so I could check on/talk to Bill before Bingo, but Dorothy already was pushing her walker up the sidewalk to the Bingo room. I had seen the Soldiers Home newsletter just that week and somehow managed to remember her birthday had been listed. I told her happy belated birthday, and she beamed.
“My daughter sent me a card,” she said, and dug through her stuff to find it.
I left her in the hallway outside the Bingo room and told her I needed to check on Bill.
He was alive, but he was not exactly Bill.
I woke him when I walked into his room and, as he often does, he launched into a rambling monologue. But this one was especially disturbing on several levels.
Bill mumbled something about me standing at a podium, turning around to look back at him and walking away. “And then there was that time in the car,” he said. I was really struggling to understand him—and calm him—but Bill seemed to think he had upset me. He seemed half apologetic, and half mad that I was mad. But, of course, I was never mad.
So I told him that.
“You haven’t been out here for a long time,” he said sadly.
I told him I was sorry, but I had been (and still am) horrifyingly busy and stressed trying to juggle my son’s senior year of high school and my job.
“Do you work at night?” he asked.
Ouch.
I told Bill I was not upset with him, and he said he’d forgive me. I asked him to come to Bingo, just to get him up and out of his room, which set off a 15-minute process of getting his shoes on (which I did) and getting him into his wheelchair (which I asked a staffer to do).
Bill was wearing sweatpants, which was new—and symbolically more sad than you might think. Worse, they had a scary dark stain on one thigh. “What happened there?” I asked. “Must be spilled tomato juice,” he said. I didn’t push it.
I wheeled him into Bingo and was thrilled to see Ray McDade already at his table. Ray was thrilled to see Bill, but Bill barely reacted. I sat with them both, but only Ray was carrying on a conversation.
He asked about my son, and I told him Carson had committed to the University of Washington. “What are you talking about?” Ray asked. He’d thought my son was a sophomore. No such luck. I showed Ray, George and Bill a picture on my phone of Carson and his lovely prom date.
“How much did that cost?” George asked. I told him the tuxedo was almost $200, which seemed ridiculous. George shook his head. He had meant my phone.
Ray asked how much college costs. I told him. It’s quite a bit more ridiculous than a tuxedo.
“When I graduated from high school, my dad gave me $50,” Ray said. “I took that to college, and it paid for my entire first semester—tuition, room and board.”
I sighed. “That sure sounds good,” I said.
Bingo went smoothly. Doreen hands out cash instead of prizes, which speeds the whole reward process immensely, and tends to make the winners very happy.
I talked to all the regulars—Leo Martell (who said he was saving his dollars to take me to dinner), Harriett, David, Royal, Robert and Billy—and found myself genuinely smiling in gratitude. I’d missed these people.
I stopped by often to check on Bill, but he wasn’t keeping up, and he kept saying he couldn’t see the number board.
While I was tidying up after Bingo, I could overhear Ray talking to Bill. “Don’t be in a rush,” Ray said. I turned around. I couldn’t imagine Bill rushing to do anything today. “Do not be in a hurry to die,” Ray added, and I almost cried right there. “You drag it out as long as you can.”
I told Bill I’d wheel him back to his room, and I hugged Ray goodbye. Tightly. “He’s fading fast,” Ray told me. “I’ll stop in every day and say the Rosary with him, but he won’t know I’m there.”
I thanked Ray and settled Bill back in his bed.
“So all is forgiven,” Bill said. I still didn’t know which one of us was forgiving, or forgiven, but I said yes.
“I can call you?” Bill asked? I said yes again.
“I love you,” Bill said. And I told him I love him, too.
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