Saturday, August 7, 2010 1) As soon as I walked in today, I heard the unmistakable voice of Wesley Gourley. I was happy to see him. I asked how he and Bingo were getting along in the aftermath of all that silly drama the night the boys came with me. (See the July 30post, below.)
"It’s OK," Wesley laughed. "They upped my meds."
I thanked him again for standing up for the boys, and he insisted that he would always stand up for youngsters.
"But calmly," I smiled.
"Oh yes," he grinned. "Very calmly." 2) I came around a corner and nearly plowed into Leo Martell, whom I’ve liked immensely ever since the poker tournament.
"Is there Bingo today?" he asked.
I said I thought it was a VFW Bingo day, and Leo grabbed a weekly calendar to double-check.
"Yep," he said. "Says right here: ‘Bingo, 2 p.m., RR.’ "
RR? We couldn’t figure out what the heck that meant. Bingo is always in the same place: the nursing-center dining room—wouldn’t that be "DR"? Leo checked the handy key on the bottom of the calendar.
"RR = Dining Room," he read. And that’s exactly what it said. We both laughed out loud.
Sometimes it’s better not to ask.
3) Mike has driven himself into a bit of muck. As soon as I walked in, he announced: "Boy, do I have a story for you." Mike is an excellent storyteller, so I settled right in.
Apparently Mike had been coming back to his room two days earlier and had bumped the doorjamb with his foot. So naturally, he swore. Somewhat loudly. Alarmed, a nurse came running. They did X-rays on Mike’s foot, and in the end found no damage there, or to his wheelchair, or to the poor door. But Mike had caused An Incident.
There was talk that he drives his wheelchair too fast. Or that he was losing hand-eye coordination. Or that he needed a manual chair instead of an electric one. There were meetings—with him, and without him.
Mike said he woke up at 2 am to find "official" people standing around his electric wheelchair. He was sure they were going to "make it disappear" while he was asleep. He might have sworn again. They were back a couple hours later, and met with the same response.
Mike’s wheelchair, as I’ve recounted, may or may not be cursed. It has been in for repairs more than half-a-dozen times lately. And now it’s finally back, and working, and Mike is thrilled. And then he runs it into a doorjamb.
I’m guessing that to Mike, that chair means much more than transportation. It means independence, and trust, and responsibility. And I’m guessing those "official" people know that, too—which might be one reason it hasn’t disappeared yet.
"It’s OK," Wesley laughed. "They upped my meds."
I thanked him again for standing up for the boys, and he insisted that he would always stand up for youngsters.
"But calmly," I smiled.
"Oh yes," he grinned. "Very calmly."
"Is there Bingo today?" he asked.
I said I thought it was a VFW Bingo day, and Leo grabbed a weekly calendar to double-check.
"Yep," he said. "Says right here: ‘Bingo, 2 p.m., RR.’ "
RR? We couldn’t figure out what the heck that meant. Bingo is always in the same place: the nursing-center dining room—wouldn’t that be "DR"? Leo checked the handy key on the bottom of the calendar.
"RR = Dining Room," he read. And that’s exactly what it said. We both laughed out loud.
Sometimes it’s better not to ask.
3) Mike has driven himself into a bit of muck. As soon as I walked in, he announced: "Boy, do I have a story for you." Mike is an excellent storyteller, so I settled right in.
Apparently Mike had been coming back to his room two days earlier and had bumped the doorjamb with his foot. So naturally, he swore. Somewhat loudly. Alarmed, a nurse came running. They did X-rays on Mike’s foot, and in the end found no damage there, or to his wheelchair, or to the poor door. But Mike had caused An Incident.
There was talk that he drives his wheelchair too fast. Or that he was losing hand-eye coordination. Or that he needed a manual chair instead of an electric one. There were meetings—with him, and without him.
Mike said he woke up at 2 am to find "official" people standing around his electric wheelchair. He was sure they were going to "make it disappear" while he was asleep. He might have sworn again. They were back a couple hours later, and met with the same response.
Mike’s wheelchair, as I’ve recounted, may or may not be cursed. It has been in for repairs more than half-a-dozen times lately. And now it’s finally back, and working, and Mike is thrilled. And then he runs it into a doorjamb.
I’m guessing that to Mike, that chair means much more than transportation. It means independence, and trust, and responsibility. And I’m guessing those "official" people know that, too—which might be one reason it hasn’t disappeared yet.
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