Saturday, February 26, 2011
This morning I had a message on my phone from “Unknown”—typically, this is how calls from the Soldiers Home show up, so I figured a) It’s Mike, telling me he feels much better, or b) It’s someone else, and the news isn’t quite as good.
It was not Mike.
It was a nurse: Mike was en route to the ER. Mike had told me after he’d been released from the hospital last time that he would not go back, under any circumstance. But the Soldiers Home staff had called Mike’s son, and he’d talked Mike into giving in, and going in. And good thing.
“It was a life-or-death decision,” the nurse told me.
I still had Bingo duty in the afternoon, so I called Mike’s son and was happy to learn he’d be with his dad today. I told him I’d see Mike on Sunday.
It didn’t seem as if anyone at Bingo had heard about Mike, but everyone was especially kind to me, which I appreciated—and needed. My mom had just mentioned how different my Soldiers Home visits would become if anything tragic were to happen to Mike, and I couldn’t stop thinking about that. I just really, really felt the need to connect with these wonderful people today—I did a lot of shoulder-patting, and chatting, and smiling.
It was a crowded, good day at Bingo: The teenager who’d helped out before was back, Bill Crowell came to play (and shower me with compliments) and I talked with Gary in the hallway.
He was reading the paper, so I pranced toward him on tippy-toe and pounced with my trademark paper-flick.
“You sure can be a pain in the ass,” Gary said.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” I said. “You told me at Christmas that I am NOT a pain in the ass. Or were you just overcome with Christmas spirit?”
Must’ve been Option B. He seemed pretty sure I was now a pain in the ass.
It felt strange not to check on Mike after Bingo, but Ray McDade had left behind his big bag o’ winnings, so I walked over to the Barracks to deliver them. Dorothy walked over with me and said, “Sandy to the rescue!”
On my way back to my car, I saw Ray by the woodshop. I told him I’d hung his goodies on his doorknob.
“Thank you for rescuing them,” Ray said.
Funny how sometimes you zero in on a word you really need to hear. It started snowing as Ray and I talked, like a security blanket from the sky.
This morning I had a message on my phone from “Unknown”—typically, this is how calls from the Soldiers Home show up, so I figured a) It’s Mike, telling me he feels much better, or b) It’s someone else, and the news isn’t quite as good.
It was not Mike.
It was a nurse: Mike was en route to the ER. Mike had told me after he’d been released from the hospital last time that he would not go back, under any circumstance. But the Soldiers Home staff had called Mike’s son, and he’d talked Mike into giving in, and going in. And good thing.
“It was a life-or-death decision,” the nurse told me.
I still had Bingo duty in the afternoon, so I called Mike’s son and was happy to learn he’d be with his dad today. I told him I’d see Mike on Sunday.
It didn’t seem as if anyone at Bingo had heard about Mike, but everyone was especially kind to me, which I appreciated—and needed. My mom had just mentioned how different my Soldiers Home visits would become if anything tragic were to happen to Mike, and I couldn’t stop thinking about that. I just really, really felt the need to connect with these wonderful people today—I did a lot of shoulder-patting, and chatting, and smiling.
It was a crowded, good day at Bingo: The teenager who’d helped out before was back, Bill Crowell came to play (and shower me with compliments) and I talked with Gary in the hallway.
He was reading the paper, so I pranced toward him on tippy-toe and pounced with my trademark paper-flick.
“You sure can be a pain in the ass,” Gary said.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” I said. “You told me at Christmas that I am NOT a pain in the ass. Or were you just overcome with Christmas spirit?”
Must’ve been Option B. He seemed pretty sure I was now a pain in the ass.
It felt strange not to check on Mike after Bingo, but Ray McDade had left behind his big bag o’ winnings, so I walked over to the Barracks to deliver them. Dorothy walked over with me and said, “Sandy to the rescue!”
On my way back to my car, I saw Ray by the woodshop. I told him I’d hung his goodies on his doorknob.
“Thank you for rescuing them,” Ray said.
Funny how sometimes you zero in on a word you really need to hear. It started snowing as Ray and I talked, like a security blanket from the sky.
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