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Extremes

10/13/2013

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Friday, October 11, 2013
I knew it’d been too long since I’d visited the Soldiers Home—in the last month or so, I’ve been a little crazily preoccupied with changing jobs, changing houses and sending my son off to college—but I didn’t realize how long it’d been until I got this email from my wonderful friend Ray McDade:

“Dear Sandy,
Where are you?  Everyone at bingo is asking about you including me. I remember you were going south. Is everything OK? Love and God Bless You.
Ray”

I’m not sure what Ray meant by “going south”—geographically or emotionally—but I wrote him back immediately.

And then I got my butt out to Bingo.

The room was packed, and I was so happy to see Ray in his usual place, I almost cried. (This is not really newsworthy. I also have been on the verge of tears—or engulfed in them—for the last month.)

“Well, Sandy! Bless your heart,” Ray said, as he usually does. I told Ray he looked really good. “It’s a good hair day!” he said.

I hugged Ray and he squeezed my hand, and we talked briefly—but Bingo was under way, so I got to work.

I talked to Dorothy, who had heard I was moving but wasn’t quite sure about the details. “Did your husband move with you?” she asked. “Oh, no,” I said. “I haven’t had one of those for a while.” She smiled.

I talked to Harriet and Doris, who both looked spry and healthy and happy, thank God. I was smiling—genuinely smiling—as I walked up to Leo Martell.   

I patted his shoulder, and he said, “It sure is good to see your smiling face.” I thought: It sure is good to smile.

I hovered over David Fox’s shoulder and pointed out a couple Bingos he might have missed. Each time, he looked me in the eyes and thanked me.

Gary C. won a calculator and wondered whether he’d have to win batteries, too. I pushed a button, and it came right on.

“Test it!” he said. “Try 2 +2!”

Four! Whew. Crisis averted.

Leo picked a stuffed bear. He always picks stuffed somethings. “Is this the one you want?” he asked me. “I’m not taking your bear,” I said. But he pushed it toward me, and I pushed it back, at least three round-trips.

I sat with Ray after Bingo, and David came over to thank me again.

Ray and I talked about my son’s college experience, my new house, my puppy—and Bill Crowell.

“He’s not doing well,” Ray said. “I can’t understand anything he says, but I hope you’ll spend some time with him.”

“I always lean way in,” I told Ray. “I get bits and pieces.”

Ray and I hugged goodbye, and I promised not to stay away so long again.

When I walked into Bill’s room, he was on his bed in a terrifying V position, as if he’d been doing sit-ups and gotten stuck. He couldn’t lean forward, and he couldn’t lean back.

I hugged him and wedged a pillow under his upper back and neck. He looked a little better—maybe more like a slightly uncomfortable J.

Bill talked and talked and talked. I leaned way in, but I couldn’t make out much. He apologized for his speech, but I was more worried about the words I did pick up. At one point he wondered who would watch the German shepherd if he had to go to the hospital. Bill is not doing well.

I stayed longer than I was comfortable, because Bill kept talking. Finally he asked for a hug, and he got one.

I told him I’d see him soon—but with Bill, I didn’t promise.  

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    Author
    My name is Sandy Deneau Dunham. I'm a journalist who’s worked at The Phoenix Gazette, The (Tacoma) News Tribune,  The Seattle Times, Town Hall Seattle and Pacific Lutheran University. I'm now back at The Seattle Times, as associate editor of its gorgeously glossy Pacific NW magazine. I've been a volunteer at the Washington Soldiers Home and Colony in Orting, Washington, since January 2009, and I am still a remedial videographer.   

     

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