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.
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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