Bill Crowell and me, August 2012. Friday, May 24, 2013
This has been (still is!) a time of Giant Change for me, so lately I’m realizing (and appreciating) the value of familiarity and comfort more and more—and few things are as comfortably familiar as Bingo at the Soldiers Home. Everyone has a regular seat. Most have a favorite topic of discussion. And you can always count on someone to claim a regular Bingo during Blackout—and on Charlie to yell, “It’s Blackout, you moron!”
Today was especially familiar. I walked in and waved to Dorothy, Doris and Harriett and headed straight for Ray. He looked especially good. We hugged, and Ray told me he’d been to Wal-Mart. “Radio Shack,” George piped in. Yep; the van had made a special stop there, too, because Ray had needed computer gear. They asked about my son’s prom experience, and I was happy to have a keychain photo for show and tell. “Cute!” George exclaimed.
There was a new volunteer, so the prizes were split between two carts to speed the delivery process. This was unfamiliar. Dorothy does not like the unfamiliar.
“No offense,” she told me; “but if I win, I want the other cart. I don’t know why they couldn’t just put all the prizes on one cart.”
My cart wasn’t only inferior prize-wise, but at one point the clunky thing caught on my shoe and nearly killed us both. Prizes flew all over the floor—and I caught myself just before I joined them. One can of soda crumpled so completely, I had to throw it away.
Billy won a pair of sunglasses, which he wanted to wear immediately. But they were cluttered with stickers and tags, and I had to knock on the kitchen door to find scissors.
At one point the bingo board became possessed, and numbers kept lighting that hadn’t really been called. For a while, anyone who claimed a Bingo with an “I” number in it was wrong—and upset.
Dorothy and I talked about my puppy. Ray and I talked about Bill. “He is not doing well,” Ray told me. “But he sure looks forward to seeing you.”
After Bingo, Ray said, “You’re going down to check on Bill, aren’t you?” I was. So I asked him to join me.
Ray and I found Bill sitting up. He was wearing a stained T-shirt, tattered sweatpants and one sock.
Ray almost literally said hi and goodbye in one breath. “You’re leaving?” I half-whimpered. He was.
Bill launched into a monologue about me, and him, and us. This, too, has become familiar.
He was slurring words and looking down as he talked, so I couldn’t quite catch everything, but there was no mistaking the general theme: He loves me.
For weeks I’ve been trying to stress our friendship to Bill: I am his friend, and I care about him, and I always will.
But Bill is no longer really Bill, and I'm not sure what he's hearing or retaining. At one point, trying to show him the duration and depth of our friendship, I pulled out the photo of us from the Soldiers Home family picnic in August 2012. (Above, just because I like seeing him happy again.) Bill didn’t remember it, and I realized that he no longer looks anything like that engaged, cheerful man in the picture. Bill, as Ray had warned me, is not doing well.
I said goodbye hoping Bill was at least OK.
“I'll see you at the Memorial Day ceremony on Monday, at 2,” is how I left it.
This has been (still is!) a time of Giant Change for me, so lately I’m realizing (and appreciating) the value of familiarity and comfort more and more—and few things are as comfortably familiar as Bingo at the Soldiers Home. Everyone has a regular seat. Most have a favorite topic of discussion. And you can always count on someone to claim a regular Bingo during Blackout—and on Charlie to yell, “It’s Blackout, you moron!”
Today was especially familiar. I walked in and waved to Dorothy, Doris and Harriett and headed straight for Ray. He looked especially good. We hugged, and Ray told me he’d been to Wal-Mart. “Radio Shack,” George piped in. Yep; the van had made a special stop there, too, because Ray had needed computer gear. They asked about my son’s prom experience, and I was happy to have a keychain photo for show and tell. “Cute!” George exclaimed.
There was a new volunteer, so the prizes were split between two carts to speed the delivery process. This was unfamiliar. Dorothy does not like the unfamiliar.
“No offense,” she told me; “but if I win, I want the other cart. I don’t know why they couldn’t just put all the prizes on one cart.”
My cart wasn’t only inferior prize-wise, but at one point the clunky thing caught on my shoe and nearly killed us both. Prizes flew all over the floor—and I caught myself just before I joined them. One can of soda crumpled so completely, I had to throw it away.
Billy won a pair of sunglasses, which he wanted to wear immediately. But they were cluttered with stickers and tags, and I had to knock on the kitchen door to find scissors.
At one point the bingo board became possessed, and numbers kept lighting that hadn’t really been called. For a while, anyone who claimed a Bingo with an “I” number in it was wrong—and upset.
Dorothy and I talked about my puppy. Ray and I talked about Bill. “He is not doing well,” Ray told me. “But he sure looks forward to seeing you.”
After Bingo, Ray said, “You’re going down to check on Bill, aren’t you?” I was. So I asked him to join me.
Ray and I found Bill sitting up. He was wearing a stained T-shirt, tattered sweatpants and one sock.
Ray almost literally said hi and goodbye in one breath. “You’re leaving?” I half-whimpered. He was.
Bill launched into a monologue about me, and him, and us. This, too, has become familiar.
He was slurring words and looking down as he talked, so I couldn’t quite catch everything, but there was no mistaking the general theme: He loves me.
For weeks I’ve been trying to stress our friendship to Bill: I am his friend, and I care about him, and I always will.
But Bill is no longer really Bill, and I'm not sure what he's hearing or retaining. At one point, trying to show him the duration and depth of our friendship, I pulled out the photo of us from the Soldiers Home family picnic in August 2012. (Above, just because I like seeing him happy again.) Bill didn’t remember it, and I realized that he no longer looks anything like that engaged, cheerful man in the picture. Bill, as Ray had warned me, is not doing well.
I said goodbye hoping Bill was at least OK.
“I'll see you at the Memorial Day ceremony on Monday, at 2,” is how I left it.
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