Tuesday, April 21, 2015
It took nearly six months to steel myself for the Soldiers Home after the death of my life-changing friend Raymond McDade. But today was the annual Volunteer Appreciation Luncheon—and so I went (painfully aware that my half-year absence really did not qualify me for a free lunch).
I cried a little on Monday, worried about how much I’d cry on Tuesday. I teared up again as I pulled in to the Soldiers Home—it used to be so automatic, so routine, and now even getting this close had become A Big Deal.
And then I walked in.
I spotted a spare chair in the back row, by Eileen and Erin of the Recreation staff. Eileen stood up, hugged me warmly and told me she’d get me a plate. I cried again.
Eileen has worked at the Soldiers Home more than 30 years. She is empathetic and engaged and does not miss much. She let me sit for a couple minutes.
“I have something for you in my office,” she said.
Eileen told me she’d saved Ray’s room nameplate for me—since October—knowing I would need it someday.
That really made me cry.
We ate lunch and chatted—some might call it subtle (and very effective) counseling. Eileen told me people come and people go at the Soldiers Home, and all we can do is try to touch them while they’re here. She said she understands how deeply I connected with Ray, and Mike Marquie, and Gary Walling—all gone now—and then she said, “There are others. There are always others.”
After lunch, we walked together to her office in the Nursing Center, where Ray, Mike and Gary had lived.
“Take a deep breath,” she said. “Just walk the halls.”
We passed the Bingo room, filled with residents for lunch. We passed the assisted dining room, and—to my absolute disbelief—there sat Bill Crowell. I might or might not have saved Bill's life during Bingo a long time ago. Ever since, he has considered me his guardian angel. But he had gone downhill horribly sideways before Ray died, and I simply could not imagine how Bill had held on so long. I could imagine, though, that he must've thought his guardian angel had flown off and deserted him.
I cried again.
“I was afraid to ask about Bill,” I told Eileen.
“I know you were,” she said.
In her office, Eileen reached under her computer monitor and handed me the last remaining tangible reminder of Ray McDade’s life at the Soldiers Home.
I cried again and hugged her.
On our way out, Eileen told me not to try to visit anyone today. To ease back in. To take things slowly.
I did wave to Bill as we passed, though, and to Leo Martell in the lunchroom. Outside, we ran into Wes Gourley, who’s now working to deliver snack-bar meals to staffers. And then we saw Dorothy in her brighter-than-bright-orange jacket.
“You can handle Dorothy,” Eileen said, and then she said to Dorothy, “Do you know this woman?”
Dorothy is one of the most regular regulars at Bingo, and we've talked a lot, often. I hugged her as if she were a life ring in 30-foot waves.
We talked a long time—about her daughter in Florida, about Bingo and its inevitable ups and downs, and about men we've known and … you know … that way they can be. (Dorothy: “Have you ever noticed it’s always OUR fault?”)
I hugged Dorothy goodbye, and she said, “I know it hurts, and I know you miss people, but every day gets a little easier—and you can always look at me and laugh: ‘The old bag’s still here!’”
As I left the Soldiers Home, I was smiling.
It took nearly six months to steel myself for the Soldiers Home after the death of my life-changing friend Raymond McDade. But today was the annual Volunteer Appreciation Luncheon—and so I went (painfully aware that my half-year absence really did not qualify me for a free lunch).
I cried a little on Monday, worried about how much I’d cry on Tuesday. I teared up again as I pulled in to the Soldiers Home—it used to be so automatic, so routine, and now even getting this close had become A Big Deal.
And then I walked in.
I spotted a spare chair in the back row, by Eileen and Erin of the Recreation staff. Eileen stood up, hugged me warmly and told me she’d get me a plate. I cried again.
Eileen has worked at the Soldiers Home more than 30 years. She is empathetic and engaged and does not miss much. She let me sit for a couple minutes.
“I have something for you in my office,” she said.
Eileen told me she’d saved Ray’s room nameplate for me—since October—knowing I would need it someday.
That really made me cry.
We ate lunch and chatted—some might call it subtle (and very effective) counseling. Eileen told me people come and people go at the Soldiers Home, and all we can do is try to touch them while they’re here. She said she understands how deeply I connected with Ray, and Mike Marquie, and Gary Walling—all gone now—and then she said, “There are others. There are always others.”
After lunch, we walked together to her office in the Nursing Center, where Ray, Mike and Gary had lived.
“Take a deep breath,” she said. “Just walk the halls.”
We passed the Bingo room, filled with residents for lunch. We passed the assisted dining room, and—to my absolute disbelief—there sat Bill Crowell. I might or might not have saved Bill's life during Bingo a long time ago. Ever since, he has considered me his guardian angel. But he had gone downhill horribly sideways before Ray died, and I simply could not imagine how Bill had held on so long. I could imagine, though, that he must've thought his guardian angel had flown off and deserted him.
I cried again.
“I was afraid to ask about Bill,” I told Eileen.
“I know you were,” she said.
In her office, Eileen reached under her computer monitor and handed me the last remaining tangible reminder of Ray McDade’s life at the Soldiers Home.
I cried again and hugged her.
On our way out, Eileen told me not to try to visit anyone today. To ease back in. To take things slowly.
I did wave to Bill as we passed, though, and to Leo Martell in the lunchroom. Outside, we ran into Wes Gourley, who’s now working to deliver snack-bar meals to staffers. And then we saw Dorothy in her brighter-than-bright-orange jacket.
“You can handle Dorothy,” Eileen said, and then she said to Dorothy, “Do you know this woman?”
Dorothy is one of the most regular regulars at Bingo, and we've talked a lot, often. I hugged her as if she were a life ring in 30-foot waves.
We talked a long time—about her daughter in Florida, about Bingo and its inevitable ups and downs, and about men we've known and … you know … that way they can be. (Dorothy: “Have you ever noticed it’s always OUR fault?”)
I hugged Dorothy goodbye, and she said, “I know it hurts, and I know you miss people, but every day gets a little easier—and you can always look at me and laugh: ‘The old bag’s still here!’”
As I left the Soldiers Home, I was smiling.