Friday, November 5, 2010
I have lost a friend, and the Soldiers Home has lost one of its brightest lights. Stan Wilson has died.
At bingo a few days ago, it hit me that I hadn’t seen Stan in a while. That’s not necessarily unusual, because he had dialysis several times a week, and lately it was wiping him out—but I did have a bad feeling.
So today my mission was to track down Stan. On my way to his room, I stopped briefly to chat with Bill Crowell, who was simply standing in the doorway of his newest room—this one, a spacious single. I told him I was looking for Stan and continued down the hallway.
Stan’s name was no longer on Stan’s door. A nurse in the hallway asked whether she could help me find someone. I was afraid to tell her, but I did.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said. I felt a little dizzy. “Stan passed away.” He had gone to the hospital and come back, she said, but could hang on for only a couple days.
I can’t remember feeling so much sadness at one time at the Soldiers Home—for Stan and his suffering; for his children, whom he loved dearly; and, honestly (but selfishly), for not even knowing any of this was going on. (To be even more honest, that last sadness segment is tinged with guilt, and maybe even a little anger: I can’t pinpoint a single person who should have told me, but I sure wish someone had.)
As it is, I didn’t offer Stan any comfort, or friendship, or support in his final days. But over the course of our friendship, we had talked often, and we had talked meaningfully. I hope he knows I cared about him and valued his friendship. And I hope he knows I really miss him.
I have lost a friend, and the Soldiers Home has lost one of its brightest lights. Stan Wilson has died.
At bingo a few days ago, it hit me that I hadn’t seen Stan in a while. That’s not necessarily unusual, because he had dialysis several times a week, and lately it was wiping him out—but I did have a bad feeling.
So today my mission was to track down Stan. On my way to his room, I stopped briefly to chat with Bill Crowell, who was simply standing in the doorway of his newest room—this one, a spacious single. I told him I was looking for Stan and continued down the hallway.
Stan’s name was no longer on Stan’s door. A nurse in the hallway asked whether she could help me find someone. I was afraid to tell her, but I did.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said. I felt a little dizzy. “Stan passed away.” He had gone to the hospital and come back, she said, but could hang on for only a couple days.
I can’t remember feeling so much sadness at one time at the Soldiers Home—for Stan and his suffering; for his children, whom he loved dearly; and, honestly (but selfishly), for not even knowing any of this was going on. (To be even more honest, that last sadness segment is tinged with guilt, and maybe even a little anger: I can’t pinpoint a single person who should have told me, but I sure wish someone had.)
As it is, I didn’t offer Stan any comfort, or friendship, or support in his final days. But over the course of our friendship, we had talked often, and we had talked meaningfully. I hope he knows I cared about him and valued his friendship. And I hope he knows I really miss him.
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