Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Well, that was quite a month. It’s not going to help anyone to list every single stressor that’s reared its ugly, challenging head lately, but it might help explain my gaping absence from the Soldiers Home to share just one: Our beloved dog Rudy (aka the sweetest dog on the planet) died Feb. 19; he was almost 14½.
Had that not occurred on top of 4,309 other things, I might have been OK. But it did occur on top of 4,309 things, so I was not. And, bringing us back to the Soldiers Home (which is the point, after all), one of those things was the death of Ken Levick.
Again, I hadn’t known Ken was sick. I didn’t hear about his death until I read about it in the newsletter. And while I have lost plenty of friends at the Soldiers Home, Ken was a loyal, longtime friend, and suddenly, this time, this month, I became overwhelmed with loss, and I pulled away in my grief. (And, since the only Home Bingos in all of February were rescheduled to weekday afternoons, it was far too easy to do.)
At the time, it felt like self-preservation. Now, in retrospect, it’s painfully obvious it was the opposite.
To top it all off, just as I was testing my how-low-can-I-go limit, I landed in the ER myself. I’d had a scary irregular heartbeat and sky-high blood pressure, and the combination freaked me out. Turns out my heart was fine, medically, but I was clearly overstressed. Lesson One: So, there’s my limit. Lesson Two: It was time to get out of my head and out of my house. It was time to reconnect.
Doreen the amazing Soldiers Home volunteer had called to see whether I could help out Saturday with Reno Day, the annual big deal when the Tacoma Harley Owners Group (HOGs) roars in and turns Chilson Hall into a giant gamblin’ parlor. I said I would, but I wasn’t sure I would.
But I did. Thank God.
I knew at some level that I needed this place, but it wasn’t until I walked in and hugged Doreen that I felt it.
We set up an especially bountiful refreshment spread. Like I do every year, I thought I heard thunder and had trouble reconciling that with the weather. And like I do every year, I finally realized it was the thunderous sound of dozens of Harleys and their big-hearted riders.
Several came in to chat and/or eat. I finally met Bob Montoya, a Facebook friend and fellow volunteer who recuperated at the Soldiers Home after a motorcycle accident. Before long, I noticed the game tables were starting to fill up, and I grabbed my camera and headed out to test my connections.
I saw Leo Martell first, at a poker table. He grabbed my hand. “Hi, love,” he said. “I’ve missed you.”
And I swear to God, that’s all it took. Something clicked, and I almost cried. For the 400th time, I was reminded that the Soldiers Home—and possibly everything—is not about me. And I’d never needed that reminder more.
I made my way from table to table. David Fox asked where I’d been, young lady. Wesley Gourley showed off his loot (as residents win wooden chips at the games, they trade them for Bingo-like prizes or, even better, official Harley gear). I watched Leo, David and Lyle play a few rounds of blackjack with a generous HOG dealer who decided it’d be a good idea to hit on 20. (Surprise! He busted; everyone else won.)
Back at the refreshment spread, Faith showed me her photos from Valentines dinner. Dorothy and Greg the Bingo caller filled me in on afternoon Bingo. Harold told me the remaining seven residents of the independent Betsy Ross Hall are now moving into Roosevelt Barracks.
I spent the afternoon refilling food trays, checking on the gamblers and picking up empty pop cans and plates. I helped Victor pick out a nice Harley hat, found an awesome shirt for Dick and talked Leo out of using his chips to buy me an awesome shirt.
As Reno Day wound down, the Activities staff came in to thank us, and I realized I wasn’t quite ready to leave.
I knocked on Gary’s door, but he wasn’t in. But Bill Crowell was, and he interrupted his phone call to admire the photo I’d brought of him and Ray McDade after Valentines Dinner.
And then, I’m pretty sure, he invited me to next year’s.
“Ray suggested I ask you,” he said. “But I’m not sure how I get your corsage.”
I laughed out loud. And I accepted. “I think they arrange it for you,” I said. “Also, you have 11 months to work on that.”
I found Ray McDade in his room, gave him his photos and told him I thought Bill had just claimed me for Valentines Dinner 2013.
“I told him you were delightful company, and that you’d be delighted,” Ray said. Ray said he’d already arranged for his wife to accompany him next year, and I was touched by all this optimism and warmth and planning.
I told Ray I was surprised he wasn’t outside waiting for the Harleys to rev up on their way out. And I told him he might not be too late.
Ray grinned. “Let’s get my jacket,” he said.
We rushed to the parking lot. There were maybe 15 bikes left, and Ray was afraid he’d missed the big exit.
But as we talked, HOGs came out and helmeted up. Then, one by one, they energized their giant machines and idled in line.
Ray was beaming.
“Go get ’em!,” he shouted, and threw a go-get-’em punch into the air.
I laughed again. “I don’t think they can hear you,” I said.
So he said it again.
The HOGs roared away, and Ray took my hand.
“Thank you so much for thinking of this,” he said.
I hugged Ray, and I was smiling as I got into my car. I had reconnected, and I felt thankful and hopeful.
On Sunday, we got a puppy.
Well, that was quite a month. It’s not going to help anyone to list every single stressor that’s reared its ugly, challenging head lately, but it might help explain my gaping absence from the Soldiers Home to share just one: Our beloved dog Rudy (aka the sweetest dog on the planet) died Feb. 19; he was almost 14½.
Had that not occurred on top of 4,309 other things, I might have been OK. But it did occur on top of 4,309 things, so I was not. And, bringing us back to the Soldiers Home (which is the point, after all), one of those things was the death of Ken Levick.
Again, I hadn’t known Ken was sick. I didn’t hear about his death until I read about it in the newsletter. And while I have lost plenty of friends at the Soldiers Home, Ken was a loyal, longtime friend, and suddenly, this time, this month, I became overwhelmed with loss, and I pulled away in my grief. (And, since the only Home Bingos in all of February were rescheduled to weekday afternoons, it was far too easy to do.)
At the time, it felt like self-preservation. Now, in retrospect, it’s painfully obvious it was the opposite.
To top it all off, just as I was testing my how-low-can-I-go limit, I landed in the ER myself. I’d had a scary irregular heartbeat and sky-high blood pressure, and the combination freaked me out. Turns out my heart was fine, medically, but I was clearly overstressed. Lesson One: So, there’s my limit. Lesson Two: It was time to get out of my head and out of my house. It was time to reconnect.
Doreen the amazing Soldiers Home volunteer had called to see whether I could help out Saturday with Reno Day, the annual big deal when the Tacoma Harley Owners Group (HOGs) roars in and turns Chilson Hall into a giant gamblin’ parlor. I said I would, but I wasn’t sure I would.
But I did. Thank God.
I knew at some level that I needed this place, but it wasn’t until I walked in and hugged Doreen that I felt it.
We set up an especially bountiful refreshment spread. Like I do every year, I thought I heard thunder and had trouble reconciling that with the weather. And like I do every year, I finally realized it was the thunderous sound of dozens of Harleys and their big-hearted riders.
Several came in to chat and/or eat. I finally met Bob Montoya, a Facebook friend and fellow volunteer who recuperated at the Soldiers Home after a motorcycle accident. Before long, I noticed the game tables were starting to fill up, and I grabbed my camera and headed out to test my connections.
I saw Leo Martell first, at a poker table. He grabbed my hand. “Hi, love,” he said. “I’ve missed you.”
And I swear to God, that’s all it took. Something clicked, and I almost cried. For the 400th time, I was reminded that the Soldiers Home—and possibly everything—is not about me. And I’d never needed that reminder more.
I made my way from table to table. David Fox asked where I’d been, young lady. Wesley Gourley showed off his loot (as residents win wooden chips at the games, they trade them for Bingo-like prizes or, even better, official Harley gear). I watched Leo, David and Lyle play a few rounds of blackjack with a generous HOG dealer who decided it’d be a good idea to hit on 20. (Surprise! He busted; everyone else won.)
Back at the refreshment spread, Faith showed me her photos from Valentines dinner. Dorothy and Greg the Bingo caller filled me in on afternoon Bingo. Harold told me the remaining seven residents of the independent Betsy Ross Hall are now moving into Roosevelt Barracks.
I spent the afternoon refilling food trays, checking on the gamblers and picking up empty pop cans and plates. I helped Victor pick out a nice Harley hat, found an awesome shirt for Dick and talked Leo out of using his chips to buy me an awesome shirt.
As Reno Day wound down, the Activities staff came in to thank us, and I realized I wasn’t quite ready to leave.
I knocked on Gary’s door, but he wasn’t in. But Bill Crowell was, and he interrupted his phone call to admire the photo I’d brought of him and Ray McDade after Valentines Dinner.
And then, I’m pretty sure, he invited me to next year’s.
“Ray suggested I ask you,” he said. “But I’m not sure how I get your corsage.”
I laughed out loud. And I accepted. “I think they arrange it for you,” I said. “Also, you have 11 months to work on that.”
I found Ray McDade in his room, gave him his photos and told him I thought Bill had just claimed me for Valentines Dinner 2013.
“I told him you were delightful company, and that you’d be delighted,” Ray said. Ray said he’d already arranged for his wife to accompany him next year, and I was touched by all this optimism and warmth and planning.
I told Ray I was surprised he wasn’t outside waiting for the Harleys to rev up on their way out. And I told him he might not be too late.
Ray grinned. “Let’s get my jacket,” he said.
We rushed to the parking lot. There were maybe 15 bikes left, and Ray was afraid he’d missed the big exit.
But as we talked, HOGs came out and helmeted up. Then, one by one, they energized their giant machines and idled in line.
Ray was beaming.
“Go get ’em!,” he shouted, and threw a go-get-’em punch into the air.
I laughed again. “I don’t think they can hear you,” I said.
So he said it again.
The HOGs roared away, and Ray took my hand.
“Thank you so much for thinking of this,” he said.
I hugged Ray, and I was smiling as I got into my car. I had reconnected, and I felt thankful and hopeful.
On Sunday, we got a puppy.