Friday, March 11, 2011
If it really is always darkest just before the dawn, tonight was one painfully long prelude to first light. We had a third-string quarterback in at Bingo caller, and everything—from plugging in the microphone system to dislodging the bingo balls—was a struggle, in every sense of the word. The first game alone took nearly half an hour, and people were irritable and touchy, barking at me and at each other. I might have been slightly irritable and touchy myself.
But then I wheeled the prize cart over to the night's first winner, and I seriously could not believe my eyes. At first I thought it was yet another Bingo newbie—and it was, in a sense, but I knew this newbie. It was Dick, the man who was so heartbreakingly lost and forlorn just two nights ago. Tonight, though, Dick was dressed in a sharply ironed button-down shirt and sporting a new oxygen tube and a smile. I told him I was thrilled to see him back at Bingo.
“You’re the very first winner,” I told him. “You get your pick of everything.”
Dick smiled. “I’m rich!” he said.
After a week of near-miracles on the Mike front, I shouldn’t have been so surprised. But I was.
After Bingo—Good Lord; it was almost 9 o’clock—I was bagging up residents’ winnings, and Dick told me that when he was in Guam in the '60s, they sometimes played Bingo with $1,000 pots. “Oh, it was rich,” he said.
For the last two hours, I had been checking the clock every two minutes, wondering how much longer this trying Bingo session possibly could drag on.
But now all I wanted to do was pull out a chair and listen to Dick. So I did.
He talked about Guam and Bingo in Guam, and then he chirped: “So. What do I do now?”
I told him it was getting late, and bedtime seemed like a pretty good option.
“So, back to my room, then?” he asked.
We headed toward his room after a quick tour of the bulletin board that lists all the upcoming activities. He decided he’d show up for Saturday’s Bingo session, especially after I told him the VFW Auxiliary ladies have some nice prizes.
On the way down his hall, I pointed out some colorful directional signs the staffers had posted with military aircraft and Dick’s name, and an arrow pointing toward his room.
“I think they did that to help you get oriented,” I told him.
“Now, is it ‘oriented’ or ‘orientated’?” Dick asked.
“I think you go to orientation to get oriented,” I said. Dick laughed.
In his room, I helped him switch oxygen tubes and scoot from his wheelchair to his bed—at one point, he backed up his wheelchair, he said, “to get better oriented”—and I promised to send back a staffer to help him change clothes.
“Are you going to be OK?” I asked.
Dick took my hand and kissed it. “I am now,” he said. “Thanks to you.”
Hello, sunshine.
If it really is always darkest just before the dawn, tonight was one painfully long prelude to first light. We had a third-string quarterback in at Bingo caller, and everything—from plugging in the microphone system to dislodging the bingo balls—was a struggle, in every sense of the word. The first game alone took nearly half an hour, and people were irritable and touchy, barking at me and at each other. I might have been slightly irritable and touchy myself.
But then I wheeled the prize cart over to the night's first winner, and I seriously could not believe my eyes. At first I thought it was yet another Bingo newbie—and it was, in a sense, but I knew this newbie. It was Dick, the man who was so heartbreakingly lost and forlorn just two nights ago. Tonight, though, Dick was dressed in a sharply ironed button-down shirt and sporting a new oxygen tube and a smile. I told him I was thrilled to see him back at Bingo.
“You’re the very first winner,” I told him. “You get your pick of everything.”
Dick smiled. “I’m rich!” he said.
After a week of near-miracles on the Mike front, I shouldn’t have been so surprised. But I was.
After Bingo—Good Lord; it was almost 9 o’clock—I was bagging up residents’ winnings, and Dick told me that when he was in Guam in the '60s, they sometimes played Bingo with $1,000 pots. “Oh, it was rich,” he said.
For the last two hours, I had been checking the clock every two minutes, wondering how much longer this trying Bingo session possibly could drag on.
But now all I wanted to do was pull out a chair and listen to Dick. So I did.
He talked about Guam and Bingo in Guam, and then he chirped: “So. What do I do now?”
I told him it was getting late, and bedtime seemed like a pretty good option.
“So, back to my room, then?” he asked.
We headed toward his room after a quick tour of the bulletin board that lists all the upcoming activities. He decided he’d show up for Saturday’s Bingo session, especially after I told him the VFW Auxiliary ladies have some nice prizes.
On the way down his hall, I pointed out some colorful directional signs the staffers had posted with military aircraft and Dick’s name, and an arrow pointing toward his room.
“I think they did that to help you get oriented,” I told him.
“Now, is it ‘oriented’ or ‘orientated’?” Dick asked.
“I think you go to orientation to get oriented,” I said. Dick laughed.
In his room, I helped him switch oxygen tubes and scoot from his wheelchair to his bed—at one point, he backed up his wheelchair, he said, “to get better oriented”—and I promised to send back a staffer to help him change clothes.
“Are you going to be OK?” I asked.
Dick took my hand and kissed it. “I am now,” he said. “Thanks to you.”
Hello, sunshine.