Thursday, February 14, 2013
Exactly 365 days after Bill Crowell asked me to Valentine’s Dinner, I pulled into the Soldiers Home hoping he knew I was coming. We’d worked through months and months of pre-Big Night Out anxiety—over my corsage, our dinner choices, our outfits—but we hadn’t talked in a couple of weeks (I was sick, and our back-and-forth phone calls just never connected). Finally, I called Eileen in Activities, who told me Bill had signed us up for the 4:15 p.m. seating, had ordered my corsage and had chosen my entrée: baked fish. I laughed out loud.
Bill was ready.
As has happened the last three Valentine’s Dinners, my date was dressed and ready and waiting inside his room. But Bill was listing decidedly to one side like a crippled cruise liner, and he didn’t look completely himself. Also, he was still worried about my corsage.
I pinned on his boutonniere, and a nurse offered to take our picture. “What would you like as a background?” she asked Bill.
“Hawaii,” he said.
Ah. Bill was in there, after all.
It took two nurses to slip on his suit jacket and readjust his weight in his wheelchair. I pushed him to dinner and told him he’d be surprised when he saw Chilson Hall transformed into a swanky restaurant. He was.
It turned out my corsage was waiting for me at the hostess stand (whew), and after our official dinner picture, we were led to our table—the same one where Ray McDade and I sat last year.
John, our waiter, went over our dinner choices, and when I explained I am not really a fish person, I almost broke the entire event. “I think I have to bring you what’s on here,” he finally said.
John poured sparkling cider into our heavy real-glass glasses. I proposed a toast, but Bill couldn’t lift his glass. “Did they tape this to the table?” he laughed.
Next up: another fish item! I scooted my shrimp cocktail over to Bill, who nibbled but looked like he wasn’t quite sure he was nibbling. Out of nowhere, the new superintendent, a kind man named Lael Hepworth, climbed on stage and jumped down into full splits after a group countdown. “What just happened?” Bill asked. I’m not sure I explained it sufficiently.
When dinner arrived, I transferred my baked fish to Bill’s plate, cut it into flaky bites and squeezed some lemon on it. Bill was kind of randomly sliding his fork around and eating whatever it picked up.
Ray—dressed beyond handsomely in a full tuxedo—scootered in with a woman I didn’t recognize. “That’s a woman from church,” Bill whispered. I told him we’d go say hi on our way out.
Midway through dinner, Bill announced, “My back teeth are floating, as they say.” I pushed him back to the hostess stand, and a nurse escorted him to the restroom. When he came back, Bill asked, “Do all your dates leave you in the middle of dinner to go to the restroom with a nurse?”
Bill asked me whether I plan to marry again. “Probably not,” I said. “But I think I would enjoy a companion.” Bill talked about his ex-wife, his childhood and love and heartache and loss—and then volunteered for companion duty.
He told a long, rambling story about a shy woman in England—I had to lean way in to hear him over the piano music and conversation, but I’m pretty sure it involved testicles. It made him laugh.
We did stop over to see Ray and his dinner companion, and when I said I wanted a picture of the men, Ray admonished Bill to “sit up straight and look at the camera.”
On the way back to Bill’s room, he asked, “Once this whole day is over, could I kiss you?” I said I would be honored.
In the hallway outside his room, a nurse asked Bill how his head was. “Fine,” Bill said. “Good,” she said. “That means the Vicodin worked.”
Oh, for crying out loud. No wonder Bill was listing. Nothing like a nice narcotic cloud for Valentine’s Day.
Back in Bill’s room, he asked me to stand him up so he could perform the kiss properly, but I didn’t want to risk us both crashing to the floor in a flurry of flower petals. “I’ll just bend down,” I said. “And I assume you mean my cheek.”
He did not. But he got my cheek, anyway.
“I do love you,” Bill said. “Not in a sexual way, but as a friend.” I told him I feel the same.
He held my hand and kissed that, too. “I know I’m stalling,” Bill said. “But I’m happy.”
Bill said he thought he might cry.
I squeezed his hand and told him I’d always remember this night. I put his boutonniere in his refrigerator and told him I’d see him at Bingo.
And then I hugged him and kissed his cheek and thanked him for inviting me to Valentine’s Dinner.
“I’ll do better next year,” Bill said.
Exactly 365 days after Bill Crowell asked me to Valentine’s Dinner, I pulled into the Soldiers Home hoping he knew I was coming. We’d worked through months and months of pre-Big Night Out anxiety—over my corsage, our dinner choices, our outfits—but we hadn’t talked in a couple of weeks (I was sick, and our back-and-forth phone calls just never connected). Finally, I called Eileen in Activities, who told me Bill had signed us up for the 4:15 p.m. seating, had ordered my corsage and had chosen my entrée: baked fish. I laughed out loud.
Bill was ready.
As has happened the last three Valentine’s Dinners, my date was dressed and ready and waiting inside his room. But Bill was listing decidedly to one side like a crippled cruise liner, and he didn’t look completely himself. Also, he was still worried about my corsage.
I pinned on his boutonniere, and a nurse offered to take our picture. “What would you like as a background?” she asked Bill.
“Hawaii,” he said.
Ah. Bill was in there, after all.
It took two nurses to slip on his suit jacket and readjust his weight in his wheelchair. I pushed him to dinner and told him he’d be surprised when he saw Chilson Hall transformed into a swanky restaurant. He was.
It turned out my corsage was waiting for me at the hostess stand (whew), and after our official dinner picture, we were led to our table—the same one where Ray McDade and I sat last year.
John, our waiter, went over our dinner choices, and when I explained I am not really a fish person, I almost broke the entire event. “I think I have to bring you what’s on here,” he finally said.
John poured sparkling cider into our heavy real-glass glasses. I proposed a toast, but Bill couldn’t lift his glass. “Did they tape this to the table?” he laughed.
Next up: another fish item! I scooted my shrimp cocktail over to Bill, who nibbled but looked like he wasn’t quite sure he was nibbling. Out of nowhere, the new superintendent, a kind man named Lael Hepworth, climbed on stage and jumped down into full splits after a group countdown. “What just happened?” Bill asked. I’m not sure I explained it sufficiently.
When dinner arrived, I transferred my baked fish to Bill’s plate, cut it into flaky bites and squeezed some lemon on it. Bill was kind of randomly sliding his fork around and eating whatever it picked up.
Ray—dressed beyond handsomely in a full tuxedo—scootered in with a woman I didn’t recognize. “That’s a woman from church,” Bill whispered. I told him we’d go say hi on our way out.
Midway through dinner, Bill announced, “My back teeth are floating, as they say.” I pushed him back to the hostess stand, and a nurse escorted him to the restroom. When he came back, Bill asked, “Do all your dates leave you in the middle of dinner to go to the restroom with a nurse?”
Bill asked me whether I plan to marry again. “Probably not,” I said. “But I think I would enjoy a companion.” Bill talked about his ex-wife, his childhood and love and heartache and loss—and then volunteered for companion duty.
He told a long, rambling story about a shy woman in England—I had to lean way in to hear him over the piano music and conversation, but I’m pretty sure it involved testicles. It made him laugh.
We did stop over to see Ray and his dinner companion, and when I said I wanted a picture of the men, Ray admonished Bill to “sit up straight and look at the camera.”
On the way back to Bill’s room, he asked, “Once this whole day is over, could I kiss you?” I said I would be honored.
In the hallway outside his room, a nurse asked Bill how his head was. “Fine,” Bill said. “Good,” she said. “That means the Vicodin worked.”
Oh, for crying out loud. No wonder Bill was listing. Nothing like a nice narcotic cloud for Valentine’s Day.
Back in Bill’s room, he asked me to stand him up so he could perform the kiss properly, but I didn’t want to risk us both crashing to the floor in a flurry of flower petals. “I’ll just bend down,” I said. “And I assume you mean my cheek.”
He did not. But he got my cheek, anyway.
“I do love you,” Bill said. “Not in a sexual way, but as a friend.” I told him I feel the same.
He held my hand and kissed that, too. “I know I’m stalling,” Bill said. “But I’m happy.”
Bill said he thought he might cry.
I squeezed his hand and told him I’d always remember this night. I put his boutonniere in his refrigerator and told him I’d see him at Bingo.
And then I hugged him and kissed his cheek and thanked him for inviting me to Valentine’s Dinner.
“I’ll do better next year,” Bill said.
Buddies Ray McDade, left, and Bill.
Bill's nicely decorated lapel.
RSS Feed