Monday, October 18, 2010
I came to the Soldiers Home today with no appointments and no obligations—just my laptop and the hope of sharing some new pictures of my son.
The last few times I’ve seen Mike, he’s been sunken in his bed—or in the hospital. Today he wasn’t anywhere near his bed, or his room—no Mike, no wheelchair, no note. I walked outside to expand my search and almost ran over Bill Crowell, who was making his way toward lunch with a cane instead of his walker.
"I’m losing my legs," he said immediately. Then he was talking about Ray McDade, and how he likes him a lot, but Ray tends to change subjects abruptly. Then Bill started talking about feeding squirrels—and changed the subject abruptly. Again.
"Can we go back to the first thing you said?" I asked him. "Did you say you’re losing you’re LEGS?" It seemed like kind of an important topic to skim over.
Turns out he meant it figuratively. Ever since his health incident at Bingo, he said, he hasn’t been able to join the Home’s field trips. He feels stuck. And none too happy about it.
But then Bill changed the subject (abruptly), telling me how he loves to dress up for dinner. He and one special date went to a restaurant in San Francisco once, he said, where there were two waiters: one to fill your water glass, and one to fill your coffee cup.
I haven’t seen quite that level of service at the Soldiers Home, but still, I didn’t want him to miss lunch, so I quickly ran through some photos of Carson (hard to process in the outdoor glare) and continued my Mike quest.
Halfway down the path to the pond, I saw a wheelchair, not moving. I took a few more steps and thought I saw Mike’s leg-covering blanket, but I couldn’t be sure (hard to process in the outdoor glare). Whoever it was, he still wasn’t moving.
Then I heard him. "I knew it was you!" he yelled, still a good 50 feet away. "I could tell by your walk."
Yay. And double yay. Not only was Mike up and out, for the first time in weeks, but he was strong enough to yell. And, apparently, he also felt strong enough to revisit his smoking habit, after being forced to quit while he was sick. Boo.
I reminded myself that I am not a judge. If a grown man finds pleasure in a cigarette, it is not my place to berate him. But I did, anyway, in my irritating trying-not-to-be-judgmental-but-still-judgmental way: "I’m not happy to see you smoking again, but I suppose it’s your decision," I told him. I’m sure that was extremely helpful.
Suddenly I was starving, and Mike said he thought he’d like a cinnamon roll, so we had lunch at the Chilson Hall snack bar, and I showed him all my new pictures of Carson—and his gorgeous (and tiny) Homecoming date. Mike was impressed. "Well, if she isn’t just the cutest little minute," he said. (Although when he said it, I could have sworn he spelled it "minit.").
Mike asked me to help him pick out a new jacket in the donated-clothing room (just like Goodwill, actually, but better organized), and we found a spiffy blue zip-up sweatshirt with a hood and, thrillingly, a working zipper. It fit Mike perfectly, and seemed the perfect weight for under his larger coat.
Mike said he’d felt so much better today, he hadn’t even napped—which I took as a sign that he might like a nap. I was right.
We wandered toward my car, in the sunshine, and I realized just how long it’d been since we’d been out of his room: too long. Way too long.
I came to the Soldiers Home today with no appointments and no obligations—just my laptop and the hope of sharing some new pictures of my son.
The last few times I’ve seen Mike, he’s been sunken in his bed—or in the hospital. Today he wasn’t anywhere near his bed, or his room—no Mike, no wheelchair, no note. I walked outside to expand my search and almost ran over Bill Crowell, who was making his way toward lunch with a cane instead of his walker.
"I’m losing my legs," he said immediately. Then he was talking about Ray McDade, and how he likes him a lot, but Ray tends to change subjects abruptly. Then Bill started talking about feeding squirrels—and changed the subject abruptly. Again.
"Can we go back to the first thing you said?" I asked him. "Did you say you’re losing you’re LEGS?" It seemed like kind of an important topic to skim over.
Turns out he meant it figuratively. Ever since his health incident at Bingo, he said, he hasn’t been able to join the Home’s field trips. He feels stuck. And none too happy about it.
But then Bill changed the subject (abruptly), telling me how he loves to dress up for dinner. He and one special date went to a restaurant in San Francisco once, he said, where there were two waiters: one to fill your water glass, and one to fill your coffee cup.
I haven’t seen quite that level of service at the Soldiers Home, but still, I didn’t want him to miss lunch, so I quickly ran through some photos of Carson (hard to process in the outdoor glare) and continued my Mike quest.
Halfway down the path to the pond, I saw a wheelchair, not moving. I took a few more steps and thought I saw Mike’s leg-covering blanket, but I couldn’t be sure (hard to process in the outdoor glare). Whoever it was, he still wasn’t moving.
Then I heard him. "I knew it was you!" he yelled, still a good 50 feet away. "I could tell by your walk."
Yay. And double yay. Not only was Mike up and out, for the first time in weeks, but he was strong enough to yell. And, apparently, he also felt strong enough to revisit his smoking habit, after being forced to quit while he was sick. Boo.
I reminded myself that I am not a judge. If a grown man finds pleasure in a cigarette, it is not my place to berate him. But I did, anyway, in my irritating trying-not-to-be-judgmental-but-still-judgmental way: "I’m not happy to see you smoking again, but I suppose it’s your decision," I told him. I’m sure that was extremely helpful.
Suddenly I was starving, and Mike said he thought he’d like a cinnamon roll, so we had lunch at the Chilson Hall snack bar, and I showed him all my new pictures of Carson—and his gorgeous (and tiny) Homecoming date. Mike was impressed. "Well, if she isn’t just the cutest little minute," he said. (Although when he said it, I could have sworn he spelled it "minit.").
Mike asked me to help him pick out a new jacket in the donated-clothing room (just like Goodwill, actually, but better organized), and we found a spiffy blue zip-up sweatshirt with a hood and, thrillingly, a working zipper. It fit Mike perfectly, and seemed the perfect weight for under his larger coat.
Mike said he’d felt so much better today, he hadn’t even napped—which I took as a sign that he might like a nap. I was right.
We wandered toward my car, in the sunshine, and I realized just how long it’d been since we’d been out of his room: too long. Way too long.