Friday, January 25, 2013
My goal as a volunteer at the Soldiers Home—and especially at Bingo—is always the same: I always try to bring a little brightness with me. But every once in a while, I drag in my own hovering cloud, and every other once in a while, I find the whole experience horribly sad.
Today was that rare day when both dark elements collided: I was sad before I got there, and more sad once I was.
Today, as soon as I walked in, I just sensed decline: Ray McDade was hidden behind a blue anti-germ mask; Charlie’s burly arms were wrapped in gauze; Leo Martell had sprouted an oxygen tube; and one man with one leg simply slumped, asleep, through it all.
Ray, it turned out, wasn’t trying to stay healthy; he was trying to keep from spreading his germs. He looked tired and run-down, and we didn’t talk much at all. I did talk to Dorothy about my puppy (she always calls him “the baby”), and to Robert about his newest macramé project, but I felt an uncomfortable disconnect, as if I were having to try too hard, maybe, and even though I said hi to all the regulars, I just wasn’t picking up on any happiness at all—or spreading much myself.
And that feeling just built. A newish, younger man had dropped his bandana on the floor, so as I rolled past with the prize cart, I picked it up and set it on his table. “I could have done that myself,” he said. I stammered to explain that I was just passing by and it was no problem at all, but I felt bad—and he left soon afterward. When I brought the prize cart to Gary C., he asked about a packaged “dream catcher” on the bottom shelf. I told him you were supposed to hang it above your bed (Mike had had a huge one), and it would take your bad dreams from you. “I believe in Jesus Christ,” Gary told me, and I felt as if I had offended his very core.
Then at the last Blackout, seven people (!) Bingoed at the same time, so I had to make the rounds with a deck of cards for the deciding draw. I had gotten through three or four people when Charlie started yelling, “We need one over here!” Several times. And after the dramatic draw-off (two people had tied with aces in the first round), Billy called me over to yell at me, too. Sometimes (a lot of times) I have trouble understanding Billy, but his voice (and body language) could not have been any more clear: “I was waving my card and yelling, ‘Blackout,’ and nobody checked my card,” he said. “I had Blackout!” I apologized several times, but Billy was mad at me—and I felt pretty much like crap.
On my way out, I asked Erin from Activities about the Valentine’s Dinner, which usually is the week before the actual Valentine’s Day—except this year. Surprise. Which meant that after I checked in on Bill Crowell, who literally had invited me to this year’s Soldiers Home dinner the night of last year’s, I would get to cancel my other plans.
Bill looked sad, too, even before he realized it was I, the gloomy one, standing before his bed. I assured him we’d fill out all our Valentine’s Dinner paperwork on time, and that whatever he decided to wear would be fine, and that the corsage is really not a big deal—and then he told me he’s ready to die.
Instead of driving straight home, I let my puppy/baby out of the car and walked him down to the pond. I had called my mom to mope, and when I set the leash down to put my phone away, I heard a splash. This was very hard to process—until I saw Bentley’s head bobbing in the pond. I didn’t know whether he’d jumped in or slid in, or whether I was going to have to jump in to save him, but I laughed out loud, and he scrambled up, wiggled and shook as if that had been the happy plan all along. (Thank you, lady! Thank you!)
I called my mom to update her on that unexpected moment of happiness, and it struck me that Mike, had he been there (I really, really miss him lately), would have laughed until he ran out of breath.
That made me smile.
My goal as a volunteer at the Soldiers Home—and especially at Bingo—is always the same: I always try to bring a little brightness with me. But every once in a while, I drag in my own hovering cloud, and every other once in a while, I find the whole experience horribly sad.
Today was that rare day when both dark elements collided: I was sad before I got there, and more sad once I was.
Today, as soon as I walked in, I just sensed decline: Ray McDade was hidden behind a blue anti-germ mask; Charlie’s burly arms were wrapped in gauze; Leo Martell had sprouted an oxygen tube; and one man with one leg simply slumped, asleep, through it all.
Ray, it turned out, wasn’t trying to stay healthy; he was trying to keep from spreading his germs. He looked tired and run-down, and we didn’t talk much at all. I did talk to Dorothy about my puppy (she always calls him “the baby”), and to Robert about his newest macramé project, but I felt an uncomfortable disconnect, as if I were having to try too hard, maybe, and even though I said hi to all the regulars, I just wasn’t picking up on any happiness at all—or spreading much myself.
And that feeling just built. A newish, younger man had dropped his bandana on the floor, so as I rolled past with the prize cart, I picked it up and set it on his table. “I could have done that myself,” he said. I stammered to explain that I was just passing by and it was no problem at all, but I felt bad—and he left soon afterward. When I brought the prize cart to Gary C., he asked about a packaged “dream catcher” on the bottom shelf. I told him you were supposed to hang it above your bed (Mike had had a huge one), and it would take your bad dreams from you. “I believe in Jesus Christ,” Gary told me, and I felt as if I had offended his very core.
Then at the last Blackout, seven people (!) Bingoed at the same time, so I had to make the rounds with a deck of cards for the deciding draw. I had gotten through three or four people when Charlie started yelling, “We need one over here!” Several times. And after the dramatic draw-off (two people had tied with aces in the first round), Billy called me over to yell at me, too. Sometimes (a lot of times) I have trouble understanding Billy, but his voice (and body language) could not have been any more clear: “I was waving my card and yelling, ‘Blackout,’ and nobody checked my card,” he said. “I had Blackout!” I apologized several times, but Billy was mad at me—and I felt pretty much like crap.
On my way out, I asked Erin from Activities about the Valentine’s Dinner, which usually is the week before the actual Valentine’s Day—except this year. Surprise. Which meant that after I checked in on Bill Crowell, who literally had invited me to this year’s Soldiers Home dinner the night of last year’s, I would get to cancel my other plans.
Bill looked sad, too, even before he realized it was I, the gloomy one, standing before his bed. I assured him we’d fill out all our Valentine’s Dinner paperwork on time, and that whatever he decided to wear would be fine, and that the corsage is really not a big deal—and then he told me he’s ready to die.
Instead of driving straight home, I let my puppy/baby out of the car and walked him down to the pond. I had called my mom to mope, and when I set the leash down to put my phone away, I heard a splash. This was very hard to process—until I saw Bentley’s head bobbing in the pond. I didn’t know whether he’d jumped in or slid in, or whether I was going to have to jump in to save him, but I laughed out loud, and he scrambled up, wiggled and shook as if that had been the happy plan all along. (Thank you, lady! Thank you!)
I called my mom to update her on that unexpected moment of happiness, and it struck me that Mike, had he been there (I really, really miss him lately), would have laughed until he ran out of breath.
That made me smile.
RSS Feed