Friday, January 21, 2011
I’m proud to report that I officially logged my Bingo volunteer hours tonight—but tonight was one of those times the residents did way more for me than I did for them.
I came early to spend some pre-Bingo time with Mike. He was in his room, listening to music, and his CD pile looked slightly bigger than the last time I’d seen it.
It was. He’d been to Wal-Mart again and scored some new John Denver, Willie Nelson, Neil Diamond and Relaxing Guitar Music CDs. Even better—when he got back, he discovered some were double discs.
I asked how the trip went.
“Pretty good, considering the money thing,” he said.
The what?
Mike said someone had stolen more than $100 from his coat. When he went to sleep, he had an envelope in his pocket—maybe 5 feet away—filled with receipts and cash. When he awoke, the envelope was gone, and his CD pile was disheveled.
I simply cannot understand how someone could walk into a veteran’s room, rifle through his things, walk out with his savings and keep on living like a normal person.
“Oh my God,” I said. “Who could possibly do that?”
“They’re hypochondriacs,” Mike said. “They could steal anything from anyone.”
I laughed out loud, for the first time all day.
“I think you might mean ‘kleptomaniacs,’” I giggled. “Here comes a hypochondriac! Hide your wallets!”
Very few people find my mocking “humor” endearing. Mike is one. I am the other. We both laughed until we snorted.
Then I broke a cardinal rule of volunteerism: Never bring your own problems to the residents. But I thought Mike might appreciate a little solidarity in his misery. I told him I’d spent four hours this morning crafting a big work document, only to have our stupidly stupid computer totally eat it. It really had flustered me, and between trying to recover it and trying to reach someone who could help me recover it, I felt as if the whole day had been a waste.
Mike laughed. “Maybe we should go buy parachutes and jump off a bridge,” he said.
(It didn’t hit me until right now that I could have mocked him again by mentioning that a parachute probably would save us, which kind of seems contrary to the point. But I’m glad I didn’t.)
“Maybe we should buy lottery tickets,” I said. “Certainly our luck is about to change.”
We went down to the Bingo room, where everyone was nervously waiting to see whether a caller would appear. Ari was with his family, and although Wesley had been asked to pretty please come back and fill in, no one was sure he would.
Having gotten a laugh or two out of Mike—and a good one out of myself—I considered my gloomy-day mood lifted. But things only got better.
To understand what a difference these people make in my life, I probably should share the unflattering fact that I normally live a pretty solitary existence—I go to movies by myself, I go out to eat by myself, I go for long walks by myself. I do have some amazingly wonderful friends, and every once in a while I can bribe my son to hang out with me for a limited time, but I’m alone a lot. I think I’m OK with that, for now, but it certainly makes for a contrast when I walk into a room full of chipper Bingo players.
Tonight I walked in and waved to a few tables of people, making my way over to Ray McDade. Cal Bush saw me heading his direction and said, “Hi!” in such a sweetly enthusiastic, welcoming voice, the exclamation point doesn’t do it justice. I can still hear it, and it still warms my heart.
I leaned in to give Ray a big hug and asked how he was. Just as I was standing up, two inches from his face, he said, “I’m trying to fight this darn cold because I have family from Ohio coming tomorrow.” Ack. Note to self: Next time, ask first, hug second.
From Ray’s table I could see Dorothy waving me over. On my way there, Ken Levick said, “Sandy!” and called me to his table. As I was talking to Ken, Bill Crowell walked in and stopped to talk.
“Did you get a telegram from your parents?” he asked. “Because I did.” I looked at him kind of strangely.
“They asked me to take you off their hands,” Bill smiled. “So the only issue now is whether we have a big wedding or a shotgun wedding.”
I smiled. “I should tell you my dad does have a shotgun,” I said.
We both laughed.
In fact, I talked and laughed and smiled more in those first five minutes—even before Bingo started—than I had the entire day. Maybe longer. I could not have felt less alone, and honestly, it was kind of exhilarating.
I finally made it back to Dorothy, who asked whether I’d been losing weight. Now I was starting to think maybe this was a dream. I told her I had been trying, and she told me I’d lost enough. Then we talked about her own outing, to Skippers and Kmart, and she showed me her new shoes and pants, which set off a whole giggly-girl dialog about shopping and clothes and comfort and how many duplicates you should buy when you find something you really like.
Wesley did come to call, bless his heart, and I was surprised to realize how much I’d missed him. Gary zipped by outside but stopped for a minute to talk. I told him I still want those darn planters I’ve been trying to buy since Christmas. “Sorry,” he said. “I sold them all. I kept waiting and waiting, but you never came and got them.” He was right. We just hadn’t connected. And I felt horrible.
“Just kidding,” he said. “I still have them.”
I find his humor endearing, too. And I promised to pick up the planters on Saturday.
During Bingo, Bill won a big box of malted milk balls. A couple minutes later I heard Ray exclaim, “They’re all over the floor!” And they were.
I walked over to help scoop them up. Bill was trying to corral them with his cane, and Ray was trying to scoot them into a pile with his feet. But they were too scattered. “Are you setting little landmines for me to slip on?” I asked Bill. Ann Lawson, at the table behind Ray and Bill, interjected: “There are more under his chair.” There were.
All in all, the whole Bingo scene was kind of chaotic and random and busy, but also warm and companionable and alive. In other words, exactly what I needed.
I’m proud to report that I officially logged my Bingo volunteer hours tonight—but tonight was one of those times the residents did way more for me than I did for them.
I came early to spend some pre-Bingo time with Mike. He was in his room, listening to music, and his CD pile looked slightly bigger than the last time I’d seen it.
It was. He’d been to Wal-Mart again and scored some new John Denver, Willie Nelson, Neil Diamond and Relaxing Guitar Music CDs. Even better—when he got back, he discovered some were double discs.
I asked how the trip went.
“Pretty good, considering the money thing,” he said.
The what?
Mike said someone had stolen more than $100 from his coat. When he went to sleep, he had an envelope in his pocket—maybe 5 feet away—filled with receipts and cash. When he awoke, the envelope was gone, and his CD pile was disheveled.
I simply cannot understand how someone could walk into a veteran’s room, rifle through his things, walk out with his savings and keep on living like a normal person.
“Oh my God,” I said. “Who could possibly do that?”
“They’re hypochondriacs,” Mike said. “They could steal anything from anyone.”
I laughed out loud, for the first time all day.
“I think you might mean ‘kleptomaniacs,’” I giggled. “Here comes a hypochondriac! Hide your wallets!”
Very few people find my mocking “humor” endearing. Mike is one. I am the other. We both laughed until we snorted.
Then I broke a cardinal rule of volunteerism: Never bring your own problems to the residents. But I thought Mike might appreciate a little solidarity in his misery. I told him I’d spent four hours this morning crafting a big work document, only to have our stupidly stupid computer totally eat it. It really had flustered me, and between trying to recover it and trying to reach someone who could help me recover it, I felt as if the whole day had been a waste.
Mike laughed. “Maybe we should go buy parachutes and jump off a bridge,” he said.
(It didn’t hit me until right now that I could have mocked him again by mentioning that a parachute probably would save us, which kind of seems contrary to the point. But I’m glad I didn’t.)
“Maybe we should buy lottery tickets,” I said. “Certainly our luck is about to change.”
We went down to the Bingo room, where everyone was nervously waiting to see whether a caller would appear. Ari was with his family, and although Wesley had been asked to pretty please come back and fill in, no one was sure he would.
Having gotten a laugh or two out of Mike—and a good one out of myself—I considered my gloomy-day mood lifted. But things only got better.
To understand what a difference these people make in my life, I probably should share the unflattering fact that I normally live a pretty solitary existence—I go to movies by myself, I go out to eat by myself, I go for long walks by myself. I do have some amazingly wonderful friends, and every once in a while I can bribe my son to hang out with me for a limited time, but I’m alone a lot. I think I’m OK with that, for now, but it certainly makes for a contrast when I walk into a room full of chipper Bingo players.
Tonight I walked in and waved to a few tables of people, making my way over to Ray McDade. Cal Bush saw me heading his direction and said, “Hi!” in such a sweetly enthusiastic, welcoming voice, the exclamation point doesn’t do it justice. I can still hear it, and it still warms my heart.
I leaned in to give Ray a big hug and asked how he was. Just as I was standing up, two inches from his face, he said, “I’m trying to fight this darn cold because I have family from Ohio coming tomorrow.” Ack. Note to self: Next time, ask first, hug second.
From Ray’s table I could see Dorothy waving me over. On my way there, Ken Levick said, “Sandy!” and called me to his table. As I was talking to Ken, Bill Crowell walked in and stopped to talk.
“Did you get a telegram from your parents?” he asked. “Because I did.” I looked at him kind of strangely.
“They asked me to take you off their hands,” Bill smiled. “So the only issue now is whether we have a big wedding or a shotgun wedding.”
I smiled. “I should tell you my dad does have a shotgun,” I said.
We both laughed.
In fact, I talked and laughed and smiled more in those first five minutes—even before Bingo started—than I had the entire day. Maybe longer. I could not have felt less alone, and honestly, it was kind of exhilarating.
I finally made it back to Dorothy, who asked whether I’d been losing weight. Now I was starting to think maybe this was a dream. I told her I had been trying, and she told me I’d lost enough. Then we talked about her own outing, to Skippers and Kmart, and she showed me her new shoes and pants, which set off a whole giggly-girl dialog about shopping and clothes and comfort and how many duplicates you should buy when you find something you really like.
Wesley did come to call, bless his heart, and I was surprised to realize how much I’d missed him. Gary zipped by outside but stopped for a minute to talk. I told him I still want those darn planters I’ve been trying to buy since Christmas. “Sorry,” he said. “I sold them all. I kept waiting and waiting, but you never came and got them.” He was right. We just hadn’t connected. And I felt horrible.
“Just kidding,” he said. “I still have them.”
I find his humor endearing, too. And I promised to pick up the planters on Saturday.
During Bingo, Bill won a big box of malted milk balls. A couple minutes later I heard Ray exclaim, “They’re all over the floor!” And they were.
I walked over to help scoop them up. Bill was trying to corral them with his cane, and Ray was trying to scoot them into a pile with his feet. But they were too scattered. “Are you setting little landmines for me to slip on?” I asked Bill. Ann Lawson, at the table behind Ray and Bill, interjected: “There are more under his chair.” There were.
All in all, the whole Bingo scene was kind of chaotic and random and busy, but also warm and companionable and alive. In other words, exactly what I needed.