Wednesday, March 9, 2011
I can’t remember ever crying all the way home from Bingo, but tonight was rough. I was tired way before I got there, and possibly hormonal, and definitely worried about Mike (when I called him at the hospital this morning, I interrupted his “setting things right” meeting with the chaplain)—and things did not improve at the Soldiers Home.
First, as I was talking to Bill the prize guy, he told me he has a respiratory infection. Then, after I leaned in to say hi to Ken Levick, he told me he has pneumonia. It’s probably not a very charitable thing to say, but I am somewhat freaked out by Mike’s isolation status at the hospital, and now here I was sucking in more contagions. Ugh.
Also tonight, a bunch of new players came to Bingo, and it was more crowded and more challenging than usual. One guy took forEVER to choose his prizes, and a few impatient people yelled at me (“Bingo over here! Hey! Bingo! Over here!”) as if I were ignoring them on purpose.
Ray McDade had emailed me a couple days ago, asking whether I’d seen Ray Eickholt lately—he was worried about him. I said I had seen him just a week ago, so I assumed everything was fine. But tonight, the same second I asked Ray McDade whether they’d connected, I looked over his shoulder and through the window saw a picture of Ray Eickholt: It was the announcement of his memorial service.
But the most upsetting event was the arrival of a brand-new resident. He wheeled into the Bingo room, parked near Ken’s table and looked at me with the saddest eyes imaginable: “Help me,” he said. “I don’t know where I’m supposed to be.”
He was in a wheelchair, dressed in a simple white T-shirt and pants with a belt, but even though his belt was buckled, his pants were open and pulled down a little too far, and I had no idea how to handle that. A staffer came in, told me the man had just moved in, and encouraged him to stay and play Bingo. I introduced him to pneumonia Ken, and he decided to stay.
I asked the new man whether he needed any help, and he said he needed someone to talk to. “I’m going crazy,” he told me. “I don’t know what’s going on.”
Ken took him under his wing, and the man won five or six games in a row. During Blackout, I asked whether he had an Activities calendar, so he could find things to do and people to meet. He shooed me away—he was trying to pay attention to the Bingo numbers.
After the last game, Ari the Bingo caller walked by and gently fixed the man’s pants. (Ari and Ken, and the compassionate way they treated this new resident, were the bright spots of the night.)
But then everyone was gone—except the new guy. He just sat there. Completely alone.
“Do you need some help getting to your room?” I asked him.
“I don’t have a room,” he said.
I walked the hallways looking for someone to help us. The man insisted he wanted to go one way, but that hallway led only to offices—no resident rooms. The first person I found had no idea where he belonged. The second guessed it was down yet another hallway.
“It’s hard getting used to a new place to live,” I told him.
“I don’t live here,” he said. “I live at home.”
I was exhausted, and my heart was breaking, and if I’d let myself, I could have just sat down and sobbed.
He told me we’d be better off if I would push his wheelchair, so I did.
When we finally found the man’s room, his roommate was rifling through his books. Welcome to the neighborhood.
“I can’t find my billfold or my keys,” the lost man said.
His billfold was in his new dresser, but no keys.
“What are the keys for?” I asked.
“Well, my house, of course,” he answered. “And my garage, and my locker.”
Two staffers came in, talked to the man and thanked me for helping. But I didn’t feel helpful at all—just totally helpless.
I can’t remember ever crying all the way home from Bingo, but tonight was rough. I was tired way before I got there, and possibly hormonal, and definitely worried about Mike (when I called him at the hospital this morning, I interrupted his “setting things right” meeting with the chaplain)—and things did not improve at the Soldiers Home.
First, as I was talking to Bill the prize guy, he told me he has a respiratory infection. Then, after I leaned in to say hi to Ken Levick, he told me he has pneumonia. It’s probably not a very charitable thing to say, but I am somewhat freaked out by Mike’s isolation status at the hospital, and now here I was sucking in more contagions. Ugh.
Also tonight, a bunch of new players came to Bingo, and it was more crowded and more challenging than usual. One guy took forEVER to choose his prizes, and a few impatient people yelled at me (“Bingo over here! Hey! Bingo! Over here!”) as if I were ignoring them on purpose.
Ray McDade had emailed me a couple days ago, asking whether I’d seen Ray Eickholt lately—he was worried about him. I said I had seen him just a week ago, so I assumed everything was fine. But tonight, the same second I asked Ray McDade whether they’d connected, I looked over his shoulder and through the window saw a picture of Ray Eickholt: It was the announcement of his memorial service.
But the most upsetting event was the arrival of a brand-new resident. He wheeled into the Bingo room, parked near Ken’s table and looked at me with the saddest eyes imaginable: “Help me,” he said. “I don’t know where I’m supposed to be.”
He was in a wheelchair, dressed in a simple white T-shirt and pants with a belt, but even though his belt was buckled, his pants were open and pulled down a little too far, and I had no idea how to handle that. A staffer came in, told me the man had just moved in, and encouraged him to stay and play Bingo. I introduced him to pneumonia Ken, and he decided to stay.
I asked the new man whether he needed any help, and he said he needed someone to talk to. “I’m going crazy,” he told me. “I don’t know what’s going on.”
Ken took him under his wing, and the man won five or six games in a row. During Blackout, I asked whether he had an Activities calendar, so he could find things to do and people to meet. He shooed me away—he was trying to pay attention to the Bingo numbers.
After the last game, Ari the Bingo caller walked by and gently fixed the man’s pants. (Ari and Ken, and the compassionate way they treated this new resident, were the bright spots of the night.)
But then everyone was gone—except the new guy. He just sat there. Completely alone.
“Do you need some help getting to your room?” I asked him.
“I don’t have a room,” he said.
I walked the hallways looking for someone to help us. The man insisted he wanted to go one way, but that hallway led only to offices—no resident rooms. The first person I found had no idea where he belonged. The second guessed it was down yet another hallway.
“It’s hard getting used to a new place to live,” I told him.
“I don’t live here,” he said. “I live at home.”
I was exhausted, and my heart was breaking, and if I’d let myself, I could have just sat down and sobbed.
He told me we’d be better off if I would push his wheelchair, so I did.
When we finally found the man’s room, his roommate was rifling through his books. Welcome to the neighborhood.
“I can’t find my billfold or my keys,” the lost man said.
His billfold was in his new dresser, but no keys.
“What are the keys for?” I asked.
“Well, my house, of course,” he answered. “And my garage, and my locker.”
Two staffers came in, talked to the man and thanked me for helping. But I didn’t feel helpful at all—just totally helpless.