Thursday, March 10, 2011
I am now spending as much time at the hospital as I am at the Soldiers Home. Today I visited two residents/patients, now that my friend Jim has been admitted to the ICU. Sadly, he wasn’t aware I was there, but maybe, hopefully, he somehow sensed my hand on his arm.
As if to make up for that, Mike was a new man.
His bed has been repositioned, so he now faces the TV and his doorway, and as I was gowning up to go in, he barked, “Get your butt in here!”
He sounded like Mike again.
“You’re the first visitor I’ve had since the last time I saw you,” he said. I had called Mike’s son after my last, discouraging visit, but apparently he hadn’t made it up.
Mike looked amazingly good. Mike looked back.
An open box of Girl Scout cookies sat on his bedside table.
“Have you been eating those?” I asked hopefully.
“From time to time,” he laughed.
This seemed like a really good sign.
“I just read all the labels on all my CDs just to have something to read,” he said.
This seemed like an even better sign. The last time I was here and tried to talk him into a newspaper, he said it hurt just to keep his eyes open.
“I’m ready to get out of here and go home,” he said.
This seemed like an almost-miraculous sign.
We talked for a while, and I told Mike he looked relaxed and bright—and better.
“You need diversions,” I told him.
I went down to the gift shop and bought Mike a newspaper, a puzzle book, two pencils and a Field and Stream magazine. When I came back up, someone was mopping Mike’s room, so I tossed the bag to her from outside the isolation zone and told Mike to relax and enjoy. I also told him to watch out for the sharp pencils—all he needed now was a puncture wound.
Mike gestured as if he were stabbing himself in the chest with the pencils, then made a “dead” face and laughed out loud. Today, for the first time in almost two weeks, we laughed together. Today, Mike, and his spirit, seemed hopeful.
I am now spending as much time at the hospital as I am at the Soldiers Home. Today I visited two residents/patients, now that my friend Jim has been admitted to the ICU. Sadly, he wasn’t aware I was there, but maybe, hopefully, he somehow sensed my hand on his arm.
As if to make up for that, Mike was a new man.
His bed has been repositioned, so he now faces the TV and his doorway, and as I was gowning up to go in, he barked, “Get your butt in here!”
He sounded like Mike again.
“You’re the first visitor I’ve had since the last time I saw you,” he said. I had called Mike’s son after my last, discouraging visit, but apparently he hadn’t made it up.
Mike looked amazingly good. Mike looked back.
An open box of Girl Scout cookies sat on his bedside table.
“Have you been eating those?” I asked hopefully.
“From time to time,” he laughed.
This seemed like a really good sign.
“I just read all the labels on all my CDs just to have something to read,” he said.
This seemed like an even better sign. The last time I was here and tried to talk him into a newspaper, he said it hurt just to keep his eyes open.
“I’m ready to get out of here and go home,” he said.
This seemed like an almost-miraculous sign.
We talked for a while, and I told Mike he looked relaxed and bright—and better.
“You need diversions,” I told him.
I went down to the gift shop and bought Mike a newspaper, a puzzle book, two pencils and a Field and Stream magazine. When I came back up, someone was mopping Mike’s room, so I tossed the bag to her from outside the isolation zone and told Mike to relax and enjoy. I also told him to watch out for the sharp pencils—all he needed now was a puncture wound.
Mike gestured as if he were stabbing himself in the chest with the pencils, then made a “dead” face and laughed out loud. Today, for the first time in almost two weeks, we laughed together. Today, Mike, and his spirit, seemed hopeful.