Friday, September 17, 2010
Multiple updates from two visits this week, neither of which was Bingo-related, which is kind of nice:
1) Today my first stop was Ray McDade’s room, and my timing was divine: Ray’s electric scooter had died, he had dropped the contents of his wallet all over the floor and he had a big stack of clean pants just back from the laundry. I’m not a very precise pants-hanger hanger-upper, but I did feel helpful; plus, I brought him a new stash of Snickerdoodles. I think he was happy to see me.
2) I told Ray my parents would be here in a week or so, and he asked whether I’d bring them down to visit. I said they already were looking forward to it. “I’d love to chat with them,” he said. “That’s what we like to do most, you know.”
3) Ray had a lot to chat about today: News with a capital N. Since Vern Schiffer moved out, Ray has taken over official Movie Night duties two times a week at the Roosevelt Barracks. Earlier in the week he had selected a John Wayne classic, and at the designated 6:30 curtain time, he slipped it into the Day Room’s DVD player. Another resident, who had been watching a game on the TV, was not pleased. Ray said he calmly explained that it was Movie Night, and that people had gathered to, well, watch a movie. The game-watcher veered from displeased to seriously pissed—and reportedly hit Ray repeatedly in the head with his coffee mug. My new friend the Bingo survivor tried to hold back the attacker, but he’s 83, for crying out loud. At some point, the guy threw the contents of his mug at Ray. At another point, someone called the police. Ray was not seriously hurt, but he was seriously upset, and apparently the Home and the police are taking the alleged assault seriously. “I wish I could put this story on tape,” Ray said. “I’ve told it five or six times now, and I get upset all over every time.”
4) When I left Ray, I found Mike and Other Mike sitting outside the woodshop. “Is this a Mikes-only meeting?” I asked. It was not. Mike and I went to Occupational Therapy (his wheelchair has died again; I’m starting to think the Home lies in some sort of alien electromagnetic field), where I ran into my friend the Bingo survivor, who told me Ray’s story from his perspective (“I tried to hold the guy back!” he said). He was headed back to his room. “I’d hug you, but I’m so tired, I’d fall asleep in your arms,” he said. He’d been awakened before he was ready, he said, when someone had come into his room and made a noise. “She wasn’t loud, but my ears are so good, I could hear a fish fart underwater,” he laughed. Then he apologized for his vulgarity. Yeah; I let that one slide.
5) Mike’s Friday mission was to introduce me to a therapist who’d read my blog. We finally found her, and she is very sweet and wonderfully engaged with the residents. She was making a delivery from the donated-clothing room to a man who’d just moved in with only the hospital gown on his back. Sometimes I forget what a necessary refuge the Home really is; it’s always humbling to be reminded.
6) Wednesday was a Mike-centric day. I found him in his room, where I once again marveled at his clever-monkey ingenuity. He’s got so much room now in his light & bright new space, his wheeled tray table fits perfectly along a faraway wall—too far away, in fact, to work as a handy eating surface. So Mike asked the woodshop guys to fashion him a removable “table shelf”—he pulls out his top drawer, slides on the “table” and—voila!—it’s just the right height, weight and balance. He loves it, but it doesn’t necessarily improve his appetite. “Today’s lunch was some bratwurst/sausage thing with sauerkraut,” he said. “It’s German day!” I told him. “Any real German who saw that lunch would have slapped the chef silly,” Mike laughed.
7) We went outside for “some air” (translation: a nasty cigarette). “This is just my second cigarette today,” Mike told me. “How about that?” I said in my smartest smart-ass fake-willpower voice. “I haven’t had any.” “Damn, you’re good,” Mike laughed. I told him he’s proof of the power of nicotine—he’s on oxygen, but he can’t quite quit smoking. “I tell every kid I see, ‘Don’t even start, because you’ll end up like me,’” he said. I might be a good smart-ass, but Mike is a good example: his lungs, and his heart.
Multiple updates from two visits this week, neither of which was Bingo-related, which is kind of nice:
1) Today my first stop was Ray McDade’s room, and my timing was divine: Ray’s electric scooter had died, he had dropped the contents of his wallet all over the floor and he had a big stack of clean pants just back from the laundry. I’m not a very precise pants-hanger hanger-upper, but I did feel helpful; plus, I brought him a new stash of Snickerdoodles. I think he was happy to see me.
2) I told Ray my parents would be here in a week or so, and he asked whether I’d bring them down to visit. I said they already were looking forward to it. “I’d love to chat with them,” he said. “That’s what we like to do most, you know.”
3) Ray had a lot to chat about today: News with a capital N. Since Vern Schiffer moved out, Ray has taken over official Movie Night duties two times a week at the Roosevelt Barracks. Earlier in the week he had selected a John Wayne classic, and at the designated 6:30 curtain time, he slipped it into the Day Room’s DVD player. Another resident, who had been watching a game on the TV, was not pleased. Ray said he calmly explained that it was Movie Night, and that people had gathered to, well, watch a movie. The game-watcher veered from displeased to seriously pissed—and reportedly hit Ray repeatedly in the head with his coffee mug. My new friend the Bingo survivor tried to hold back the attacker, but he’s 83, for crying out loud. At some point, the guy threw the contents of his mug at Ray. At another point, someone called the police. Ray was not seriously hurt, but he was seriously upset, and apparently the Home and the police are taking the alleged assault seriously. “I wish I could put this story on tape,” Ray said. “I’ve told it five or six times now, and I get upset all over every time.”
4) When I left Ray, I found Mike and Other Mike sitting outside the woodshop. “Is this a Mikes-only meeting?” I asked. It was not. Mike and I went to Occupational Therapy (his wheelchair has died again; I’m starting to think the Home lies in some sort of alien electromagnetic field), where I ran into my friend the Bingo survivor, who told me Ray’s story from his perspective (“I tried to hold the guy back!” he said). He was headed back to his room. “I’d hug you, but I’m so tired, I’d fall asleep in your arms,” he said. He’d been awakened before he was ready, he said, when someone had come into his room and made a noise. “She wasn’t loud, but my ears are so good, I could hear a fish fart underwater,” he laughed. Then he apologized for his vulgarity. Yeah; I let that one slide.
5) Mike’s Friday mission was to introduce me to a therapist who’d read my blog. We finally found her, and she is very sweet and wonderfully engaged with the residents. She was making a delivery from the donated-clothing room to a man who’d just moved in with only the hospital gown on his back. Sometimes I forget what a necessary refuge the Home really is; it’s always humbling to be reminded.
6) Wednesday was a Mike-centric day. I found him in his room, where I once again marveled at his clever-monkey ingenuity. He’s got so much room now in his light & bright new space, his wheeled tray table fits perfectly along a faraway wall—too far away, in fact, to work as a handy eating surface. So Mike asked the woodshop guys to fashion him a removable “table shelf”—he pulls out his top drawer, slides on the “table” and—voila!—it’s just the right height, weight and balance. He loves it, but it doesn’t necessarily improve his appetite. “Today’s lunch was some bratwurst/sausage thing with sauerkraut,” he said. “It’s German day!” I told him. “Any real German who saw that lunch would have slapped the chef silly,” Mike laughed.
7) We went outside for “some air” (translation: a nasty cigarette). “This is just my second cigarette today,” Mike told me. “How about that?” I said in my smartest smart-ass fake-willpower voice. “I haven’t had any.” “Damn, you’re good,” Mike laughed. I told him he’s proof of the power of nicotine—he’s on oxygen, but he can’t quite quit smoking. “I tell every kid I see, ‘Don’t even start, because you’ll end up like me,’” he said. I might be a good smart-ass, but Mike is a good example: his lungs, and his heart.
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