Saturday, May 7, 2011
Today wasn’t my Bingo day, but it was a Bingo day, and I was really missing the Soldiers Home. When I walked in, about 10 residents were waiting to get into the Bingo room. Ray McDade spoke first.
“I was kind of thinking you might come,” he said.
He asked about Carson’s golf tournament. Not only is Ray an excellent storyteller; he also is an excellent listener.
When we got in, he was thrilled to find the VFW Ladies’ Auxiliary running the show. They have good prizes, and today Ray had his eye on the rare and elusive blue-box Monet crackers. He asked me to pick out a lucky green Bingo card, and we hoped for the best.
There were more than 30 people playing Bingo. I talked to Ken Levick, who looked really good. So I told him so. I talked to Dorothy, who showed me the Mother’s Day card she’d gotten from her daughter and son-in-law—it was a funny card, but their handwritten messages inside were so sweet, I teared up. And I talked to George, who sits right by the prize-cart loading area and had his eye on a giant bottle of lotion.
Things moved right along. Ray kept watching those crackers wheel by, but he didn’t win, and he didn’t win and he didn’t win again. There were two blue Monet boxes, and when Ari chose one, I feared the worst.
Every Bingo session involves 60 regular games for prizes (three games of 10 Bingos) and two Blackouts for cash or scrip. Fifty-eight games had passed, and Ray hadn’t won a single time.
On the 59th, he did. Doreen, Queen of the VFW Ladies, didn’t even push over the prize cart. She just grabbed those coveted crackers and hand-delivered them. Ray beamed.
After Bingo, I saw Gary in the hallway and warned him I was coming in for a hug. As I stood up, he said, “I’m contagious.” I thought I had learned the “How are you?” first, hug second routine, but apparently not.
Dick came up to us and just sat.
“Wanna go back to your room?” I asked him. He did, so I pushed him to his doorway.
But he didn’t want to go in.
“Isn’t there anything else to do?” he asked. “If I don’t have something to do, I’m going to go crazy.”
I checked the activity calendar and explained there was a little lull between Bingo and dinner. “You can just relax and nap or watch TV until dinnertime,” I suggested.
But he looked agitated. I was kind of at a loss. Which is when inspiration tends to strike.
“Want to try the Activities Center?” I asked Dick. “There’re always people down there, anyway.”
He brightened up. He found a place at the big table for the Kentucky Derby, and he spotted a couple small magazines that looked interesting.
“Health and Prevention,” I said.
“Oh,” he said. “I was hoping for Readers Digest.”
But he took them, and he scooted right up to the table with three or four other people, and he smiled.
“Thank you,” he said.
I patted Gary’s germy head goodbye. He apologized for not being a very good conversationalist, but he didn’t need to.
On my way out, Billy waved me over. Billy has a beautifully deep and gravelly voice, and sometimes I have a hard time understanding him, but today he gestured as he talked, and I got every word.
“What happened to that guy you used to sit with at Bingo?” he asked, acting as if he were putting an oxygen tube in his nose.
He meant Mike.
“He passed away,” I told Billy.
Billy said he hadn’t heard, but he’d assumed the worst.
I told him it’d been a little over a month, and there was a nice service.
“I would have gone,” Billy said. “But I didn’t know.”
He didn’t need to apologize, either.
Just in the past week or so I’ve finally been able to picture Mike more clearly—little flashbacks of feelings, conversations, moments—and while I still miss him deeply, I’m thrilled for those times when he just pops up.
Like that one.
Today wasn’t my Bingo day, but it was a Bingo day, and I was really missing the Soldiers Home. When I walked in, about 10 residents were waiting to get into the Bingo room. Ray McDade spoke first.
“I was kind of thinking you might come,” he said.
He asked about Carson’s golf tournament. Not only is Ray an excellent storyteller; he also is an excellent listener.
When we got in, he was thrilled to find the VFW Ladies’ Auxiliary running the show. They have good prizes, and today Ray had his eye on the rare and elusive blue-box Monet crackers. He asked me to pick out a lucky green Bingo card, and we hoped for the best.
There were more than 30 people playing Bingo. I talked to Ken Levick, who looked really good. So I told him so. I talked to Dorothy, who showed me the Mother’s Day card she’d gotten from her daughter and son-in-law—it was a funny card, but their handwritten messages inside were so sweet, I teared up. And I talked to George, who sits right by the prize-cart loading area and had his eye on a giant bottle of lotion.
Things moved right along. Ray kept watching those crackers wheel by, but he didn’t win, and he didn’t win and he didn’t win again. There were two blue Monet boxes, and when Ari chose one, I feared the worst.
Every Bingo session involves 60 regular games for prizes (three games of 10 Bingos) and two Blackouts for cash or scrip. Fifty-eight games had passed, and Ray hadn’t won a single time.
On the 59th, he did. Doreen, Queen of the VFW Ladies, didn’t even push over the prize cart. She just grabbed those coveted crackers and hand-delivered them. Ray beamed.
After Bingo, I saw Gary in the hallway and warned him I was coming in for a hug. As I stood up, he said, “I’m contagious.” I thought I had learned the “How are you?” first, hug second routine, but apparently not.
Dick came up to us and just sat.
“Wanna go back to your room?” I asked him. He did, so I pushed him to his doorway.
But he didn’t want to go in.
“Isn’t there anything else to do?” he asked. “If I don’t have something to do, I’m going to go crazy.”
I checked the activity calendar and explained there was a little lull between Bingo and dinner. “You can just relax and nap or watch TV until dinnertime,” I suggested.
But he looked agitated. I was kind of at a loss. Which is when inspiration tends to strike.
“Want to try the Activities Center?” I asked Dick. “There’re always people down there, anyway.”
He brightened up. He found a place at the big table for the Kentucky Derby, and he spotted a couple small magazines that looked interesting.
“Health and Prevention,” I said.
“Oh,” he said. “I was hoping for Readers Digest.”
But he took them, and he scooted right up to the table with three or four other people, and he smiled.
“Thank you,” he said.
I patted Gary’s germy head goodbye. He apologized for not being a very good conversationalist, but he didn’t need to.
On my way out, Billy waved me over. Billy has a beautifully deep and gravelly voice, and sometimes I have a hard time understanding him, but today he gestured as he talked, and I got every word.
“What happened to that guy you used to sit with at Bingo?” he asked, acting as if he were putting an oxygen tube in his nose.
He meant Mike.
“He passed away,” I told Billy.
Billy said he hadn’t heard, but he’d assumed the worst.
I told him it’d been a little over a month, and there was a nice service.
“I would have gone,” Billy said. “But I didn’t know.”
He didn’t need to apologize, either.
Just in the past week or so I’ve finally been able to picture Mike more clearly—little flashbacks of feelings, conversations, moments—and while I still miss him deeply, I’m thrilled for those times when he just pops up.
Like that one.
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