Thursday, September 1, 2011
I hadn’t been out to the Soldiers Home for too long: There was no Home Bingo in August, my college roommate came out to visit and—to top it all off—I wiped out on a Seattle sidewalk and smashed my ankle and knee. Not to mention those two jobs I’m juggling.
But in the end those are just excuses, and today, a rare Thursday off work, I got tired of excuses. So I went to the Soldiers Home for the afternoon, first grabbing an activity calendar in Chilson Hall, where Bill (the former Bingo prize-cart pusher) began the news deluge: Ari, the regular and wonderful Bingo caller, had moved out. Marilyn and her boyfriend (possibly now husband; there is some dispute over that detail) had moved out. Roosevelt Barracks is emptying, and those rooms won’t be filled.
My next stop: Ray McDade’s room. I had gotten an email from Ray last week saying he was very sick. I wrote back and I called, but he wasn’t in his room, and I didn’t hear anything back until today. Here is what Ray wrote: “Dear Sandy, I do not have a good phone number for you. I didn't buy the farm after all but I thought I was. I am struggling along in nursing and at the moment I do not have a roommate. Hope to see you soon. Love, Ray.”
I took the phrase “buy the farm” as a good, not-too-serious sign, and I owed this man a game of cribbage. I had read through the rules online and figured I had enough basic knowledge to fudge my way through a learn-as-you-go game. Ray must’ve thought so, too: Within a minute of my arrival, he had his cribbage board, and we were headed to the Activity Center.
I asked what happened to Ray’s roommate. “He died,” Ray said. I couldn’t believe that—I’d thought he’d looked really good. “He did look good,” Ray said, “but he had lung cancer.”
I then asked Ray how his friend and former Bingo buddy Jim was doing—Jim had been so afraid he was dying, he was sleeping on a mattress next to the nurses’ station.
“He died,” Ray said. I was starting to slump. “Was he on a mattress in front of the nurses’ station?” I asked. “He was,” Ray said. “He died the same night as Dee J.”
I was starting to spin. “What are you talking about?” I said. Dee J was one of my favorite Bingo players ever—constantly gracious, good-humored and grateful. He hadn’t been at Bingo for a while, but a lot of people come and go, and you just assume you’ll catch them next time.
But then, suddenly, there is no next time. “Oh, no,” I said. Too much. Too much.
But, as I’ve learned over and over, life goes on at the Soldiers Home. Ray patiently got me through a fun game of cribbage (amazingly, when he started counting points—“15-2, 15-4, 15-6”—the whole game started to come back to me). And though I jumped out of the gate with an astounding 24-point hand (“I have never seen that many points,” Ray said), Ray beat me soundly.
We packed up his board, and when we dropped it off in Ray’s room, he had a new roommate. I walked Ray over to the dining hall. I hugged him goodbye and shuffled to my car. Too much time away. Too much loss.
I hadn’t been out to the Soldiers Home for too long: There was no Home Bingo in August, my college roommate came out to visit and—to top it all off—I wiped out on a Seattle sidewalk and smashed my ankle and knee. Not to mention those two jobs I’m juggling.
But in the end those are just excuses, and today, a rare Thursday off work, I got tired of excuses. So I went to the Soldiers Home for the afternoon, first grabbing an activity calendar in Chilson Hall, where Bill (the former Bingo prize-cart pusher) began the news deluge: Ari, the regular and wonderful Bingo caller, had moved out. Marilyn and her boyfriend (possibly now husband; there is some dispute over that detail) had moved out. Roosevelt Barracks is emptying, and those rooms won’t be filled.
My next stop: Ray McDade’s room. I had gotten an email from Ray last week saying he was very sick. I wrote back and I called, but he wasn’t in his room, and I didn’t hear anything back until today. Here is what Ray wrote: “Dear Sandy, I do not have a good phone number for you. I didn't buy the farm after all but I thought I was. I am struggling along in nursing and at the moment I do not have a roommate. Hope to see you soon. Love, Ray.”
I took the phrase “buy the farm” as a good, not-too-serious sign, and I owed this man a game of cribbage. I had read through the rules online and figured I had enough basic knowledge to fudge my way through a learn-as-you-go game. Ray must’ve thought so, too: Within a minute of my arrival, he had his cribbage board, and we were headed to the Activity Center.
I asked what happened to Ray’s roommate. “He died,” Ray said. I couldn’t believe that—I’d thought he’d looked really good. “He did look good,” Ray said, “but he had lung cancer.”
I then asked Ray how his friend and former Bingo buddy Jim was doing—Jim had been so afraid he was dying, he was sleeping on a mattress next to the nurses’ station.
“He died,” Ray said. I was starting to slump. “Was he on a mattress in front of the nurses’ station?” I asked. “He was,” Ray said. “He died the same night as Dee J.”
I was starting to spin. “What are you talking about?” I said. Dee J was one of my favorite Bingo players ever—constantly gracious, good-humored and grateful. He hadn’t been at Bingo for a while, but a lot of people come and go, and you just assume you’ll catch them next time.
But then, suddenly, there is no next time. “Oh, no,” I said. Too much. Too much.
But, as I’ve learned over and over, life goes on at the Soldiers Home. Ray patiently got me through a fun game of cribbage (amazingly, when he started counting points—“15-2, 15-4, 15-6”—the whole game started to come back to me). And though I jumped out of the gate with an astounding 24-point hand (“I have never seen that many points,” Ray said), Ray beat me soundly.
We packed up his board, and when we dropped it off in Ray’s room, he had a new roommate. I walked Ray over to the dining hall. I hugged him goodbye and shuffled to my car. Too much time away. Too much loss.