Friday, March 19, 2010
I went down to Bingo early tonight, hoping to have some time with Mike. I’d been worried about him lately, and I felt like I needed to tell him that.
A good sign—I found him in the hallway, up and dressed for adventure.
"I was just going to call you," he said. Another good sign.
It was a gorgeous day, so we went outside and found some last-minute sun warming the baseball diamond, where the Little League Bluejays were practicing.
I told Mike my mom is coming out in eight days, and I can hardly wait.
"I was just thinking about her today," he said.
That seemed like an opening. I took it. "I just told her today that I was afraid maybe you’d given up."
Mike was unusually quiet.
"Not yet," he finally said.
I literally felt my shoulders drop. I’d had a tense week all around, but suddenly one stressor had just up and evaporated.
We watched the Bluejays field and run and catch and drop. "Nice to have kids out here, isn’t it?" I asked.
"Sure is," Mike said.
We went in for Bingo. Mike came to play—another good sign!—and won a giant blueberry muffin, which he gobbled with vigor (an even better sign).
And I talked to Wesley, who had two big news items, on opposite ends of the good news/bad news spectrum.
Good news: He leaves next weekend for the Wheelchair Olympics in Colorado. The VA arranged it for him, he said, and he’s flying first-class to compete in shooting, skiing and darts. He’s thrilled, and I hope he wins it all.
Bad news: Wesley said he had a bit of an "altercation" with another resident. Apparently the guy called Wesley an "f---ing punk." Not only that, but when Wesley walked over and asked the guy to say it to his face, he poked Wesley in the chest … and said it to his face. Wesley said he knocked the man’s hand away—just as a nurse looked over. They will deal with it, and things will be fine, but by the time I got to Gary’s corner of the Bingo room, everyone was talking about it.
I wanted to change the subject and found yet another ideal opening. Gary had a big bag of Cracker Jack on the table. I asked whether he’d fished out the prize yet. He had not. And he had no interest in doing so, until I kind of made him.
He dug out a little slip of paper ("They used to be real toys," he grumbled.) and tossed it to me.
"Did you have this bag custom-made?" I asked Gary. He looked at me like I was nuts, which is not unusual.
"I think somehow they knew you were going to get this exact bag," I told him.
His prize was called Smart Mouth. It was a dopey do-it-yourself contraption that involved cutting and folding and possibly even pasting and was not worth anywhere near the effort it would take to figure it out. But it was worth a chuckle.
Add that to a revived Mike and a determined Wesley, and pretty much all signs were pointing up. And my tension level, down.
I went down to Bingo early tonight, hoping to have some time with Mike. I’d been worried about him lately, and I felt like I needed to tell him that.
A good sign—I found him in the hallway, up and dressed for adventure.
"I was just going to call you," he said. Another good sign.
It was a gorgeous day, so we went outside and found some last-minute sun warming the baseball diamond, where the Little League Bluejays were practicing.
I told Mike my mom is coming out in eight days, and I can hardly wait.
"I was just thinking about her today," he said.
That seemed like an opening. I took it. "I just told her today that I was afraid maybe you’d given up."
Mike was unusually quiet.
"Not yet," he finally said.
I literally felt my shoulders drop. I’d had a tense week all around, but suddenly one stressor had just up and evaporated.
We watched the Bluejays field and run and catch and drop. "Nice to have kids out here, isn’t it?" I asked.
"Sure is," Mike said.
We went in for Bingo. Mike came to play—another good sign!—and won a giant blueberry muffin, which he gobbled with vigor (an even better sign).
And I talked to Wesley, who had two big news items, on opposite ends of the good news/bad news spectrum.
Good news: He leaves next weekend for the Wheelchair Olympics in Colorado. The VA arranged it for him, he said, and he’s flying first-class to compete in shooting, skiing and darts. He’s thrilled, and I hope he wins it all.
Bad news: Wesley said he had a bit of an "altercation" with another resident. Apparently the guy called Wesley an "f---ing punk." Not only that, but when Wesley walked over and asked the guy to say it to his face, he poked Wesley in the chest … and said it to his face. Wesley said he knocked the man’s hand away—just as a nurse looked over. They will deal with it, and things will be fine, but by the time I got to Gary’s corner of the Bingo room, everyone was talking about it.
I wanted to change the subject and found yet another ideal opening. Gary had a big bag of Cracker Jack on the table. I asked whether he’d fished out the prize yet. He had not. And he had no interest in doing so, until I kind of made him.
He dug out a little slip of paper ("They used to be real toys," he grumbled.) and tossed it to me.
"Did you have this bag custom-made?" I asked Gary. He looked at me like I was nuts, which is not unusual.
"I think somehow they knew you were going to get this exact bag," I told him.
His prize was called Smart Mouth. It was a dopey do-it-yourself contraption that involved cutting and folding and possibly even pasting and was not worth anywhere near the effort it would take to figure it out. But it was worth a chuckle.
Add that to a revived Mike and a determined Wesley, and pretty much all signs were pointing up. And my tension level, down.