Wednesday, October 13, 2010
It’s a good thing there are actual soldiers at the Soldiers Home, or else today would have been supremely frustrating.
A week or so ago, I got a call that the superintendent of the Soldiers Home wanted to meet with me. I had no idea why, but this morning I packed up my Web-site info, just in case, and headed out for my 10:30 appointment. At 10:10, while I was in the restroom at Chilson Hall, my phone rang. The superintendent was sick. Our meeting was off. “Argh,” I whined to the poor messenger. “I wish I had known that an hour ago.” Now I had to go home and then come right back again for Bingo night.
But I didn’t. Have to, that is. Although I did show up for Bingo, Bingo did not show up for me. As I walked toward the Bingo room, my stomach sank. It was dark. The only person inside was mopping. And there was a sign taped to the window: “Bingo cancelled 10-13-10.” Oh, perfect.
I had been whole-body exhausted all day. I had to get up at 4 the next morning for my son’s golf-team breakfast. And now I didn’t need to be here at all. I might have grumbled out loud.
And that’s where the soldiers come in.
“Thank you for coming, anyway, Sandy,” said Mac, who had been holding out hope for a round of Bingo.
I smiled and thanked him for thanking me. Then I saw Bill Crowell, who was smiling even more.
“Mr. Crowell,” I trilled. “Where have you been?”
(As I’d mentioned earlier, my parents and I had looked for Bill twice while they were here.)
“I’m sorry I missed your parents,” he said. “I was hoping to ask for your hand in marriage.”
(As I’d mentioned earlier, I had a funny feeling he might say that.)
Earlier, after my morning snubbing, I had found Gary, who had put another poker tournament on the calendar for Sunday. The good news: I was invited back to deal. The bad news: Only three people had signed up. I told Gary I’d make an announcement at Bingo to try to drum up some players—but we all know how that turned out.
And I’d found Mike. Twice. The first time, he didn’t look so hot. A wonderful nurse was feeding him some pudding, and milk from a straw. Mike was kind of mumbly and unfocused, likely the result of his new medications. We talked after the nurse left, but for quite a while he just wasn’t very Mike-like. And then he gently encircled my wrist with his hand.
“I didn’t know you were here before, but all of I sudden I felt like something had lifted,” he told me. “I started to feel better, and then I looked up, and you were here.” He seemed very sincere, and I was trying very hard not to cry. “You are good medicine,” he said.
He did, suddenly, seem worlds better. He asked how my meeting with the superintendent had gone. He was thrilled about my son’s last golf match. And when another nurse came in to ask whether he was feeling all right (on my way to fill Mike’s coffee cup, I had stopped at the nurses’ station to express my concerns), Mike told him, “I am now.”
The nurse gave me a shrug, like, “Huh. He seems fine.” I gave one back. The nurse said he’d be back soon to give Mike his 2 pm medicine. “That’s not soon,” Mike told him. “That’s three hours from now. Maybe you’d better check how you’re feeling.”
Now that’s Mike-like. And that’s when I realized my “two trips in one day without a real purpose” just might have had a purpose, after all.
It’s a good thing there are actual soldiers at the Soldiers Home, or else today would have been supremely frustrating.
A week or so ago, I got a call that the superintendent of the Soldiers Home wanted to meet with me. I had no idea why, but this morning I packed up my Web-site info, just in case, and headed out for my 10:30 appointment. At 10:10, while I was in the restroom at Chilson Hall, my phone rang. The superintendent was sick. Our meeting was off. “Argh,” I whined to the poor messenger. “I wish I had known that an hour ago.” Now I had to go home and then come right back again for Bingo night.
But I didn’t. Have to, that is. Although I did show up for Bingo, Bingo did not show up for me. As I walked toward the Bingo room, my stomach sank. It was dark. The only person inside was mopping. And there was a sign taped to the window: “Bingo cancelled 10-13-10.” Oh, perfect.
I had been whole-body exhausted all day. I had to get up at 4 the next morning for my son’s golf-team breakfast. And now I didn’t need to be here at all. I might have grumbled out loud.
And that’s where the soldiers come in.
“Thank you for coming, anyway, Sandy,” said Mac, who had been holding out hope for a round of Bingo.
I smiled and thanked him for thanking me. Then I saw Bill Crowell, who was smiling even more.
“Mr. Crowell,” I trilled. “Where have you been?”
(As I’d mentioned earlier, my parents and I had looked for Bill twice while they were here.)
“I’m sorry I missed your parents,” he said. “I was hoping to ask for your hand in marriage.”
(As I’d mentioned earlier, I had a funny feeling he might say that.)
Earlier, after my morning snubbing, I had found Gary, who had put another poker tournament on the calendar for Sunday. The good news: I was invited back to deal. The bad news: Only three people had signed up. I told Gary I’d make an announcement at Bingo to try to drum up some players—but we all know how that turned out.
And I’d found Mike. Twice. The first time, he didn’t look so hot. A wonderful nurse was feeding him some pudding, and milk from a straw. Mike was kind of mumbly and unfocused, likely the result of his new medications. We talked after the nurse left, but for quite a while he just wasn’t very Mike-like. And then he gently encircled my wrist with his hand.
“I didn’t know you were here before, but all of I sudden I felt like something had lifted,” he told me. “I started to feel better, and then I looked up, and you were here.” He seemed very sincere, and I was trying very hard not to cry. “You are good medicine,” he said.
He did, suddenly, seem worlds better. He asked how my meeting with the superintendent had gone. He was thrilled about my son’s last golf match. And when another nurse came in to ask whether he was feeling all right (on my way to fill Mike’s coffee cup, I had stopped at the nurses’ station to express my concerns), Mike told him, “I am now.”
The nurse gave me a shrug, like, “Huh. He seems fine.” I gave one back. The nurse said he’d be back soon to give Mike his 2 pm medicine. “That’s not soon,” Mike told him. “That’s three hours from now. Maybe you’d better check how you’re feeling.”
Now that’s Mike-like. And that’s when I realized my “two trips in one day without a real purpose” just might have had a purpose, after all.
RSS Feed