The day I met him, his roommate had just dumped his entire lunch tray on the floor in a fit of coughing: 3 small glasses worth of apple juice, a glass of milk, a flattened roll, some chicken dish with green beans, jello, countless pieces of glass, a warm plate amazingly unbroken, all mixed and mashed and scattered on the floor.
I was in the hallway when I heard the coughing, followed by the crash of the tray. I turned around and entered the room. I spoke to the roommate, made sure he wasn't choking, and surveyed the damage. I began to clean up the large pieces of the mess, dumping them into a trashcan. As I leaned down by his bed to pick up a chunk of glass, his hand reached out and touched the top of my head. I was startled, as I hadn't even realized he was awake.
I looked up to see him staring down at my from the edge of his pillow. Eyes, yellow and red, one a blueish gray color from the cataract. Shiny, feverish, but alive, looking back into mine.
"Hi, Mr. R. I didn't realize you were awake."
His lips moved, but no sound emerged. He began blinking rapidly, touching his tongue to his upper lip, and still tapping my head with one hand.
I finished cleaning up what I could of the mess, and then sat on the edge of his bed, surveying the mess within his bed sheets. His body was mangled, losing the battle with arthritis. His skin was ashy, yet still beautiful blue-black mahogany beneath all those scars. He had no clothes, so it was easy to see that under the sheets, he was skin and bones, a slight skeleton. His hands and head seemed grossly out of proportion with the rest of his body. He had a full head of salt and pepper gray hair-a huge 'fro, in fact.
He reached for my hand, and maintained eye contact.
"Mr. R, is there something I can get you?"
His lips never stopped moving. I bent down, placing my ear near his mouth, straining to hear his words:
".....Need more..."
"What do you need?" I began rearranging his sheets and his pillows and his bones. I moved his call light closer to his other hand. As I moved to re-adjust his neck, he placed his hand on my wrist, mid-stride.
"...time....need more time...."
I stopped.
I am so silly sometimes. I am always doing and helping and thinking and saving. I forget sometimes, that I am not listening.
"What do you mean? More time? For...?"
I placed my hands in my lap. He left his long fingers wrapped around my wrist.
He began slowly tapping his thumb on the underside of my wrist.
I waited.
He maintained eye contact.
I smiled.
Finally:
"....I don't know you.....but....I know of you.....I need more time.....to talk to you....."
And then he fell asleep.
I sat for a few minutes, poised on the edge of his bed, holding my breath, waiting.
He didn't stir.
I left the room confused. I was told he didn't talk, didn't respond to people, rarely responded to touch.
Later that afternoon, I went back by his room. He was seemingly in the same position, unchanged yet different. His eyes followed me as I walked across the room, towards his bed. I smiled and said hello.
His response: "...did you hear?...that I don't talk?"
I laughed out loud. Yes, that's indeed what I had heard.
Only once, in all the time I knew him, did he do this: He laughed. A gruff, throaty laugh, that I almost missed.
*****
I visited him daily. Sometimes he said only a handful of words, sometimes none, sometimes his mouth moved but his throat did not. But he always made eye contact, and I learned his facial expressions-the tiny nuances, the subtle changes in the planes of his cheekbones when he was in pain, the secrets among the creases around his eyes when he smiled.
He grew sicker. Weaker. Thinner.
He talked less.
No one believed that he talked. He was dismissed by so many.
He was homeless prior to landing in our facility.
I don't know his past life; he didn't speak of it. I learned later that he had been in the military.
****
One morning he didn't respond to my voice, didn't make eye contact, didn't speak. I worried for him, as co-workers talked circles around me of who would take his bed when he was gone.
I spent an afternoon with him, in the darkness of his room, listening to the oxygen machine compete for breathing space.
I sat in a chair next to his bed, too afraid that I would somehow hurt him if I sat on the edge of his bed. I reached for his hand at times, rubbing lotion into the ashy lines. I brushed his hair, and leaned over, whispering in his ear, random things, for my sake, not his.
I stayed in his room long after I should have left for the day.
When I said my goodbyes, there was no squeeze of the hand, no whisper on my wrist, no last words.
I got a call a few hours later, that he had passed.
I still feel bad that he essentially died alone. No family. No friends.
I think of him from time to time, and dream of his past, wishing he had spoken more.
His words: "Need more time". They come to mind sometimes, and I smile, recalling his huge head of hair and his deep voice.
I roll those three words around in my mouth, twist them with my tongue, try them up and down and upside down. I learn to deal with the bitter taste they leave, waiting for them to grow sweet.
I have put those three words on my bulletin board at work. Until I figure out their meaning, they are a good reminder for me: slow down, breathe, stop, listen.
Need more time.
Showing posts with label story time. Show all posts
Showing posts with label story time. Show all posts
1.27.2012
9.02.2011
(No longer) For the taking-Part IV
Part I
Part II
Part III
It was a week or so before his cousin responded to my email. And when she did, I couldn't breath. I remember standing in my kitchen, and becoming conscious of this tightness in my chest and knowing I needed to breathe, just breathe for damn sake.
He spent all day cleaning his place. He was off for the day.
He waited until almost midnight to eat.
He went to McDonalds, got 2 double cheeseburgers and a drink.
His roommate found him the next morning in his bedroom. There was one double cheeseburger in the bag.
He had waited too long to eat. He had waited too long to take notice of his blood sugar.
As I type these words, I feel my face grow hot with anger and grief, even now. Damn it Kevin, why the hell weren't you paying attention to yourself?? How could you let yourself go so long that you DIED?? It seems so unnecessary.
He was cremated. His ashes were thrown off the California coast, scattered into the Pacific. There is no grave to visit.
Images of him flash in my head, flipping faster and faster through memories, so young, so full of life. And this picture, the most recent of him that I have:
The week I found out about Kevin's death is the same week my now ex-husband told me he no longer wanted to be married to me. To say the least, my emotions about these two things are all twisted and knotted and forever tangled. I tried to push out my thoughts of Kevin's death...I had to focus on my all-of-a-sudden crumbling life. Yet....
I stopped to grab a smoothie and a water on my way to one of my grad classes. I shoved the receipt into my bag without a thought. Sitting in class, I pulled my notepad out of my bag, and the receipt fell into my lap. The total was $5.38.
Between my 2nd & 3rd classes, I ran over to Wendy's for a quick lunch. The total? $5.38.
That evening, after my last class, I met with 2 friends at a local bar. I was sick to my stomach about all the shit going on in my life, and needed my friends. I ordered some foo-foo martini as we all talked. Our server's shift was over, so we had to close our tabs out before getting a new server. My total? $5.38.
It was barely a blip on my radar the first 2 times. But that time? I burst into tears, realizing the impact of 3 damn numbers in a certain order.
The significance? Back in the days of pagers, when my friends would page, they would add their name at the end of phone number so I would know who it was. 538 was Kev, for Kevin.
I sat in that bar and sobbed. I explained to my friends the numbers, the connection between Kevin and I, my grief at losing someone I had already lost, years ago. And someone played this song on the jukebox:
And now I can't hear that damn song without being filled with that overwhelming ache no one can explain but everyone can conjur up in their soul if they just think about it for a second or two.
And the number, 538? I see it all the time. I get it as a total somewhere. I wake up out of a dead sleep and it is 5:38am when I glance over at my alarm clock. I sit in traffic on the way home, and I happen to glance at the clock several times a week when it says 5:38. I don't do it on purpose. And each time, I just sorta laugh, because it's ridiculous.
When I knew there was no saving my marriage, I went to that park, in the hopes that I could find some strength in one of my old 'spots'. I sat in the parking lot of the park, but I couldn't move. I sat there, willing my hands to open the door, my legs to propel me down that path towards that 3rd curve, where I was so hoping I could find some answers, maybe a little bit of peace. But, no. I sat frozen in my car, staring at the walking path, fearful of everything.
I sat there until dusk. I felt very empty, but overwhelmingly full of so much. I closed my eyes for awhile, with my head on the steering wheel, arms cradled, exhausted from the crying, from the thinking, from the reasoning with myself, with God, with no one. I had felt alone for so long, but this was one of the worst moments.
I don't know how long I was asleep. I heard, in my head, someone say my name. I woke with a start, and for a brief moment didn't know where I was, how long I had been there, why I was there. I glanced out the windshield, seeing the path, remembering. I looked at the clock, 5:38. I shook my head, beginning to feel a little crazy about these numbers.
But suddenly? I did not feel so alone. I'm sure I sound as crazy as I felt, but I had the strongest feeling that he was there. My body was covered in goosebumps, and I felt a calmness I hadn't felt in a long time. I sat frozen, willing the feeling--him--to stay.
Of course, it passed.
Now: I still see that number on receipts, on the alarm clock. I still hear songs sometimes, and I think of him. And these things pop up at the most appropriate times, and I just smile and shake my head.
And I still grieve for him. I googled his name, and found a video someone posted of him, the year he passed away. And I sat in awe, to hear his laugh and his voice and to see his smile and see him move and be alive.... I cried and cried. I was hoping to find a video of him playing his guitar. I wish so badly that I still had the tapes of the songs he played and sent me. I wish so badly that he was alive....he had such a strong spirit and such a talent for music. It kills me to think that there is music out there, that none of us will ever experience, because it was in his head, his heart, and it was never transposed into a melody we all could hear.
There's a teeny part of me that knows it's ridiculous to grieve for someone I had lost so long ago. But that part of me is also the same part of me that thinks *I* am to blame for my ex-husband no longer loving me. It's irrational. So I push that part of me back down into the darkness, and push forward.
I miss him. I can't believe that after all he went through with drugs, the near-death experience in high school....that he would still ignore his blood sugar.
I walk through my days, carrying his tune within my soul, jumbled up and mixed with the tunes of so many other memories.
Part II
Part III
It was a week or so before his cousin responded to my email. And when she did, I couldn't breath. I remember standing in my kitchen, and becoming conscious of this tightness in my chest and knowing I needed to breathe, just breathe for damn sake.
He spent all day cleaning his place. He was off for the day.
He waited until almost midnight to eat.
He went to McDonalds, got 2 double cheeseburgers and a drink.
His roommate found him the next morning in his bedroom. There was one double cheeseburger in the bag.
He had waited too long to eat. He had waited too long to take notice of his blood sugar.
As I type these words, I feel my face grow hot with anger and grief, even now. Damn it Kevin, why the hell weren't you paying attention to yourself?? How could you let yourself go so long that you DIED?? It seems so unnecessary.
He was cremated. His ashes were thrown off the California coast, scattered into the Pacific. There is no grave to visit.
Images of him flash in my head, flipping faster and faster through memories, so young, so full of life. And this picture, the most recent of him that I have:
The week I found out about Kevin's death is the same week my now ex-husband told me he no longer wanted to be married to me. To say the least, my emotions about these two things are all twisted and knotted and forever tangled. I tried to push out my thoughts of Kevin's death...I had to focus on my all-of-a-sudden crumbling life. Yet....
I stopped to grab a smoothie and a water on my way to one of my grad classes. I shoved the receipt into my bag without a thought. Sitting in class, I pulled my notepad out of my bag, and the receipt fell into my lap. The total was $5.38.
Between my 2nd & 3rd classes, I ran over to Wendy's for a quick lunch. The total? $5.38.
That evening, after my last class, I met with 2 friends at a local bar. I was sick to my stomach about all the shit going on in my life, and needed my friends. I ordered some foo-foo martini as we all talked. Our server's shift was over, so we had to close our tabs out before getting a new server. My total? $5.38.
It was barely a blip on my radar the first 2 times. But that time? I burst into tears, realizing the impact of 3 damn numbers in a certain order.
The significance? Back in the days of pagers, when my friends would page, they would add their name at the end of phone number so I would know who it was. 538 was Kev, for Kevin.
I sat in that bar and sobbed. I explained to my friends the numbers, the connection between Kevin and I, my grief at losing someone I had already lost, years ago. And someone played this song on the jukebox:
And now I can't hear that damn song without being filled with that overwhelming ache no one can explain but everyone can conjur up in their soul if they just think about it for a second or two.
And the number, 538? I see it all the time. I get it as a total somewhere. I wake up out of a dead sleep and it is 5:38am when I glance over at my alarm clock. I sit in traffic on the way home, and I happen to glance at the clock several times a week when it says 5:38. I don't do it on purpose. And each time, I just sorta laugh, because it's ridiculous.
When I knew there was no saving my marriage, I went to that park, in the hopes that I could find some strength in one of my old 'spots'. I sat in the parking lot of the park, but I couldn't move. I sat there, willing my hands to open the door, my legs to propel me down that path towards that 3rd curve, where I was so hoping I could find some answers, maybe a little bit of peace. But, no. I sat frozen in my car, staring at the walking path, fearful of everything.
I sat there until dusk. I felt very empty, but overwhelmingly full of so much. I closed my eyes for awhile, with my head on the steering wheel, arms cradled, exhausted from the crying, from the thinking, from the reasoning with myself, with God, with no one. I had felt alone for so long, but this was one of the worst moments.
I don't know how long I was asleep. I heard, in my head, someone say my name. I woke with a start, and for a brief moment didn't know where I was, how long I had been there, why I was there. I glanced out the windshield, seeing the path, remembering. I looked at the clock, 5:38. I shook my head, beginning to feel a little crazy about these numbers.
But suddenly? I did not feel so alone. I'm sure I sound as crazy as I felt, but I had the strongest feeling that he was there. My body was covered in goosebumps, and I felt a calmness I hadn't felt in a long time. I sat frozen, willing the feeling--him--to stay.
Of course, it passed.
Now: I still see that number on receipts, on the alarm clock. I still hear songs sometimes, and I think of him. And these things pop up at the most appropriate times, and I just smile and shake my head.
And I still grieve for him. I googled his name, and found a video someone posted of him, the year he passed away. And I sat in awe, to hear his laugh and his voice and to see his smile and see him move and be alive.... I cried and cried. I was hoping to find a video of him playing his guitar. I wish so badly that I still had the tapes of the songs he played and sent me. I wish so badly that he was alive....he had such a strong spirit and such a talent for music. It kills me to think that there is music out there, that none of us will ever experience, because it was in his head, his heart, and it was never transposed into a melody we all could hear.
There's a teeny part of me that knows it's ridiculous to grieve for someone I had lost so long ago. But that part of me is also the same part of me that thinks *I* am to blame for my ex-husband no longer loving me. It's irrational. So I push that part of me back down into the darkness, and push forward.
I miss him. I can't believe that after all he went through with drugs, the near-death experience in high school....that he would still ignore his blood sugar.
I walk through my days, carrying his tune within my soul, jumbled up and mixed with the tunes of so many other memories.
12.03.2010
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
Mrs. H was probably one of my most-loved residents on the Alzheimer's floor. With disheveled-looking clothing, comfortable slippers, and messy hair, she walked around the unit with a beautiful smile.
She had a voice like maple syrup, thick and sweet. She sang Christian hymns and nursery rhymes easily, her tone as smooth as silk.
My body would become a sea of goosebumps when she would sing Amazing Grace, crooning softly, eyes closed, open face tilted up towards the sky, rocking easily.
Soft skin like tissue paper, warm to the touch. She let me smooth her hair off of her forehead when it fell into her eyes.
She let me grasp her hands when she spoke, eager to caress my arm or knee.
She didn't know who I was, but she knew me.
She always asked how my mother was doing, and asked me to send her regards.
She was polite and sincere in her responses to my questions.
She was a total jokester, making others laugh, brushing off compliments by slighting herself with a laugh in her voice & a silly sparkle in her eye.
She had the most beautiful blue eyes.
One morning, I did not see her in the living room area when I entered the floor, nor did I hear her voice singing out Amazing Grace. I was told she was still in bed. She was no longer able to walk. Just like that.
I went to her room, finding her resting in bed with her eyes closed. She spoke easily, and sang for me when I asked.
A few days later, she could no longer sing.
Or feed herself.
She didn't want to get up to get dressed.
She began hallucinating, mumbling and confusing words, sentences, the past & the present.
She wasn't able to answer my questions, but still purred "Thank you" with a beautiful, face-full smile when I commented on her blue eyes.
The last day of my internship, I sat by her bed, softly massaging her hands and arms. I don't know how long I stayed, singing quietly, studying the plains of emotion on her face, watching the movement behind her closed eyelids, praying that she would open her eyes, say something, smile, anything. I glanced at the pictures of her and her children hung on the wall above her bed, allowing myself to grieve the loss of this wonderful woman.
I am sad that she is in the end stages.
I am relieved that she does not seem to be aware of this, although I worry that she might be.
I am angry, so futily furious, that this disease is taking over, that her brain is dying-bit by bit, haphazardly yet beautifully articulated.
I have not gone back to visit her. I hope that she doesn't know this. I hope that she is still alive. She is the first one that I cannot bear to visit, the first one that I am avoiding not seeing, the first one that I fear hearing about.
I am afraid to see that light of hope extinguished in those aqua eyes.
I ache to think that the walls no longer echo her voice singing Amazing Grace.
I woke from a dream early this morning, where she was sitting on my couch with my mother and deceased grandmother, discussing photography and pianos. When I walked in the room, she motioned me over. I sat at her feet, placing my hands in hers. She pulled my head into her lap, wiping my hair off my forehead, and whispered,
"I once was lost, but now am found; blind, but now I see."
When I raised my head off of her lap, throat tight, she looked down at me with those aqua eyes, shook her head, and began singing the song, clear and strong.
She had a voice like maple syrup, thick and sweet. She sang Christian hymns and nursery rhymes easily, her tone as smooth as silk.
My body would become a sea of goosebumps when she would sing Amazing Grace, crooning softly, eyes closed, open face tilted up towards the sky, rocking easily.
Soft skin like tissue paper, warm to the touch. She let me smooth her hair off of her forehead when it fell into her eyes.
She let me grasp her hands when she spoke, eager to caress my arm or knee.
She didn't know who I was, but she knew me.
She always asked how my mother was doing, and asked me to send her regards.
She was polite and sincere in her responses to my questions.
She was a total jokester, making others laugh, brushing off compliments by slighting herself with a laugh in her voice & a silly sparkle in her eye.
She had the most beautiful blue eyes.
One morning, I did not see her in the living room area when I entered the floor, nor did I hear her voice singing out Amazing Grace. I was told she was still in bed. She was no longer able to walk. Just like that.
I went to her room, finding her resting in bed with her eyes closed. She spoke easily, and sang for me when I asked.
A few days later, she could no longer sing.
Or feed herself.
She didn't want to get up to get dressed.
She began hallucinating, mumbling and confusing words, sentences, the past & the present.
She wasn't able to answer my questions, but still purred "Thank you" with a beautiful, face-full smile when I commented on her blue eyes.
The last day of my internship, I sat by her bed, softly massaging her hands and arms. I don't know how long I stayed, singing quietly, studying the plains of emotion on her face, watching the movement behind her closed eyelids, praying that she would open her eyes, say something, smile, anything. I glanced at the pictures of her and her children hung on the wall above her bed, allowing myself to grieve the loss of this wonderful woman.
I am sad that she is in the end stages.
I am relieved that she does not seem to be aware of this, although I worry that she might be.
I am angry, so futily furious, that this disease is taking over, that her brain is dying-bit by bit, haphazardly yet beautifully articulated.
I have not gone back to visit her. I hope that she doesn't know this. I hope that she is still alive. She is the first one that I cannot bear to visit, the first one that I am avoiding not seeing, the first one that I fear hearing about.
I am afraid to see that light of hope extinguished in those aqua eyes.
I ache to think that the walls no longer echo her voice singing Amazing Grace.
I woke from a dream early this morning, where she was sitting on my couch with my mother and deceased grandmother, discussing photography and pianos. When I walked in the room, she motioned me over. I sat at her feet, placing my hands in hers. She pulled my head into her lap, wiping my hair off my forehead, and whispered,
"I once was lost, but now am found; blind, but now I see."
When I raised my head off of her lap, throat tight, she looked down at me with those aqua eyes, shook her head, and began singing the song, clear and strong.
10.06.2010
A perfectly suited name
She is terminal. Almost 20 years ago she had one of the worst cancers possible (how can anyone say one cancer is worse than another? I don't know. But...), causing her to have a total hysterectomy and lose half of her small bowel. Her husband left.
She drove herself to the hospital when she discovered her pants full of blood.
Her husband never returned.
Now.
Now she is here. She survived that, so surely she can survive this. This rectal cancer. This painful, invisible EVIL that is causing her so much pain. Now, on top of it all: burns all over the lower portion of her body, from the chemo.
I am to discuss her options with her. She is not frail at all, only thin. I am taken in by her strength as soon as I cross the threshold of her room. She is in a hospital gown, pulling on sweatpants.
"Have a seat, but first help me with this." So matter-of-fact.
I help her pull her sweatpants up, find a loose shirt. She pulls her gown off, not needing my help, but allowing it. There is a spot on her lower back: red, raw, newly infected. I touch the area ever-so-slightly.
"How does it look today?"
I tell her what I see. She nods. Smiles.
She shows me these gauzy type of disposible underwear that the hospital gave her, just like the ones they gave me after having my daughter. She asks me to find out where she can get them. They are the only things that don't hurt, but tells me "If I can't buy a case, I'll just go commando."
I laugh as my eyes fill with tears. I sit in the chair as she settles onto the edge of her bed, haphazardly leaning on her left hip.
"Please don't cry."
I tell her I won't. But I sorta am. I close my eyes, pushing the vision of her lower back out of my mind.
"My name is Ms. Noble. What is yours?"
I tell her. She smiles.
So. Options.
"Here's my only option, in my head: I am going home. I don't want any more treatment. I want to go home and read and clean my house and sit in my backyard and spend time with my friends and family and I will be damned if I am going to wait for death to show up. Death will have to wait for me."
My eyes fill again, and she begins to giggle. Chimes in a soft breeze.
I discuss the option of hospice, and of a home health agency coming into her home to meet any needs she has. She is polite-she listens and nods in all the right places.
Yet.
She asks to be discharged. She wants to go home. I can't argue with that. I won't.
She reaches across this space between us, this span of 30 years, of health & disease, of faith & fear, and places her hand on my arm. Strength and bravery are transmitted through her cold fingertips.
"You won't argue with me. I know it."
Three days later, she is walking down the hallway on her own. She lights up when she sees me.
"I have a case of those disposible undies in my room. Thank you for finding them!"
I tell her it was the central supply lady who found them.
"I am going home tomorrow."
I tell her I had nothing to do with that either. She made the decision. And I tell her I am happy for her. I ask her what she will do first, when she gets home.
"I will put on my favorite pajama pants and T-shirt, grab a favorite book, make my favorite drink, and go sit out in my backyard. I will enjoy life. I will not feel pain. I will not be afraid."
Her favorite book: To Kill A Mockingbird. Drink: A mimosa.
I walk with her back to her room, talking about books and drinks and gardens and death. I tell her I am struck by her bravery. Again: chimes in a soft breeze.
She runs her hands through her peach-fuzz head of hair.
"There's no bravery. Only love. Life. Faith."
An embrace. A smile full of light. Chimes in a final, soft breeze.
I think of Ms. Noble when I want to curl up in my bed and cry. When I want to turn away from the pain. When I wish for someone to take the discomfort of life away from me, just for a second.
I think of her, and know that I can do this. I can handle this.
I will learn to laugh like windchimes, and push the fear & pain away.
She drove herself to the hospital when she discovered her pants full of blood.
Her husband never returned.
Now.
Now she is here. She survived that, so surely she can survive this. This rectal cancer. This painful, invisible EVIL that is causing her so much pain. Now, on top of it all: burns all over the lower portion of her body, from the chemo.
I am to discuss her options with her. She is not frail at all, only thin. I am taken in by her strength as soon as I cross the threshold of her room. She is in a hospital gown, pulling on sweatpants.
"Have a seat, but first help me with this." So matter-of-fact.
I help her pull her sweatpants up, find a loose shirt. She pulls her gown off, not needing my help, but allowing it. There is a spot on her lower back: red, raw, newly infected. I touch the area ever-so-slightly.
"How does it look today?"
I tell her what I see. She nods. Smiles.
She shows me these gauzy type of disposible underwear that the hospital gave her, just like the ones they gave me after having my daughter. She asks me to find out where she can get them. They are the only things that don't hurt, but tells me "If I can't buy a case, I'll just go commando."
I laugh as my eyes fill with tears. I sit in the chair as she settles onto the edge of her bed, haphazardly leaning on her left hip.
"Please don't cry."
I tell her I won't. But I sorta am. I close my eyes, pushing the vision of her lower back out of my mind.
"My name is Ms. Noble. What is yours?"
I tell her. She smiles.
So. Options.
"Here's my only option, in my head: I am going home. I don't want any more treatment. I want to go home and read and clean my house and sit in my backyard and spend time with my friends and family and I will be damned if I am going to wait for death to show up. Death will have to wait for me."
My eyes fill again, and she begins to giggle. Chimes in a soft breeze.
I discuss the option of hospice, and of a home health agency coming into her home to meet any needs she has. She is polite-she listens and nods in all the right places.
Yet.
She asks to be discharged. She wants to go home. I can't argue with that. I won't.
She reaches across this space between us, this span of 30 years, of health & disease, of faith & fear, and places her hand on my arm. Strength and bravery are transmitted through her cold fingertips.
"You won't argue with me. I know it."
Three days later, she is walking down the hallway on her own. She lights up when she sees me.
"I have a case of those disposible undies in my room. Thank you for finding them!"
I tell her it was the central supply lady who found them.
"I am going home tomorrow."
I tell her I had nothing to do with that either. She made the decision. And I tell her I am happy for her. I ask her what she will do first, when she gets home.
"I will put on my favorite pajama pants and T-shirt, grab a favorite book, make my favorite drink, and go sit out in my backyard. I will enjoy life. I will not feel pain. I will not be afraid."
Her favorite book: To Kill A Mockingbird. Drink: A mimosa.
I walk with her back to her room, talking about books and drinks and gardens and death. I tell her I am struck by her bravery. Again: chimes in a soft breeze.
She runs her hands through her peach-fuzz head of hair.
"There's no bravery. Only love. Life. Faith."
An embrace. A smile full of light. Chimes in a final, soft breeze.
I think of Ms. Noble when I want to curl up in my bed and cry. When I want to turn away from the pain. When I wish for someone to take the discomfort of life away from me, just for a second.
I think of her, and know that I can do this. I can handle this.
I will learn to laugh like windchimes, and push the fear & pain away.
9.30.2010
The weight of tears
I interrupted his physical therapy session with a light touch to his shoulder.
"How are you doing today, Mr. C?"
He turns in his wheelchair, peering up into my face.
There are tears streaming down his weathered face, filling the creases, dripping down into his lap, where his large unused hands lie.
"Well, I think I have been better, although this lady," nodding his head towards the physical therapist standing in front of his wheelchair, "seems to think I am improving in some way."
I respond, "Well that's wonderful! Can you show me your progress?"
His answer, "I am fairly certain she is full of shit."
Oh. Well.
But. He looks back at the PT and smiles, following her lead. He reaches for the bar on the wall, and slowly eases himself out of the wheelchair, onto his slippered feet. He takes one hand, then the other, off of the bar. And balances himself. And stands.
He turns to face me again, this time looking down towards me, now that he is standing as tall as he can. There are still tears.
I smile, I speak words of encouragement and praise, and then I watch his smile falter to the point of falling.
As he lowers himself back into the wheelchair, I sink down to the floor, squatting next to him. The PT leaves us to ourselves at the end of the hallway. He has recently moved to this floor, the end-stage Alzheimer's & dementia floor.He is skin and bones, covered in tattoos from his time in the military. He is wearing his beret over his thin white hair, sticking out in tufts.
"Mr. C, is there something I can help you with today? Something I can do or say? Are you feeling okay?"
He sits in silence and smiles this pained knowing smile. He shakes his head. His nose is running.
He begins this story. He is looking for the picture of his mother. It is the only one he has left. Since he moved here, he cannot find it. He then begins to talk about how he cannot find his wife, and he is just as worried about her as he is about the missing picture of his mother. He was in her "house" this morning, and "I pray to God that she is okay" because "she has been through so much" and "I know her parents, and they would be so disappointed to hear that she did it again". I am getting confused, but I am nodding, and I reach for one of his hands. It is cold so I begin to gently rub it, transferring some of my warmth.
He watches my hands on his. I watch his face, searching for answers to questions I don't even know to ask. I open my mouth to say...something.....and clamp it closed again when he looks me in the eyes. He puts his free hand on my arm, slides it up slowly, maintaining eye contact. His hand reaches my shoulder; it is cold. It slides up my neck, around my jaw, to my cheek. He pats my cheek, maintaining eye contact. Crying.
"There is nothing you can do. It is okay. There is nothing."
His hand sits on my cheek. We sit in silence for a few minutes. I feel my eyes well up, my face is screaming from the smiling, his hand is growing warm. I want to look away, but know that I must not.
He nods again, and drops his hand.
I stop rubbing his other hand.
Silence.
He asks me to take him home, so I wheel him to his room, right behind us. On his bed, there are two pictures: one of his mother, and another of his wife. His face lights up when he sees them. I help him to sit on his bed, and tell him I will come visit with him again later. He is caressing the pictures, crying still, when I walk out of his room.
I am standing in the hallway where he cannot see me, thinking about this encounter, trying to control these emotions that probably have nothing to do with him. He calls out to me:
"Thank you."
*****
I find out later that he was in his wife's room before I visited with him (who is also in the end stages of Alzheimer's and pretty much sleeps non-stop) when she had a seizure. We aren't even sure that he is always aware that it is his wife, but he was very upset by the seizure. It seems that I found him in a pretty lucid state after that incident.
I find him later in the afternoon, sitting in front of a window staring at nothing, tissues in one hand and the picture of his mother in the other. I kneel down, and focus my eyes in the direction of the window, and comment on the beautiful view. He places his hand on my arm, and tells me "All we can do is pray to God. All we can do is be thankful for His blessings." I agree with him. He opens his mouth, shakes his head as though he has rethought his comment, and says nothing.
Then:
"The weight of this is too much alone. Thank you for being with me."
"How are you doing today, Mr. C?"
He turns in his wheelchair, peering up into my face.
There are tears streaming down his weathered face, filling the creases, dripping down into his lap, where his large unused hands lie.
"Well, I think I have been better, although this lady," nodding his head towards the physical therapist standing in front of his wheelchair, "seems to think I am improving in some way."
I respond, "Well that's wonderful! Can you show me your progress?"
His answer, "I am fairly certain she is full of shit."
Oh. Well.
But. He looks back at the PT and smiles, following her lead. He reaches for the bar on the wall, and slowly eases himself out of the wheelchair, onto his slippered feet. He takes one hand, then the other, off of the bar. And balances himself. And stands.
He turns to face me again, this time looking down towards me, now that he is standing as tall as he can. There are still tears.
I smile, I speak words of encouragement and praise, and then I watch his smile falter to the point of falling.
As he lowers himself back into the wheelchair, I sink down to the floor, squatting next to him. The PT leaves us to ourselves at the end of the hallway. He has recently moved to this floor, the end-stage Alzheimer's & dementia floor.He is skin and bones, covered in tattoos from his time in the military. He is wearing his beret over his thin white hair, sticking out in tufts.
"Mr. C, is there something I can help you with today? Something I can do or say? Are you feeling okay?"
He sits in silence and smiles this pained knowing smile. He shakes his head. His nose is running.
He begins this story. He is looking for the picture of his mother. It is the only one he has left. Since he moved here, he cannot find it. He then begins to talk about how he cannot find his wife, and he is just as worried about her as he is about the missing picture of his mother. He was in her "house" this morning, and "I pray to God that she is okay" because "she has been through so much" and "I know her parents, and they would be so disappointed to hear that she did it again". I am getting confused, but I am nodding, and I reach for one of his hands. It is cold so I begin to gently rub it, transferring some of my warmth.
He watches my hands on his. I watch his face, searching for answers to questions I don't even know to ask. I open my mouth to say...something.....and clamp it closed again when he looks me in the eyes. He puts his free hand on my arm, slides it up slowly, maintaining eye contact. His hand reaches my shoulder; it is cold. It slides up my neck, around my jaw, to my cheek. He pats my cheek, maintaining eye contact. Crying.
"There is nothing you can do. It is okay. There is nothing."
His hand sits on my cheek. We sit in silence for a few minutes. I feel my eyes well up, my face is screaming from the smiling, his hand is growing warm. I want to look away, but know that I must not.
He nods again, and drops his hand.
I stop rubbing his other hand.
Silence.
He asks me to take him home, so I wheel him to his room, right behind us. On his bed, there are two pictures: one of his mother, and another of his wife. His face lights up when he sees them. I help him to sit on his bed, and tell him I will come visit with him again later. He is caressing the pictures, crying still, when I walk out of his room.
I am standing in the hallway where he cannot see me, thinking about this encounter, trying to control these emotions that probably have nothing to do with him. He calls out to me:
"Thank you."
*****
I find out later that he was in his wife's room before I visited with him (who is also in the end stages of Alzheimer's and pretty much sleeps non-stop) when she had a seizure. We aren't even sure that he is always aware that it is his wife, but he was very upset by the seizure. It seems that I found him in a pretty lucid state after that incident.
I find him later in the afternoon, sitting in front of a window staring at nothing, tissues in one hand and the picture of his mother in the other. I kneel down, and focus my eyes in the direction of the window, and comment on the beautiful view. He places his hand on my arm, and tells me "All we can do is pray to God. All we can do is be thankful for His blessings." I agree with him. He opens his mouth, shakes his head as though he has rethought his comment, and says nothing.
Then:
"The weight of this is too much alone. Thank you for being with me."
9.28.2010
Blue days, black nights
When I was younger, I had this reoccurring dream. Fair warning here: my dreams are usually pretty f-ed up, so FAIR WARNING.
I was in the girls' bathroom of my elementary school, crouched in a stall, clutching a book.
I had a sense that I had stolen the book, although I have no idea why.
It was painfully loud...I was surrounded by the scream of jet engines, and the pornographic beat of thousands of drums, and there was the rumbling of a fierce storm in my chest.
I squatted, with my back against the door, staring at a lone drop of urine on the toilet seat a few inches from my face.
As I grew older and realized I could control some of my actions in these dreams, I would attempt to will my gaze to the floor, or the cover of the book I clutched...anything but that damn drop of urine. Yet my eyes deceived me, and I would be slapped with an intense anger aimed at myself, for not being strong enough.
The roof would blow off, and what was already a powerful sound would somehow amp up. Rather than cover my ears, I would squeeze that book closer into the crook of my arms, closer to my small chest.
Then it got weirder.
Some sort of beast (surely a manifesto of my love for all things Stephen King) would fall from the sky, and begin banging on the stall door, rattling my teeth and my stomach in the process. It would actually knock, to the rhythm of an old ELO song, it's razor-sharp talons scraping the metal door. I would catch myself humming along, even singing the lyrics in my head, knowing I was giving in to what the beast wanted:
I look into the sky, the love you need ain't gonna see you through
And I wonder why the little things you planned ain't coming true
Oh oh Telephone Line, give me some time, I'm living in twilight
Oh oh Telephone Line, give me some time, I'm living in twilight
The beast would beat the door open, jarring my body, propelling my face into the toilet bowl, and I would smell that drop of urine...it would fill my nostrils and leak down the back of my throat.
At the same time, nuns would float down from the sky, habits billowing in an even breeze, with hazy faces and clear voices speaking a language both foreign & familiar to my little girl ears.
Above the din of all of the noise, they would lift me with a strength only they had. The stall doors would fall away. I would see myself, above myself, and watch the beast-now lying on it's side, slithering in agony upon the dirty floor.
Any relief I felt at being saved was always short-lived, replaced by a sickening sense of dread that started at the pit of my stomach, arching out to my limbs, ending in a lightning bolt of heat and heaviness in my heart.
I would wake to sheets twisted around my body, heart hammering at the base of my throat, the taste of bile filing my mouth. Staring at the ceiling, I would hold my breath until my heart slowed, my mind a blank journal page.
As a child, there seemed to be no effects in the days following this dream. I would go to school, watch Cheers with my Dad, play with Barbies. But over the years, this dream followed me through elementary and middle school, as worn and familiar as the green blanket I still cover up with at night.
Just before entering high school though, this dream became the beacon for something much more terrifying, a signal to me that my heart was about to betray me.
Within days of the dream, my heart would skip a single beat here, make up for it there, and my valve would start this pop and stick dance in protest. I would end up with a heart rate in excess of 200 bpm, my chest a torrent of fiercely jumbled beats fighting for control.
I felt powerless when I would wake from the beast/nun dream, dreading my inability to prepare for the slated episode.
Out of control.
Irate.
Weak.
Smothered.
When I had heart surgery several years ago to repair the wayward ways of my heart's rhythm, the dream stopped.
Until a couple of weeks ago.
I didn't think I was dreaming when my valve woke me, with it's almost-forgotten pop and stick dance. I laid in bed holding my breath, staring at a shadow of a tree on my window. My mind was a blank journal page.
My child stirred next to me, so I focused on her hand seeking mine beneath the sheets. As she found and sought refuge in it, I felt the dance end in my chest, and the loss of control take over. I gave in to it, drifting back to sleep.
I was in the girls' bathroom of my elementary school, crouched in a stall, clutching a book.
I had a sense that I had stolen the book, although I have no idea why.
It was painfully loud...I was surrounded by the scream of jet engines, and the pornographic beat of thousands of drums, and there was the rumbling of a fierce storm in my chest.
I squatted, with my back against the door, staring at a lone drop of urine on the toilet seat a few inches from my face.
As I grew older and realized I could control some of my actions in these dreams, I would attempt to will my gaze to the floor, or the cover of the book I clutched...anything but that damn drop of urine. Yet my eyes deceived me, and I would be slapped with an intense anger aimed at myself, for not being strong enough.
The roof would blow off, and what was already a powerful sound would somehow amp up. Rather than cover my ears, I would squeeze that book closer into the crook of my arms, closer to my small chest.
Then it got weirder.
Some sort of beast (surely a manifesto of my love for all things Stephen King) would fall from the sky, and begin banging on the stall door, rattling my teeth and my stomach in the process. It would actually knock, to the rhythm of an old ELO song, it's razor-sharp talons scraping the metal door. I would catch myself humming along, even singing the lyrics in my head, knowing I was giving in to what the beast wanted:
I look into the sky, the love you need ain't gonna see you through
And I wonder why the little things you planned ain't coming true
Oh oh Telephone Line, give me some time, I'm living in twilight
Oh oh Telephone Line, give me some time, I'm living in twilight
The beast would beat the door open, jarring my body, propelling my face into the toilet bowl, and I would smell that drop of urine...it would fill my nostrils and leak down the back of my throat.
At the same time, nuns would float down from the sky, habits billowing in an even breeze, with hazy faces and clear voices speaking a language both foreign & familiar to my little girl ears.
Above the din of all of the noise, they would lift me with a strength only they had. The stall doors would fall away. I would see myself, above myself, and watch the beast-now lying on it's side, slithering in agony upon the dirty floor.
Any relief I felt at being saved was always short-lived, replaced by a sickening sense of dread that started at the pit of my stomach, arching out to my limbs, ending in a lightning bolt of heat and heaviness in my heart.
I would wake to sheets twisted around my body, heart hammering at the base of my throat, the taste of bile filing my mouth. Staring at the ceiling, I would hold my breath until my heart slowed, my mind a blank journal page.
As a child, there seemed to be no effects in the days following this dream. I would go to school, watch Cheers with my Dad, play with Barbies. But over the years, this dream followed me through elementary and middle school, as worn and familiar as the green blanket I still cover up with at night.
Just before entering high school though, this dream became the beacon for something much more terrifying, a signal to me that my heart was about to betray me.
Within days of the dream, my heart would skip a single beat here, make up for it there, and my valve would start this pop and stick dance in protest. I would end up with a heart rate in excess of 200 bpm, my chest a torrent of fiercely jumbled beats fighting for control.
I felt powerless when I would wake from the beast/nun dream, dreading my inability to prepare for the slated episode.
Out of control.
Irate.
Weak.
Smothered.
When I had heart surgery several years ago to repair the wayward ways of my heart's rhythm, the dream stopped.
Until a couple of weeks ago.
I didn't think I was dreaming when my valve woke me, with it's almost-forgotten pop and stick dance. I laid in bed holding my breath, staring at a shadow of a tree on my window. My mind was a blank journal page.
My child stirred next to me, so I focused on her hand seeking mine beneath the sheets. As she found and sought refuge in it, I felt the dance end in my chest, and the loss of control take over. I gave in to it, drifting back to sleep.
4.20.2010
Last Tuesday
I am on the rehab floor today. The social worker is on the phone when I arrive, and I hear her end of a conversation with a son, talking about his mother being upset here. When the social worker gets off the phone, she tells me that the man’s mother is in her 90’s, and is going blind due to macular degeneration. She is upset because people are treating her as though she is dumb or deaf. The social worker asks me to go visit with her about the grievance process and get her side of the story.
I knock softly on the closed door, my heart in my throat. I am not afraid to talk with the crankier residents; in fact, I usually enjoy them. But there’s always that initial anxiety about talking with a new person; I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with their age and everything to do with my own personality.
I hear a soft response to my knock, so I open the door. She is lying in bed, left arm draped over her forehead. She turns towards the door and smiles, looking at the door frame. I ask her if she would mind telling me what happened yesterday morning that upset her. She immediately puts me off, telling me it doesn’t matter, that she’s “an old bat of a lady anyway”, and no one will believe her. I take her hand in mine, surprised at the strength behind her grip, and tell her that I will believe her.
She points to three flower arrangements on her dresser, telling me that they were on the sliding table on the other end of the room. She stated that she asked the night shift CNA if she would mind moving them over to the dresser, since she gets up several times a night to go to the bathroom. She told me that the CNA told her that wasn’t in her job description. I shake my head and ask her “What did you say, Bessie?”
She laughs a full laugh and says “Well dear, I told her that she could move them or pick them up off the floor later when I knocked them over. And as you can see” (pointing at her dresser again),”She moved them.”
I begin to laugh, telling her she is one tough cookie, and I would do anything she says. She smiles, telling me she is not a “hard ass” but she knows when people are being disrespectful. She again tells me not to worry about the situation, but I assure her that I am worried because I don’t want her to be disrespected, and I don’t want this person to treat anyone else that way. She asks me to sit down.
I move to sit in the chair by the window and she stops me. She points to the edge of her bed and says “Sit”. So I sit on the edge of her bed. She pulls back the covers, and starts fumbling with her pants. I ask her what she needs, and with a wide grin she says, “I’m not sure if this is in your job description!” I crack up as she tells me she wants to know how her incision site is healing, as she just had several screws replaced in her hip. Within seconds she has her pants undone and is showing me her hip. She tells me she is going blind, and needs someone to tell her how it looks.
After she’s done flashing me (what is it with my luck here?), she asks me what I’m going to school for. She asks me about my experiences in social work so far. She tells me she studied music, and taught it for over 40 years. She tells me that she grew up on a farm just north of Denton, and found Native American Indian artifacts that she had framed. She talks about all the hard work she has done her entire life, and how her mother and father taught her that she deserves respect. She tells me she isn’t sure why she’s sharing all this, but she’s glad to talk with someone who isn’t trying to make her take a shower or go to the dining room.
One of the flower arrangements is roses. She tells me that she grows roses and tomatoes, and needs to get home to them soon; her son cut those roses and brought them for her. She says she has things to do, even if she is blind. I ask her what she can see, and she says that she sees colors and shapes of things. She asks me to lean into the light, and she tells me I have a beautiful shape. She pats my leg, and says she misses her music.
I turn the radio on for her, and we talk about so many things. One of her sons taught music as well, and has a local school named after him. She travelled with her husband to various Indian reservations, and has so much respect for them. She tells me that she played the piano and organ. And then she begins to cry.
She tells me that she was a chaplain for the county jail system for 17 years. She says that she was initially afraid, but that as soon as she walked through those gates the first time, she knew she was where she belonged. She says that if she hadn’t gone blind, she would still be going. She thinks of those men every day, and prays for them constantly. She asks me “Can you imagine being so lost and so trapped at the same time?” I shake my head, saying “You did a wonderful job of finding them.”
She asks me to open her top dresser drawer as she wipes away her tears. She asks me to grab a small box, which she takes from me. Inside is a harmonica, shiny, worn with love. She plays a hymn that sounds vaguely familiar. I am utterly amazed at the breath inside this woman, who is all of 95 lbs.
When she is done, she tells me she can see the music in her mind. She gingerly places the harmonica back in the box, asking me to put it back in her drawer, which I do.
She tells me: “I was always afraid that someone would hurt me in the jail. I had a feeling it would be some young punk who didn’t care for life, and I always wondered if the older men would stand up for me.”
“One day a young punk told me he was going to kill me. I stood my ground, telling him that wasn’t what needed to happen, when a man my son’s age stood up and told that punk to shut his mouth and leave me alone, that he was messing with God’s people.”
She tells me these men who did awful things were hungry for God, and she left the jail that day finally knowing that God was really working through her, putting love on these men’s hearts. She says that some of them called her “Mom” or “Grandma”. She begins to cry again, saying that she misses being there, and wishes she could have stayed longer.
After the hour-long conversation, I bid her a goodbye, explaining that I have to go to class. She asks, “Can you come back to speak with me? I have not had such good conversation since I went into the hospital.” I tell her that I would like that very much. She tells me she is leaving in 4 short days; she is excited. I feel my heart drop. I don’t want her to go, for my own selfish reasons.
The day before she is to discharge, I stop by her room. After knocking, I enter, where I find her lying in her bed with her arm thrown over her forehead. She turns to face me, and the recognition alights her face when I announce myself. She asks me about school again, how my week has been, if I am feeling okay. She grabs my hand as I kneel next to her bed.
“I had a dream about someone, and I think maybe it was you.” She asks me to stand by the window in her room, which I do without question. She squints and then her eyes widen.
“Oh yes, it was you.”
I ask her what the dream was about, and she tells me that the woman was lost, but had a strong voice, and she kept telling the woman to follow the sunshine. She laughs: “I must sound like a crazy woman.” I assure her she does not; I give great consideration to my dreams. I confide in her that I may indeed be lost right now, but I will definitely follow the sunshine, thanks to her. She laughs again, as her eyes fill.
I notice just how small her wrists are, and focus on the visible bones of her fingers. I tell her that I may sound like a crazy woman because I will miss her, although we have just met. This brings full tears for her, and then for me, and I am embarrassed, uncomfortable, yet- I’m not. She begins to laugh again, squeezes my hand, and says “Well we can be crazy together.”
She is anxious to get back to her roses and tomato plants. She tells me to drive carefully, and to take care of myself. I thank her again for her time, the sharing of her words and her life. I am sad to know that I will most likely never see her again. As I’m walking out the door, she says with laughter in her voice, “Oh, and please follow the sunshine!”
I knock softly on the closed door, my heart in my throat. I am not afraid to talk with the crankier residents; in fact, I usually enjoy them. But there’s always that initial anxiety about talking with a new person; I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with their age and everything to do with my own personality.
I hear a soft response to my knock, so I open the door. She is lying in bed, left arm draped over her forehead. She turns towards the door and smiles, looking at the door frame. I ask her if she would mind telling me what happened yesterday morning that upset her. She immediately puts me off, telling me it doesn’t matter, that she’s “an old bat of a lady anyway”, and no one will believe her. I take her hand in mine, surprised at the strength behind her grip, and tell her that I will believe her.
She points to three flower arrangements on her dresser, telling me that they were on the sliding table on the other end of the room. She stated that she asked the night shift CNA if she would mind moving them over to the dresser, since she gets up several times a night to go to the bathroom. She told me that the CNA told her that wasn’t in her job description. I shake my head and ask her “What did you say, Bessie?”
She laughs a full laugh and says “Well dear, I told her that she could move them or pick them up off the floor later when I knocked them over. And as you can see” (pointing at her dresser again),”She moved them.”
I begin to laugh, telling her she is one tough cookie, and I would do anything she says. She smiles, telling me she is not a “hard ass” but she knows when people are being disrespectful. She again tells me not to worry about the situation, but I assure her that I am worried because I don’t want her to be disrespected, and I don’t want this person to treat anyone else that way. She asks me to sit down.
I move to sit in the chair by the window and she stops me. She points to the edge of her bed and says “Sit”. So I sit on the edge of her bed. She pulls back the covers, and starts fumbling with her pants. I ask her what she needs, and with a wide grin she says, “I’m not sure if this is in your job description!” I crack up as she tells me she wants to know how her incision site is healing, as she just had several screws replaced in her hip. Within seconds she has her pants undone and is showing me her hip. She tells me she is going blind, and needs someone to tell her how it looks.
After she’s done flashing me (what is it with my luck here?), she asks me what I’m going to school for. She asks me about my experiences in social work so far. She tells me she studied music, and taught it for over 40 years. She tells me that she grew up on a farm just north of Denton, and found Native American Indian artifacts that she had framed. She talks about all the hard work she has done her entire life, and how her mother and father taught her that she deserves respect. She tells me she isn’t sure why she’s sharing all this, but she’s glad to talk with someone who isn’t trying to make her take a shower or go to the dining room.
One of the flower arrangements is roses. She tells me that she grows roses and tomatoes, and needs to get home to them soon; her son cut those roses and brought them for her. She says she has things to do, even if she is blind. I ask her what she can see, and she says that she sees colors and shapes of things. She asks me to lean into the light, and she tells me I have a beautiful shape. She pats my leg, and says she misses her music.
I turn the radio on for her, and we talk about so many things. One of her sons taught music as well, and has a local school named after him. She travelled with her husband to various Indian reservations, and has so much respect for them. She tells me that she played the piano and organ. And then she begins to cry.
She tells me that she was a chaplain for the county jail system for 17 years. She says that she was initially afraid, but that as soon as she walked through those gates the first time, she knew she was where she belonged. She says that if she hadn’t gone blind, she would still be going. She thinks of those men every day, and prays for them constantly. She asks me “Can you imagine being so lost and so trapped at the same time?” I shake my head, saying “You did a wonderful job of finding them.”
She asks me to open her top dresser drawer as she wipes away her tears. She asks me to grab a small box, which she takes from me. Inside is a harmonica, shiny, worn with love. She plays a hymn that sounds vaguely familiar. I am utterly amazed at the breath inside this woman, who is all of 95 lbs.
When she is done, she tells me she can see the music in her mind. She gingerly places the harmonica back in the box, asking me to put it back in her drawer, which I do.
She tells me: “I was always afraid that someone would hurt me in the jail. I had a feeling it would be some young punk who didn’t care for life, and I always wondered if the older men would stand up for me.”
“One day a young punk told me he was going to kill me. I stood my ground, telling him that wasn’t what needed to happen, when a man my son’s age stood up and told that punk to shut his mouth and leave me alone, that he was messing with God’s people.”
She tells me these men who did awful things were hungry for God, and she left the jail that day finally knowing that God was really working through her, putting love on these men’s hearts. She says that some of them called her “Mom” or “Grandma”. She begins to cry again, saying that she misses being there, and wishes she could have stayed longer.
After the hour-long conversation, I bid her a goodbye, explaining that I have to go to class. She asks, “Can you come back to speak with me? I have not had such good conversation since I went into the hospital.” I tell her that I would like that very much. She tells me she is leaving in 4 short days; she is excited. I feel my heart drop. I don’t want her to go, for my own selfish reasons.
The day before she is to discharge, I stop by her room. After knocking, I enter, where I find her lying in her bed with her arm thrown over her forehead. She turns to face me, and the recognition alights her face when I announce myself. She asks me about school again, how my week has been, if I am feeling okay. She grabs my hand as I kneel next to her bed.
“I had a dream about someone, and I think maybe it was you.” She asks me to stand by the window in her room, which I do without question. She squints and then her eyes widen.
“Oh yes, it was you.”
I ask her what the dream was about, and she tells me that the woman was lost, but had a strong voice, and she kept telling the woman to follow the sunshine. She laughs: “I must sound like a crazy woman.” I assure her she does not; I give great consideration to my dreams. I confide in her that I may indeed be lost right now, but I will definitely follow the sunshine, thanks to her. She laughs again, as her eyes fill.
I notice just how small her wrists are, and focus on the visible bones of her fingers. I tell her that I may sound like a crazy woman because I will miss her, although we have just met. This brings full tears for her, and then for me, and I am embarrassed, uncomfortable, yet- I’m not. She begins to laugh again, squeezes my hand, and says “Well we can be crazy together.”
She is anxious to get back to her roses and tomato plants. She tells me to drive carefully, and to take care of myself. I thank her again for her time, the sharing of her words and her life. I am sad to know that I will most likely never see her again. As I’m walking out the door, she says with laughter in her voice, “Oh, and please follow the sunshine!”
3.30.2010
Apartment B-10
I am stopped in the hallway by a short woman hunched over her walker. She grabs my arm with a strength I hadn't expected.
"Do you know where I can get a coke?"
I explain that there is a vending machine down the hall, next to the little country store. She asks me what it offers, and I rattle off the brand names. She digs around in her purse, empty except for a wallet and a few tissues. She hands me a dollar bill, while stuffing several twenties back into her wallet.
As I'm walking towards the vending machines, she says to my back, "I will wait right here for you because I think you need to hear this."
I have never met her before.
I come back with a Dr. Pepper and her change. She argues with me about keeping the 35 cents, telling me that I need to put it with my own money and go buy myself a soda this afternoon. She doesn't introduce herself, but leans forward to focus on my badge. My name sounds like velvet in her mouth.
I open her soda can for her just as she's asking me if I could do it. I sit down across from her, lying my papers next to me, my list of to-do's delayed and abandoned. She begins to tell me about her life, about her daughter, about her husband's job. She tells me that her husband is gone, lost to a heart attack, falling face-first into a flowerbed while mowing the lawn just a few short years after retirement. She is matter-of-fact about this, and while her voice is steady, her eyes tell another story. She leans forward again, grasps my hand and says, "I only had one child. That is what I need to tell you."
I don't know what to say to this. I thank her for sharing with me. I smile. I look down at my shoes. She squeezes my hand and tells me how she was one of 9 children, how she worked for years selling Merle Norman make-up, how she avoids doing laundry, how her daughter doesn't visit regularly, how she often wonders why she bothers remembering at all.
She asks me if I am dating, if I am married, will I have children? I show her a picture of my girl, and she says there is no way I have an almost 5 year old. I explain that I'm registering her for kindergarten in the near future, and she nods, saying "It goes by too fast, and so much of it is painful."
She tells me her daughter is almost 70, and I know I am visible shocked. She laughs, a sound full of windchimes, and tells me she is 102. I crack up, and she nods, smiling sweetly. I tell her she is lovely and strong, and she gets self-conscious, looking down at her blue slippers and knee-highs crumpled at her ankles. She lifts up her shirt to show me that her jeans are loose, and she flashes me. Non-chalantly, she mentions that she forgot to put on a bra.
Then she tells me of the flowers in her yard, at the home she shared with her husband. She rattles off names of flowers, plants, and trees, and glances into the courtyard, taking notice of a gorgeous blooming camelia bush. She is amazed that I know what it is, patting my knee softly.
As abruptly as this began, it ends. She sticks her Dr. Pepper on her walker, and stands up. She adjusts her sweater and jeans, and grabs my hand with purpose. She tells me that she has told me many family secrets, and she's not sure why, other than the fact that "your smile opened up something inside me". As I stumble over words, she asks me to visit her some time, and tells me which apartment is hers. I don't think to ask her what her name is.
As she shuffles off towards the hall containing her apartment, she turns back to me and says "I can always tell a person's strength by their eyes, and the amount of love in their heart by their smile. You have an amazing smile and great eyes."
I thank her again, and stand in the middle of the hallway, watching her walk away. I think back over the last hour, and realize that I've said very little to her, but feel as though she knows me.
"Do you know where I can get a coke?"
I explain that there is a vending machine down the hall, next to the little country store. She asks me what it offers, and I rattle off the brand names. She digs around in her purse, empty except for a wallet and a few tissues. She hands me a dollar bill, while stuffing several twenties back into her wallet.
As I'm walking towards the vending machines, she says to my back, "I will wait right here for you because I think you need to hear this."
I have never met her before.
I come back with a Dr. Pepper and her change. She argues with me about keeping the 35 cents, telling me that I need to put it with my own money and go buy myself a soda this afternoon. She doesn't introduce herself, but leans forward to focus on my badge. My name sounds like velvet in her mouth.
I open her soda can for her just as she's asking me if I could do it. I sit down across from her, lying my papers next to me, my list of to-do's delayed and abandoned. She begins to tell me about her life, about her daughter, about her husband's job. She tells me that her husband is gone, lost to a heart attack, falling face-first into a flowerbed while mowing the lawn just a few short years after retirement. She is matter-of-fact about this, and while her voice is steady, her eyes tell another story. She leans forward again, grasps my hand and says, "I only had one child. That is what I need to tell you."
I don't know what to say to this. I thank her for sharing with me. I smile. I look down at my shoes. She squeezes my hand and tells me how she was one of 9 children, how she worked for years selling Merle Norman make-up, how she avoids doing laundry, how her daughter doesn't visit regularly, how she often wonders why she bothers remembering at all.
She asks me if I am dating, if I am married, will I have children? I show her a picture of my girl, and she says there is no way I have an almost 5 year old. I explain that I'm registering her for kindergarten in the near future, and she nods, saying "It goes by too fast, and so much of it is painful."
She tells me her daughter is almost 70, and I know I am visible shocked. She laughs, a sound full of windchimes, and tells me she is 102. I crack up, and she nods, smiling sweetly. I tell her she is lovely and strong, and she gets self-conscious, looking down at her blue slippers and knee-highs crumpled at her ankles. She lifts up her shirt to show me that her jeans are loose, and she flashes me. Non-chalantly, she mentions that she forgot to put on a bra.
Then she tells me of the flowers in her yard, at the home she shared with her husband. She rattles off names of flowers, plants, and trees, and glances into the courtyard, taking notice of a gorgeous blooming camelia bush. She is amazed that I know what it is, patting my knee softly.
As abruptly as this began, it ends. She sticks her Dr. Pepper on her walker, and stands up. She adjusts her sweater and jeans, and grabs my hand with purpose. She tells me that she has told me many family secrets, and she's not sure why, other than the fact that "your smile opened up something inside me". As I stumble over words, she asks me to visit her some time, and tells me which apartment is hers. I don't think to ask her what her name is.
As she shuffles off towards the hall containing her apartment, she turns back to me and says "I can always tell a person's strength by their eyes, and the amount of love in their heart by their smile. You have an amazing smile and great eyes."
I thank her again, and stand in the middle of the hallway, watching her walk away. I think back over the last hour, and realize that I've said very little to her, but feel as though she knows me.
3.05.2010
The 2nd floor
I press the green button and wait for the soft buzz. I push open the security door, and enter the floor. The door clicks purposefully. Soft music spills out of the stereo in the far corner:a bluesy type of music from the 40's. The room has an air of order to it.
The main room is full of bodies:
Two are sitting side by side on the loveseat-she has slumped over, with her head resting on the edge of his shoulder. Her hands are shoved under her armpits, arms crossed. His head is cocked at a painful-looking angle, hands folded evenly in his lap. A smile plays on his full lips, across his unshaven face. He is not her husband. Her husband will come visit, from another floor, later this afternoon.
There are easily a dozen wheelchairs sprinkled throughout one area, each containing 80+ years of life. The silence strangles the room.
Most are sleeping.
Many are snoring or moaning.
A few are wide-eyed and intent, although I'm unsure what has their attention.
A couple of bodies are barely contained in their wheelchairs-they are baby-stepping themselves through the dining area, singing, crying, or smiling.
One is currently trying to pull herself up to a standing position by grasping the table with one hand, and another person's leg with the other.
There are those that can still walk as well:
A woman who spends all of her waking hours walking the entire floor-down hallways, into other people's rooms. She can no longer communicate, but she's got holes on the soles of her slippers.
A man who is sneaky-he climbs over the gate at the nurse's station, and shows up in my office. He is a bit nosey, it seems, but he has no idea what he is nosing into. He speaks, but it's all jumbled and jagged. You never know where you will find him next.
A woman who is much younger than the rest, and a firecracker. She is sassy, mouthy, and oh-so-sweet. Her eyes are full of life. And frustration.
It's pretty quiet, overall, although there are a few people who still have electrical connections strong enough to talk, sing, joke, or yell. The firecracker introduces herself to me as I walk deep into the dining room; I've now met her at least 30 times this week. But each time, she thinks she knows me, and asks about my mother. She squeezes my hand, crushing my knuckles together.
At times I just sit in the dining room, striking up silly conversations with any or all of them. It's usually pretty comical, although I find great joy in seeing their smiles. Other times, like now, when lunch has filled their bellies, and most (if not all) of them are snoring softly, I find an empty chair, and I sit among them. I watch their faces, searching for some sign of dreams behind those eyelids. I watch them sleep, like I do my girl. Most of the time, my throat tightens, and my eyes fill.
The stories inside these bodies, these minds. The memories, the experiences, the joys. I wonder if they are dreaming of their past, when their brains worked well, their words came out how they wanted, their limbs did as they were told, and they were respected. I wonder if their lives are playing on the insides of their eyelids, like an old black-and-white movie. I briefly question whether there isn't more we could be doing for them, to keep them comfortable, feeling secure. If I sit long enough, my mind wanders to the possibility of one or both of my parents being like this one day. Or worse, my own soul being trapped within a body that has a dying brain controlling it.
It isn't long before the new resident pulls her wheelchair up to me and with a set jaw, says, "I don't think I can help you."
I laugh.
And she scowls.
And I apologize, grasping her warm hand, all skin and bones.
In the same sentence, she replies with a cuss word or two, and a compliment about my "beauty".
Before I can respond, she pats my knee, and turns away from me, seemingly lost in thought.
If I sit too long, I will be overcome by grief not my own.
For now, I am pulled out of it. I stand and walk to my office space, side-stepping several wheelchairs on the way. I see the wandering man holding a notebook, flipping carefully through the pages. He looks up at me when I say his name, and says, "It's all right here, for everyone to read. Don't you see it?"
The main room is full of bodies:
Two are sitting side by side on the loveseat-she has slumped over, with her head resting on the edge of his shoulder. Her hands are shoved under her armpits, arms crossed. His head is cocked at a painful-looking angle, hands folded evenly in his lap. A smile plays on his full lips, across his unshaven face. He is not her husband. Her husband will come visit, from another floor, later this afternoon.
There are easily a dozen wheelchairs sprinkled throughout one area, each containing 80+ years of life. The silence strangles the room.
Most are sleeping.
Many are snoring or moaning.
A few are wide-eyed and intent, although I'm unsure what has their attention.
A couple of bodies are barely contained in their wheelchairs-they are baby-stepping themselves through the dining area, singing, crying, or smiling.
One is currently trying to pull herself up to a standing position by grasping the table with one hand, and another person's leg with the other.
There are those that can still walk as well:
A woman who spends all of her waking hours walking the entire floor-down hallways, into other people's rooms. She can no longer communicate, but she's got holes on the soles of her slippers.
A man who is sneaky-he climbs over the gate at the nurse's station, and shows up in my office. He is a bit nosey, it seems, but he has no idea what he is nosing into. He speaks, but it's all jumbled and jagged. You never know where you will find him next.
A woman who is much younger than the rest, and a firecracker. She is sassy, mouthy, and oh-so-sweet. Her eyes are full of life. And frustration.
It's pretty quiet, overall, although there are a few people who still have electrical connections strong enough to talk, sing, joke, or yell. The firecracker introduces herself to me as I walk deep into the dining room; I've now met her at least 30 times this week. But each time, she thinks she knows me, and asks about my mother. She squeezes my hand, crushing my knuckles together.
At times I just sit in the dining room, striking up silly conversations with any or all of them. It's usually pretty comical, although I find great joy in seeing their smiles. Other times, like now, when lunch has filled their bellies, and most (if not all) of them are snoring softly, I find an empty chair, and I sit among them. I watch their faces, searching for some sign of dreams behind those eyelids. I watch them sleep, like I do my girl. Most of the time, my throat tightens, and my eyes fill.
The stories inside these bodies, these minds. The memories, the experiences, the joys. I wonder if they are dreaming of their past, when their brains worked well, their words came out how they wanted, their limbs did as they were told, and they were respected. I wonder if their lives are playing on the insides of their eyelids, like an old black-and-white movie. I briefly question whether there isn't more we could be doing for them, to keep them comfortable, feeling secure. If I sit long enough, my mind wanders to the possibility of one or both of my parents being like this one day. Or worse, my own soul being trapped within a body that has a dying brain controlling it.
It isn't long before the new resident pulls her wheelchair up to me and with a set jaw, says, "I don't think I can help you."
I laugh.
And she scowls.
And I apologize, grasping her warm hand, all skin and bones.
In the same sentence, she replies with a cuss word or two, and a compliment about my "beauty".
Before I can respond, she pats my knee, and turns away from me, seemingly lost in thought.
If I sit too long, I will be overcome by grief not my own.
For now, I am pulled out of it. I stand and walk to my office space, side-stepping several wheelchairs on the way. I see the wandering man holding a notebook, flipping carefully through the pages. He looks up at me when I say his name, and says, "It's all right here, for everyone to read. Don't you see it?"
2.02.2010
For the taking (Part 3)
Part 1
Part 2
Twelve years.
For me: Heartache. Love. Commitment. Marriage. Graduation. Houses. Childbirth. Grad School.
For him: Heartache. Drugs. A child. Sobriety.
While pregnant, I walked the trail by the creek. Kevin came to mind at that 3rd curve, but I shoved him out of my mind, back to his little cave in the center of my heart. I would hear certain songs and my chest would clench.
I did a search for him on Myspace a couple of times, wondering if he was still alive. I know that sounds morbid, but I had an idea that things had not gone well back then.
In 2009, twelve years after that letter, after my life took another path, I received a message from him via Myspace.
He was alive.
And sober.
And healthy.
He apologized; I barely acknowledged it. We emailed back and forth a bit, about life:
He had a son, but rarely saw him, against his will. He was sober. He went to church, played for the band there, was involved in the youth program.
I told him about my path, my marriage, my child, my job.
I expressed relief at knowing he was okay after all these years.
He expressed relief at the fact that I even responded to his email.
A month later, I had a series of dreams about him, struggling, fighting, crying out. I sent him a message, asking if he is okay: Is he struggling with his sobriety? Is he taking care of his diabetes?
He responds that he is doing well, that his diabetes is fine, but we could all use a bit more strength and prayer. He reassures me that he will never go to that place again.
That was 10 months ago.
The night I wrote this post, I heard one of the two songs in the post. That's what prompted the post in the first place. I sat right where I'm sitting now, and felt a hollow pain in my gut. After hitting publish, I went to Myspace to send him a message.
I'm not sure what I would have said in the email. How I was sorry our paths had diverged? How I missed him? How I felt guilty even thinking about the 'us' of 12 years prior, since I adore my hubby? What??
I clicked on his profile, only to see several people's comments saying they would miss him and they loved him. Like an idiot, I left a comment: "Where are you Kevin? Are you okay??"
I then did a google search, feeling the bile rise into my mouth.
He died.
He died a few weeks after our last brief email conversation. I sat in this chair, where I sit now, and sobbed. I emailed his cousin via Myspace, asking her what had happened. I searched my county's medical examiner website, hoping there was an autopsy with his name on it, and dreading it at the same time. There was none.
I found his obit online. It mentions his son's name. I sobbed even more.
I spent a fair amount of time online, searching all over, trying to find out what happened.
I barely slept that night.
I waited for almost 3 weeks for his cousin's response.
Part 2
Twelve years.
For me: Heartache. Love. Commitment. Marriage. Graduation. Houses. Childbirth. Grad School.
For him: Heartache. Drugs. A child. Sobriety.
While pregnant, I walked the trail by the creek. Kevin came to mind at that 3rd curve, but I shoved him out of my mind, back to his little cave in the center of my heart. I would hear certain songs and my chest would clench.
I did a search for him on Myspace a couple of times, wondering if he was still alive. I know that sounds morbid, but I had an idea that things had not gone well back then.
In 2009, twelve years after that letter, after my life took another path, I received a message from him via Myspace.
He was alive.
And sober.
And healthy.
He apologized; I barely acknowledged it. We emailed back and forth a bit, about life:
He had a son, but rarely saw him, against his will. He was sober. He went to church, played for the band there, was involved in the youth program.
I told him about my path, my marriage, my child, my job.
I expressed relief at knowing he was okay after all these years.
He expressed relief at the fact that I even responded to his email.
A month later, I had a series of dreams about him, struggling, fighting, crying out. I sent him a message, asking if he is okay: Is he struggling with his sobriety? Is he taking care of his diabetes?
He responds that he is doing well, that his diabetes is fine, but we could all use a bit more strength and prayer. He reassures me that he will never go to that place again.
That was 10 months ago.
The night I wrote this post, I heard one of the two songs in the post. That's what prompted the post in the first place. I sat right where I'm sitting now, and felt a hollow pain in my gut. After hitting publish, I went to Myspace to send him a message.
I'm not sure what I would have said in the email. How I was sorry our paths had diverged? How I missed him? How I felt guilty even thinking about the 'us' of 12 years prior, since I adore my hubby? What??
I clicked on his profile, only to see several people's comments saying they would miss him and they loved him. Like an idiot, I left a comment: "Where are you Kevin? Are you okay??"
I then did a google search, feeling the bile rise into my mouth.
He died.
He died a few weeks after our last brief email conversation. I sat in this chair, where I sit now, and sobbed. I emailed his cousin via Myspace, asking her what had happened. I searched my county's medical examiner website, hoping there was an autopsy with his name on it, and dreading it at the same time. There was none.
I found his obit online. It mentions his son's name. I sobbed even more.
I spent a fair amount of time online, searching all over, trying to find out what happened.
I barely slept that night.
I waited for almost 3 weeks for his cousin's response.
1.29.2010
For the taking (Part 2)
Part 1 is here.
I had a spot where I went to think, to write, to just be. I shared it with others. Sometimes we would drive a friend's dirt bike around the area; other times we would climb down to the creek, skip stones, cross at all the low points, sit along the "shore". We shared the day's events, the plans for the weekend, our fears, our dreams, silly jokes, laughs.
I shared this place with Kevin. It was the place we hung out after school, when we both wanted to hide from home, from parents, from aching stresses. It somehow became "our" place.
I went there after the paramedics arrived.
I parked, slid down the dirt to the shore of the creek, grabbed some stones to throw. I couldn't quiet my insides. I didn't know what to do with myself.
***
I heard through mutual friends that he was okay. He was now forced to take notice of his blood sugar, and be responsible with his diabetes. He hadn't eaten, and he didn't have anyone who noticed. If I hadn't of stopped by....well.
We somehow started talking on the phone. Someone told him I had found him. He thanked me. I cried.
***
I graduated high school without ever seeing him again. I started college, discovered college boys, fell hard for a guy in my Tuesday/Thursday History class.
A park was built around our place, a running path shadowing the curve of the creek. Houses went up in the field. I ran 3 miles a day on that path. At the 3rd curve, I would stop, stare down at the creek, and ache. Wonder where he was, how he was, if he was still playing the guitar, skateboarding in the dark, wishing for his "perfect drug". I was so dramatic.
Then.
To be honest, I have absolutely no idea how we found one another. All I know is I got ahold of an address, I wrote a letter, and received a response. He was in California. Had moved there with his younger brother and mom, who was recently remarried. He was clean & sober. He was eating.
He called me. We began talking all the time. I had to buy phone cards. I would lie on the driveway under the pear tree, stare at the stars, and listen to his voice. My life revolved around those phone calls. I would write lyrics & send them to him. He would write music to them, and play the melody over the phone for me.
We made plans. I applied to a college near his home. He got a job. He started looking for apartments. We wrote one another non-stop; I would receive at least one letter a day. There was an old house several blocks from the beach with our names on it; he'd called me as soon as he'd seen it. I can still close my eyes and imagine my sitting on the front steps with a journal on my knees, while he skateboarded on the sidewalk.
We made plans. I was his for the taking.
He was lonely there. His brother was growing up, and had his own friends. His mother was a newlywed. He was sober. I convinced him to apply for jobs, make new friends. We were counting down the days until I would be there.
He got a job, made a few friends. He sounded happy. He would call me late at night, and tell me how peaceful it was to sit along the rocky part of the shore at dawn, just before he surfed. He promised to take me there; it would be our new "place".
The phone calls became a bit sporadic, the letters almost non-existent. I would call and his mother would answer, telling me he wasn't home from work. I worried. That bitch with no self-esteem took over-I was afraid maybe he didn't want me after all? Maybe he didn't want me to move out there? Maybe...?
When we did talk, he was vague, saying he was working extra hours to save up for our house together.
One day I met the mailman at the edge of my driveway, pulling in from class. He handed me two letters: One was an acceptance letter from the college near his home. The other had a California postmark, but I didn't recognize the handwriting. I sat down on the driveway hard, when I read it.
It was from some chick, telling me to leave him the fuck alone, that he had moved on to better things, and suggesting that I do the same. It ended with something about how he was great in bed. My mind twisted those words around and around until I felt like vomiting. I don't even know.
If she was hoping to upset me, she succeeded. I called his house, and got his mother. She was pretty upset, saying she hadn't seen him in three days.
I called back a few days later. She still hadn't seen him. She had a bad feeling, and so did I.
He didn't stay sober. He never called me back. He never wrote me again.
I didn't move to California. I didn't transfer to the school there. And I didn't hear from him for 12 years.
I had a spot where I went to think, to write, to just be. I shared it with others. Sometimes we would drive a friend's dirt bike around the area; other times we would climb down to the creek, skip stones, cross at all the low points, sit along the "shore". We shared the day's events, the plans for the weekend, our fears, our dreams, silly jokes, laughs.
I shared this place with Kevin. It was the place we hung out after school, when we both wanted to hide from home, from parents, from aching stresses. It somehow became "our" place.
I went there after the paramedics arrived.
I parked, slid down the dirt to the shore of the creek, grabbed some stones to throw. I couldn't quiet my insides. I didn't know what to do with myself.
***
I heard through mutual friends that he was okay. He was now forced to take notice of his blood sugar, and be responsible with his diabetes. He hadn't eaten, and he didn't have anyone who noticed. If I hadn't of stopped by....well.
We somehow started talking on the phone. Someone told him I had found him. He thanked me. I cried.
***
I graduated high school without ever seeing him again. I started college, discovered college boys, fell hard for a guy in my Tuesday/Thursday History class.
A park was built around our place, a running path shadowing the curve of the creek. Houses went up in the field. I ran 3 miles a day on that path. At the 3rd curve, I would stop, stare down at the creek, and ache. Wonder where he was, how he was, if he was still playing the guitar, skateboarding in the dark, wishing for his "perfect drug". I was so dramatic.
Then.
To be honest, I have absolutely no idea how we found one another. All I know is I got ahold of an address, I wrote a letter, and received a response. He was in California. Had moved there with his younger brother and mom, who was recently remarried. He was clean & sober. He was eating.
He called me. We began talking all the time. I had to buy phone cards. I would lie on the driveway under the pear tree, stare at the stars, and listen to his voice. My life revolved around those phone calls. I would write lyrics & send them to him. He would write music to them, and play the melody over the phone for me.
We made plans. I applied to a college near his home. He got a job. He started looking for apartments. We wrote one another non-stop; I would receive at least one letter a day. There was an old house several blocks from the beach with our names on it; he'd called me as soon as he'd seen it. I can still close my eyes and imagine my sitting on the front steps with a journal on my knees, while he skateboarded on the sidewalk.
He was lonely there. His brother was growing up, and had his own friends. His mother was a newlywed. He was sober. I convinced him to apply for jobs, make new friends. We were counting down the days until I would be there.
He got a job, made a few friends. He sounded happy. He would call me late at night, and tell me how peaceful it was to sit along the rocky part of the shore at dawn, just before he surfed. He promised to take me there; it would be our new "place".
The phone calls became a bit sporadic, the letters almost non-existent. I would call and his mother would answer, telling me he wasn't home from work. I worried. That bitch with no self-esteem took over-I was afraid maybe he didn't want me after all? Maybe he didn't want me to move out there? Maybe...?
When we did talk, he was vague, saying he was working extra hours to save up for our house together.
One day I met the mailman at the edge of my driveway, pulling in from class. He handed me two letters: One was an acceptance letter from the college near his home. The other had a California postmark, but I didn't recognize the handwriting. I sat down on the driveway hard, when I read it.
It was from some chick, telling me to leave him the fuck alone, that he had moved on to better things, and suggesting that I do the same. It ended with something about how he was great in bed. My mind twisted those words around and around until I felt like vomiting. I don't even know.
If she was hoping to upset me, she succeeded. I called his house, and got his mother. She was pretty upset, saying she hadn't seen him in three days.
I called back a few days later. She still hadn't seen him. She had a bad feeling, and so did I.
He didn't stay sober. He never called me back. He never wrote me again.
I didn't move to California. I didn't transfer to the school there. And I didn't hear from him for 12 years.
1.26.2010
For the taking (Part 1)
When I wrote this post, I didn't know what I know now. I was in an oblivious stupor, something I wish I could take back.
As I said in that post, I haven't written about him other than the brief entry here. But I am going to do it now. I have to.
Here is what I previously wrote about him:
"I met him when I was almost 17. It was a hard, dark, lonely time in my stupid teenaged life. He was younger than me, by 2 years. I remember standing at my locker, and feeling someone's eyes on me. When I turned around, he was across the hall, staring. When I caught him staring, he blushed, but did not turn away. He maintained eye contact, and amazingly, smiled. There was weeks of this before I finally broke a mutual friend, begging for him to introduce us. I shouldn't have been nervous or worried.
We met in the hall. We were both late to class; the bell had already rang. I was so down that day; I was staring into my locker, when he said my name. I turned around and there he was, same smile, same shine in the eyes.
I fell hard for him. My friends made fun of me, since he was 2 years younger than me. It was I who picked him up when we would get together; he didn't have his license. He was quiet but not with me. He was silly, goofy, kooky with me. He was so brilliantly talented with music. He was one of the first in well over a year that I allowed to read my poetry. I opened my journals and my heart to him. He wasn't like any of the others. He didn't dress like them, he didn't act like them (other than the quiet part). He acted as though I was fragile when we were together, but helped me break myself when I needed it. He taught me to skateboard (I sucked). We talked on the phone for hours. We laid on my driveway & stared at stars while telling one another our deepest thoughts, our strongest fears.
I took his virginity. He broke my heart. Twice. He deserted me when I needed him so badly, the first time. The second time he deserted me, he fell deep into drugs. I couldn't forgive him, for years. I spent YEARS hurting because of him, because of us. I still get angry & disgusted when I think about how we ended. I still ache when I think of his eyes, his voice, his devotion, his dreams."
His name was Kevin.
He was the middle child. His older brother was the same age as me, in the same grade, but never around. He had a younger brother that he was really protective of. His father wasn't around, and his mother worked hard to provide for her boys. I vaguely remember a boyfriend of his mom's, and Kevin telling me that he didn't really like the guy, that the guy scared the shit out of him and his younger brother.
When we met, he smoked weed with other friends in my group. But when he heard from a mutual friend that shit bothered me, he stopped. At least for awhile.
When we were all hanging out, there were times we would drink. And he was a lush. It still makes me smile, thinking of him stumbling all over the place in our friend's house one night. He had two left feet when he was drunk, and he was a gigglebox.
I remember our first kiss, full of beer & Skittles, lust & fear. He was leaned against the living room wall of the now-abandoned home of one of our friends. Why do I remember the look in his eye, but not the taste of his lips?
He was full of music and life. He encouraged me to write. I argued with him about his diabetes. He played the bass guitar while I wrote lyrics to songs still unsung. We fell asleep on the phone many times- I would wake in the morning to the dial tone at the other end of the phone. Or, sometimes, the soft purr of his snore.
He said sweet things that he meant, that crushed my heart.
He was non-judgemental, and careless with his blood sugar.
I took his virginity. I cried.
He wanted more; I wanted more.
Somehow, we wanted different things.
I remember arguing in the kitchen of my father's house. I remember seeing an anger I had never seen before, directed towards me. I let him walk out the door.
*****
Months went by; the rest of the summer burned off, and school started again. I would hear his laugh in the halls sometimes, and my stomach would drop.
I really missed him.
I had heard from others that he was doing drugs, skipping school, working to help his mother pay the bills. I heard he was still ignoring his blood sugar.
I am not made of magic, but I drove by his house anyway, skipping class.
I stood outside the door, nervous and close to tears. He didn't answer. I walked around back, hoping no one saw me. I knew how to sneak in the back door.
I slid up the stairs to the room he shared with his younger brother, melodies luring me behind his closed door. I knocked, whispered his name.
I opened the door and found him sprawled on his bed. He looked peaceful.
He wouldn't wake up.
I'll spare you the details, but I can say that I have never pushed a needle in someone's skin before, or since. I heard my blood rush in my ears. I couldn't breathe. I called 911. I shook him awake, barely. Blood sugar. I ran down the stairs, let the paramedics in, and bailed.
That was the last time I ever saw him.
As I said in that post, I haven't written about him other than the brief entry here. But I am going to do it now. I have to.
Here is what I previously wrote about him:
"I met him when I was almost 17. It was a hard, dark, lonely time in my stupid teenaged life. He was younger than me, by 2 years. I remember standing at my locker, and feeling someone's eyes on me. When I turned around, he was across the hall, staring. When I caught him staring, he blushed, but did not turn away. He maintained eye contact, and amazingly, smiled. There was weeks of this before I finally broke a mutual friend, begging for him to introduce us. I shouldn't have been nervous or worried.
We met in the hall. We were both late to class; the bell had already rang. I was so down that day; I was staring into my locker, when he said my name. I turned around and there he was, same smile, same shine in the eyes.
I fell hard for him. My friends made fun of me, since he was 2 years younger than me. It was I who picked him up when we would get together; he didn't have his license. He was quiet but not with me. He was silly, goofy, kooky with me. He was so brilliantly talented with music. He was one of the first in well over a year that I allowed to read my poetry. I opened my journals and my heart to him. He wasn't like any of the others. He didn't dress like them, he didn't act like them (other than the quiet part). He acted as though I was fragile when we were together, but helped me break myself when I needed it. He taught me to skateboard (I sucked). We talked on the phone for hours. We laid on my driveway & stared at stars while telling one another our deepest thoughts, our strongest fears.
I took his virginity. He broke my heart. Twice. He deserted me when I needed him so badly, the first time. The second time he deserted me, he fell deep into drugs. I couldn't forgive him, for years. I spent YEARS hurting because of him, because of us. I still get angry & disgusted when I think about how we ended. I still ache when I think of his eyes, his voice, his devotion, his dreams."
His name was Kevin.
He was the middle child. His older brother was the same age as me, in the same grade, but never around. He had a younger brother that he was really protective of. His father wasn't around, and his mother worked hard to provide for her boys. I vaguely remember a boyfriend of his mom's, and Kevin telling me that he didn't really like the guy, that the guy scared the shit out of him and his younger brother.
When we met, he smoked weed with other friends in my group. But when he heard from a mutual friend that shit bothered me, he stopped. At least for awhile.
When we were all hanging out, there were times we would drink. And he was a lush. It still makes me smile, thinking of him stumbling all over the place in our friend's house one night. He had two left feet when he was drunk, and he was a gigglebox.
I remember our first kiss, full of beer & Skittles, lust & fear. He was leaned against the living room wall of the now-abandoned home of one of our friends. Why do I remember the look in his eye, but not the taste of his lips?
He was full of music and life. He encouraged me to write. I argued with him about his diabetes. He played the bass guitar while I wrote lyrics to songs still unsung. We fell asleep on the phone many times- I would wake in the morning to the dial tone at the other end of the phone. Or, sometimes, the soft purr of his snore.
He said sweet things that he meant, that crushed my heart.
He was non-judgemental, and careless with his blood sugar.
I took his virginity. I cried.
He wanted more; I wanted more.
Somehow, we wanted different things.
I remember arguing in the kitchen of my father's house. I remember seeing an anger I had never seen before, directed towards me. I let him walk out the door.
*****
Months went by; the rest of the summer burned off, and school started again. I would hear his laugh in the halls sometimes, and my stomach would drop.
I really missed him.
I had heard from others that he was doing drugs, skipping school, working to help his mother pay the bills. I heard he was still ignoring his blood sugar.
I am not made of magic, but I drove by his house anyway, skipping class.
I stood outside the door, nervous and close to tears. He didn't answer. I walked around back, hoping no one saw me. I knew how to sneak in the back door.
I slid up the stairs to the room he shared with his younger brother, melodies luring me behind his closed door. I knocked, whispered his name.
I opened the door and found him sprawled on his bed. He looked peaceful.
He wouldn't wake up.
I'll spare you the details, but I can say that I have never pushed a needle in someone's skin before, or since. I heard my blood rush in my ears. I couldn't breathe. I called 911. I shook him awake, barely. Blood sugar. I ran down the stairs, let the paramedics in, and bailed.
That was the last time I ever saw him.
12.10.2009
{W}rite of Passage-Beta version
Mrs. Flinger has created this kick-ass site, {W}rite of Passage, where writers can write, be critiqued in a safe environment, and read some wonderful stuff from other wonderful writers. (Could I use the letter w anymore in one sentence??) I was so excited to receive the invite, and I tell ya, once I am not up to my damn ears in final projects and final exams and getting AT&T to realize that I fucking hate them for all of the stupid shit they have put me through the last 2 weeks (Seriously?? How f-ing hard is it to GIVE ME A TELEPHONE NUMBER THAT WORKS!?!), I will be spending a few hours (read: several dozen) reading everyone's Beta posts and squeeeeing at all the wonderful writers I am surrounded by! In the meantime, here's my Beta post, about my most embarrassing moment:
Really, haven't I posted several embarrassing things about myself? I mean, do we need to re-has the time I pissed all over myself in the office bathroom because I had a sneeze attack while trying to hover over the toilet? Or how about the time I had the.worst period EVAH in my new office (different job than the hover/piss job) and I actually bled through a tampon, a huge diaper pad, and my damn pants within an hour of arriving at the office? By the way, I had to actually run to the stupid Walmart by my office and buy not only a pair of undies, but a damn sweater to wrap around my waist to cover the uhhh,spot puddle on my pants? TMI?
Okay, so I was about 8 months pregnant, and I had a court hearing for work downtown. Parking sucks downtown. I always ended up parking like 9 blocks away, stuffing the meter w/ all my dimes and nickles, and running to the courthouse. Except, I was 8 months pregnant, so I pretty much waddled. I also wore flip flops to walk those 9 blocks, since my feet looked like mini boats.
So, I waddle to the courthouse, and get there like 2 minutes before the hearing is set to begin. I pull my snazzy professional shoes out of my purse, shove my flip flops in there, and head up to the 3rd floor. I get there, the judge looks at my feet and gives me this look. What?? Dude. Anyway, all goes well, but as I'm leaving the courtroom, something runs down my leg. What the fresh hell is going on???
I walk outside, and it continues. Lucky for me, I'm wearing flowy skirt that goes mid-calf. But I'm panicking. I call my good friend Kristy, who says she will go to the emergency room with me. I call my office to let them know I won't be back just yet.
Kristy and I go to the emergency room. I waddle my ass up to the maternity ward, get undressed, etc. etc. Apparently they have these thin little things that look like those little oil absorbant sheets you use to wipe the gross oil off your face? But it goes down there, and it tells you whether your water broke. So...yeah.
And guess what??
Yeah, uhhhh, my water didn't break.
Apparently? All those blocks I walked? With a baby pushing on my bladder? Yeah, uh...?
Yeah, I peed myself.
In the courtroom.
I go back to the office, and everyone wants to know what the hell it was if my water didn't break. Seriously?? Sigh.
So, if it's not bad enough that my whole office knows I pissed myself, I go to court later that week, and the DA is all "So....I guess your water didn't break? So...did you piss yourself?"
FML.
*******
PS. I am fully aware that this post is like a full 2 weeks late. I am so behind people. Soooo behind.
Really, haven't I posted several embarrassing things about myself? I mean, do we need to re-has the time I pissed all over myself in the office bathroom because I had a sneeze attack while trying to hover over the toilet? Or how about the time I had the.worst period EVAH in my new office (different job than the hover/piss job) and I actually bled through a tampon, a huge diaper pad, and my damn pants within an hour of arriving at the office? By the way, I had to actually run to the stupid Walmart by my office and buy not only a pair of undies, but a damn sweater to wrap around my waist to cover the uhhh,
Okay, so I was about 8 months pregnant, and I had a court hearing for work downtown. Parking sucks downtown. I always ended up parking like 9 blocks away, stuffing the meter w/ all my dimes and nickles, and running to the courthouse. Except, I was 8 months pregnant, so I pretty much waddled. I also wore flip flops to walk those 9 blocks, since my feet looked like mini boats.
So, I waddle to the courthouse, and get there like 2 minutes before the hearing is set to begin. I pull my snazzy professional shoes out of my purse, shove my flip flops in there, and head up to the 3rd floor. I get there, the judge looks at my feet and gives me this look. What?? Dude. Anyway, all goes well, but as I'm leaving the courtroom, something runs down my leg. What the fresh hell is going on???
I walk outside, and it continues. Lucky for me, I'm wearing flowy skirt that goes mid-calf. But I'm panicking. I call my good friend Kristy, who says she will go to the emergency room with me. I call my office to let them know I won't be back just yet.
Kristy and I go to the emergency room. I waddle my ass up to the maternity ward, get undressed, etc. etc. Apparently they have these thin little things that look like those little oil absorbant sheets you use to wipe the gross oil off your face? But it goes down there, and it tells you whether your water broke. So...yeah.
And guess what??
Yeah, uhhhh, my water didn't break.
Apparently? All those blocks I walked? With a baby pushing on my bladder? Yeah, uh...?
Yeah, I peed myself.
In the courtroom.
I go back to the office, and everyone wants to know what the hell it was if my water didn't break. Seriously?? Sigh.
So, if it's not bad enough that my whole office knows I pissed myself, I go to court later that week, and the DA is all "So....I guess your water didn't break? So...did you piss yourself?"
FML.
*******
PS. I am fully aware that this post is like a full 2 weeks late. I am so behind people. Soooo behind.
11.10.2009
Dinner at my round table
My family members poke fun at one another. I try to think that maybe we just toughen each other up for the hell we will catch out in the real world, but who knows?
My sister is gorgeous. Just stunning. She has light green eyes and dark, shiny hair. She has my mother's body frame, like my brother: tall, lanky, lean. She has a gorgeous-shaped face and such a pretty smile.
But.
She doesn't like her ears. And seriously, they are not BIG by any stretch of the meaning, but, well, most people in our family make comments about her ears. To her. And she laughs. Things like:
"Hey, go out on the roof & catch a better HD signal for us, will ya?"
Also, she's a shitty speller. I mean, bad. I cring when I read her Tweets. And her Facebook updates. I mean, she tries, but sometimes, she doesn't.
So tonight at dinner, she is joking about something involving the need for a ransom note. And my hubby says: "Just make sure you pay someone else to write it."
And I crack up. And so does my mom.
My sister thumps me.
So I pass it on to my mom, considering it is her kid that thumped me.
She passes it on to my kid, who climbs off of her chair and thumps my hubby, her father.
In turn, of course, he cranks it up a notch, and thumps the shit out of my sister, who immediately squeals and turns to thump me again.
Me: "Uhh, you might want to re-think that! This will just continue around the table, and he will just thump you AGAIN!"
My hubby: "Did you hear that?"
We all laugh.
****
My mom tells us about some stupid thing my brother is thinking of doing.
My response: "He's your son."
My hubby: "What the hell. Where did he get this nutcake idea?"
My mom: "I don't know what to tell you. We are talking about the kid that covered every inch of his body in Nike clothing, and barely let his elbows show."
We laugh.
[My brother, from age 3 until about 9, was a picky dresser. He argued with my mother and father non-stop about what he would wear, seriously. And I have a picture of him during the particular phase of his life where he would only wear Nike, and he didn't want any of his skin to show. Just picture this: Nike hat, backwards. Nike shirt, with a long-sleeved shirt underneath. Nike basketball shorts. Nike socks, pulled up to his knees. Nike shoes. Nike laces. And the crabbiest pout EVAH.]
******
My mother tells us that a lady told her today that she kept getting ear infections (my girl was home today due to a pretty shitty ear infection), and after having her ears cleaned out several times by her doctor, they finally x-rayed her. Do you know what they found? A teeny tiny seashell. She had gone to the beach 6 years prior, and somehow that got lodged in her ear. Can you imagine?
She tells us this, and I can tell by the look on her face that we are both wondering if my girl put something in her ear, something teeny, and that is why her wax won't come out, that is why her ear is impacted and infected.
My hubby: "What dork purposely puts something in their ear??"
We all laugh.
I look at my mother, give her the "Don't you dare!" look, but it's too late; it's already tumbling over her lips:
"I know someone who put Ken's tennis balls up her nose."
Me: "Nooooooooo."
My hubby: "....."
Me: "I know I've told you this before. Don't make me re-tell it."
My hubby: "Do tell."
So yeah.
I was about 2 or 3. I had the Ken & Barbie dolls that played tennis, complete with a little tennis skirt, racquets, dorky tennis shorts, and....teeny tiny tennis balls.
Can I reiterate that I was like 3??
I stuck Ken's tennis ball up my nose.
I remember my father putting me on the bathroom counter, trying to get this little ball out of my little nostril. I remember he tried a q-tip and then tweezers.
And then I remember walking through the parking lot of the hospital, going to the ER, lying down on the examination table, and hearing laughs.
I will never live down the fact that I put Ken's tennis balls up my nose.
My hubby cracks up, calls me a a dork, and my mom is in tears. My girl? Looking at me like I'm from another planet.
My sister comes to my rescue, and says to my hubby: "That's not as bad as getting your pants stuck in your braces."
Whaaaa?????
Apparently the first week my sister had her braces, she bent down to tie her shoe, and her pants got caught in a bracket of her braces. As I type this, I am horse-laughing, and my hubby is staring at me over his laptop across the living room, shaking his head.
I look at my hubby and say: "So what did you do? Everyone does stupid shit like that as a kid."
My hubby: "Not me! Nothing!"
Me: staring "...."
My hubby: "I got my headgear stuck in my eye socket."
Me, my sister, my mom: "WHAT??? HOW?"
He gets this look on his face, trying not to grin, and says "It's not funny. I could have been blinded."
My mother: "At least none of you farted in yoga."
My hubby: "And on that note, I'm out."
I would not trade these dinners for anything. I would not trade this family for anyone.
My sister is gorgeous. Just stunning. She has light green eyes and dark, shiny hair. She has my mother's body frame, like my brother: tall, lanky, lean. She has a gorgeous-shaped face and such a pretty smile.
But.
She doesn't like her ears. And seriously, they are not BIG by any stretch of the meaning, but, well, most people in our family make comments about her ears. To her. And she laughs. Things like:
"Hey, go out on the roof & catch a better HD signal for us, will ya?"
Also, she's a shitty speller. I mean, bad. I cring when I read her Tweets. And her Facebook updates. I mean, she tries, but sometimes, she doesn't.
So tonight at dinner, she is joking about something involving the need for a ransom note. And my hubby says: "Just make sure you pay someone else to write it."
And I crack up. And so does my mom.
My sister thumps me.
So I pass it on to my mom, considering it is her kid that thumped me.
She passes it on to my kid, who climbs off of her chair and thumps my hubby, her father.
In turn, of course, he cranks it up a notch, and thumps the shit out of my sister, who immediately squeals and turns to thump me again.
Me: "Uhh, you might want to re-think that! This will just continue around the table, and he will just thump you AGAIN!"
My hubby: "Did you hear that?"
We all laugh.
****
My mom tells us about some stupid thing my brother is thinking of doing.
My response: "He's your son."
My hubby: "What the hell. Where did he get this nutcake idea?"
My mom: "I don't know what to tell you. We are talking about the kid that covered every inch of his body in Nike clothing, and barely let his elbows show."
We laugh.
[My brother, from age 3 until about 9, was a picky dresser. He argued with my mother and father non-stop about what he would wear, seriously. And I have a picture of him during the particular phase of his life where he would only wear Nike, and he didn't want any of his skin to show. Just picture this: Nike hat, backwards. Nike shirt, with a long-sleeved shirt underneath. Nike basketball shorts. Nike socks, pulled up to his knees. Nike shoes. Nike laces. And the crabbiest pout EVAH.]
******
My mother tells us that a lady told her today that she kept getting ear infections (my girl was home today due to a pretty shitty ear infection), and after having her ears cleaned out several times by her doctor, they finally x-rayed her. Do you know what they found? A teeny tiny seashell. She had gone to the beach 6 years prior, and somehow that got lodged in her ear. Can you imagine?
She tells us this, and I can tell by the look on her face that we are both wondering if my girl put something in her ear, something teeny, and that is why her wax won't come out, that is why her ear is impacted and infected.
My hubby: "What dork purposely puts something in their ear??"
We all laugh.
I look at my mother, give her the "Don't you dare!" look, but it's too late; it's already tumbling over her lips:
"I know someone who put Ken's tennis balls up her nose."
My hubby: "....."
Me: "I know I've told you this before. Don't make me re-tell it."
My hubby: "Do tell."
So yeah.
I was about 2 or 3. I had the Ken & Barbie dolls that played tennis, complete with a little tennis skirt, racquets, dorky tennis shorts, and....teeny tiny tennis balls.
Can I reiterate that I was like 3??
I stuck Ken's tennis ball up my nose.
I remember my father putting me on the bathroom counter, trying to get this little ball out of my little nostril. I remember he tried a q-tip and then tweezers.
And then I remember walking through the parking lot of the hospital, going to the ER, lying down on the examination table, and hearing laughs.
I will never live down the fact that I put Ken's tennis balls up my nose.
My hubby cracks up, calls me a a dork, and my mom is in tears. My girl? Looking at me like I'm from another planet.
My sister comes to my rescue, and says to my hubby: "That's not as bad as getting your pants stuck in your braces."
Whaaaa?????
Apparently the first week my sister had her braces, she bent down to tie her shoe, and her pants got caught in a bracket of her braces. As I type this, I am horse-laughing, and my hubby is staring at me over his laptop across the living room, shaking his head.
I look at my hubby and say: "So what did you do? Everyone does stupid shit like that as a kid."
My hubby: "Not me! Nothing!"
Me: staring "...."
My hubby: "I got my headgear stuck in my eye socket."
Me, my sister, my mom: "WHAT??? HOW?"
He gets this look on his face, trying not to grin, and says "It's not funny. I could have been blinded."
My mother: "At least none of you farted in yoga."
My hubby: "And on that note, I'm out."
I would not trade these dinners for anything. I would not trade this family for anyone.
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