BSD: May 2012

Last night I was sitting in a wingback chair in a little-used common area on the dementia unit typing fast. It was beautiful summer outside, and Owen's soccer game started at 5:00. Matt called at 5:17: can you make it, can you pick him up? I closed my laptop and reconciled to a little work at home, which I try not to do. Yes, I'll make it.

I waved at H., and G., and J., all patients of mine, on my way out. Wednesday is my Friday: I'll see you all next week. I stepped out the front door, going quickly, careful with the door not to bump any of the female residents sitting on the two benches just outside the door that flank it.

I stopped. L. was sitting on the end of one bench, neatly dressed. Waiting for his grandson, he said, to go to the memorial service for B., his wife, who died a month ago. For all the residents who have died in the past few months. The facility was having the service upstairs rather than the porch, and L. wanted to be sure his grandson went to the right place.

I came to see L. when he first came on service. His wife, B., was quiet, and would sit and listen while L. and I talked. Rarely joined in. Both of them always in their same chairs, every visit, for most of a year. Then B. was sick, and L. came down with it too. Both of them side by side in twin beds congested and feverish. B. came on service then, and didn't get better. I sat on a chair in between the two of them in their shadowy room, holding each of their hands, B. with eyes open but silent, hot, covers down and fan on, L. tucked up to his chin with blankets and tears streaming down his face. B. quiet as always. L. telling me everything, all the friends shot to death beside him in the war, all the blood and organs spilling, all the chaos, all the screams and moans and dirt and wet and cold. B. was in the Navy, served in active areas, though I still don't know what she did, or saw. L. chiding himself for crying. Me telling him its better to cry and tell, how much comfort he was to B., to be there beside her in all her days, her last days, all of their 62 years together. I came everyday for all of that week and held their hands in their room just like that.

I came to see L. on the morning of B.'s funeral. He, against odds, and how no one knows, recovered. He was in his dark suit, wheel chair today, rather than rolling walker with tennis balls cut over the front feet of it. We walked down the hall with his family together. Elevator. I held the door. The limousine was waiting. I gave L. my hands and helped him up from the chair, steadied him. Kissed his cheek and he kissed mine. Said I would be thinking of B., what a graceful and strong soul she was, and be thinking of him too, and sending courage, and solace. Which I did. He took his own few steps to the limousine, family on either side, but no one touching. Letting him take his steps.

L. came back from the war. He carried mail by foot for 30 years. He had children, and grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. He has a good outlook, a nice word for anybody. I go see him every week since B. died, and she looks at us from a large silver-framed photograph. L. sits in different places now. Never in the chair where he always used to. I sit there now.

And here is L. sitting outside. My first time to ever see him outside, at 5:19, on my Friday, on pace to catch the last 15 minutes of Owen's soccer game which I didn't think I would get to do. I'm in a blue striped dress and yellow cardigan and orange canvas mary jane's and an orange watch and a bright silver and yellow daisy necklace. And my blue lanyard, with my photo, and name: Betsy D., LICSW. I can hear Tim Gunn say, that's a lot of look. But its one of the first summery days, and why not. Matt Davis checked me this morning, at my request, before I left. Its bright, he said, and smiled. It looks good.

I extend my hand to L. and he takes it. Looks up at me. I am always surprised at how small he is. I will think of B., I said. You were such comfort to her that last week. You were right by her side. I will think of you too, and I wish you strength, and peace, for the service.

He thanks me. He smiles. He says, you look like a million bucks. He asks, do you know why I say that? No, I say, and smile. Because its true, he says, and he laughs, and I laugh, and he pulls my hand down and I come closer in and give his cheek a kiss and he kisses me back. His grandson arrives and L. looks so pleased with all of this, young people coming and going, on a summer evening.

Last night I sat in the grass in the sun and watched the rest of Owen's soccer game from the opposite side of the field from where his team was. I was surprised at how red and hot his cheeks were, how fast he was running, even at the end of a long day and long game. I sat talking to D. about cabins and lodges and caring for aging parents, and Owen surprised me by showing up in a ball in my lap, sitting up, giving me a kiss. He is so stingy with kisses. I have to go back, just a mom kiss break he says, and peals away.

I call J., L.'s nurse, and leave her a voicemail describing the scene of L. holding court over me and the other ladies in the sunshine, and thank her for taking care of him so that he has that moment, that evening, family, friends, a kiss on the cheek. She calls me back today and leaves on my voicemail, thank you for that message, I love that message.

Monday is Memorial Day. I'm off, with Matt and Owen and Molly, though just today I think about how it would be nice to go see L. on Monday and say thank you, and listen to anything he wants to say, and go see all the other patients I have who I know served, and say thank you, and listen to anything they want to say. Its hard to decide which to do.