TheBanyanTree: Another hospice story

[Monique Colver]

Last week I went to see Mr. M a total of three times. Wednesday I asked if
he wanted to go outside, it being a cooler day. I’d given him his M&M’s, not
just one bag, but four, in case one wasn’t enough. I’d started with five,
but ate one before I got there. So shoot me. I’m a bad volunteer. As soon as
I asked if he wanted to go outside he rose to his feet, and asked for his
baseball cap on the other side of his bed. He got into his wheelchair, his
hat on his head, and we went for a stroll.


We were looking for places to have a cigarette, but there’s not much to the
grounds of this particular nursing home. An area right in front for
residents to sit, in the shade, and a parking lot. We sped out into the
parking lot, as much as two can speed when one’s in a wheelchair, and looked
around the buildings, but the pavement was bumpy and we came to the
conclusion that there was no place to hide.


This because no one had told us that it’s okay for residents to smoke right
outside the front door, to the left, with a table and a comfy sort of couch
for those of us not in chairs. We didn’t find that out on Wednesday. We
roamed with abandon, and then we sat outside, enjoying the cooler weather
and the flowers, and the green of the grass and the trees. We didn’t talk
much. Mr M. seemed to like feeling the air.


Friday he wasn’t feeling very well (hence his inclusion in the hospice
program) so I stayed just long enough to ask if he wanted me to come back on
Monday, after handing him a couple of chocolate chip cookies I’d picked up
from Subway. He nodded his head before sinking back down into his chair,
nodding, then sinking, curled slightly to alleviate the pain.


Today I returned, and he was up in his chair. The weather today is muggy
(which I always thought sounded like the weather was attempting to mug
someone, but it seems to be a popular usage and, I think, a correct one),
cloudy, with cool winds. I asked him if he wanted to go sit outside, and he
stood, got right up, and then tried to reach across his bed for his hat.


“Whoa,” I said, “why don’t you sit down in the chair, and I’ll get your
hat.”


I was afraid he was going to fall over onto his bed, and then where would we
be?


We maneuvered out of the room, a trickier proposition now that Mr M has a
roommate. We headed outside, and to the right of the front door, and I sat
in a chair, and he sat in his wheelchair. I looked over to the left of the
door, and there were two residents in wheelchairs. And they were smoking.
They’d been there when I’d entered, but I hadn’t noticed that they both had
cigarettes in their hands.


I told Mr. M, “Look, they have cigarettes!”


He looked over their way, more than a tinge of envy on his face. He has big
brown eyes, and I can tell when he wants something.


“I’m going to go see if I can get a cigarette.” I walked over to the two and
said, “Excuse me, but Mr M hasn’t had a cigarette in 8 months, and he’d
really like one. Do you think I could get one for him? I’d be happy to buy
you more.”


I’m not above groveling.


One, the woman, said, “I only have one left, but I can go in and get more,”
and the other one, a man, said, “That’s okay, he can have one of mine.” He
waved off my offer of compensating him.


The woman said, “He better come over here though, this is the smoking area.”


So I gave Mr M the cigarette and lit it for him with the lighter I’d also
borrowed, then wheeled him over to the smoking area. I sat on the couch,
since I was the only one who hadn’t brought my own chair.


And Mr M, who hardly talks to anyone because he has no one, talked to the
other two residents. They talked about smoking. The woman said she would
never quit, and she came to this nursing home because she could smoke
outside. The man, who was missing half of one leg, said if he could quit for
8 months he’d never go back. Mr. M puffed, and said 8 months was the longest
he’d been without a cigarette.


The woman said she thought there were cigarettes available for sale at the
nursing home, a claim the man scoffed at, but said it might be possible. I
thought one cigarette was fine for Mr M’s first day of smoking, but didn’t
say so. Instead I let the moment slide away, after saying I’d look into it
and find out.


The man left us, rolling out into the sun for a bit, then rolling back up. I
got up and opened the door for him, this particular nursing home being
bereft of things like automatic doors. There is, however, a doorbell that
one can push if one wants assistance. I then held the door for two
paramedics who were bringing in a woman on a stretcher. She looked rather
lively, for someone in her condition, and said hello to me as she passed by.


I went back to my spot on the couch and said I’d developed a real talent for
opening doors for people. The woman laughed and said it was a good skill to
have, and Mr. M smiled.


The woman asked Mr M where he was from, and they talked about the weather,
and train travel, and why Mr M came out here. He said it was his asthma. Mr
M came out here from the east on a train. Halfway here, or in Nebraska, he
got off the train and realized his asthma was already much better.


He was homeless for a year, he said, before he ended up in the nursing home.
“It’s better to be homeless here,” he said, referring to Vancouver, “than it
is in Portland.”


My own expert on where it’s best to be homeless, in case I should need to
know.


The woman gave Mr M the last half of her last cigarette. “D’you want to
finish this?” she asked him, and handed it to him, then to me said, “He was
looking at it, I thought he needed it more than I did.” I liked her. He
finished her cigarette, and, if I’m not mistaken, he rather enjoyed it.


The woman went in then, and I held the door for her, and then rang the
doorbell so an attendant could wheel her back to her room.


I took Mr M in, and we wended our way back to his room, after stopping at
the front desk to ask if there was any truth to the rumor that they had
cigarettes available for sale. I did not receive a positive response to this
question, but I told them it was no problem, I’d just get him some
cigarettes myself, and they seemed relieved, as if this is not an uncommon
request and they’re forever denying people the one thing they want most in
the world.


The man who’d been outside, the man with one leg, was in the other bed now.
This was Mr M’s roommate, but they don’t seem to communicate much. Mr M sat
back in his chair, and I put his hat back on his bedside table. I sat down
on his bed, the only place for me to sit. I don’t stand well. I tend to fall
over. I asked if there was anything else he needed, other than cigarettes,
which I’d bring him Wednesday, when I come back. He said no, and he lowered
his head and whispered, “I wrote my sister two weeks ago.”


“Haven’t heard back from her yet, have you?” I asked.


He shook his head.


I wish I knew her name, her town, so I could call her, but that’s not my
concern, is it? I’d like to tell her that her brother is dying, and that
he’d like to hear from his family. I don’t know what their relationship is
like, what he’d done, or what they’d done, or what happened, but because I
am who I am, I want to fix it. I can’t fix it. I can’t even fix my own
failed family relationships much less anyone else’s. Maybe I want to fix it
because I can’t fix my own, as if fixing someone else’s will allay some of
the feelings that still drift around me.


Instead, I take his hand, and I tell him I’ll be back the day after
tomorrow, and we’ll go outside and have a cigarette. It’s not much, but it’s
something.
-- 
Monique Colver