ECHOES
OF HIS MIND
The windows of the
day room were flung open; the air—light and fresh—gently blew the curtains to
and fro, but the air within the enclosed corridors—heavy and stagnant—wafted
down the hall with the sound of choking coughs, the blended noise of
televisions broadcasting different channels, and the distinctive smell of
urine.
When
I entered the day room, I felt a surge of shock. Many residents slept in their chairs; a
wheelchair swallowed the tangled skeleton of a woman—her head flopped over her
chest and her leg bones twisted uncomfortably.
Joyless inertia permeated the room hinting at Timber Rock Manor’s
unspoken function—caring for elderly people who are dying.
Behind
me a raspy voice said, “He wanted ta go fishin’ after dinner,” said Anwar—the
aide who cares for my father and his roommate, Henry. “I tries ta oblige Edwin whenevers I can; I
wheels him down to da creek ta sit fer a bit whilst I’m tendin’ ta Henry. Mosey on down there; he’d loves ta see
ya! Careful so’s not to spook him,
though.”
I
glanced out the windows and saw my father sitting outside in his wheelchair
near the edge of Timber Rock Creek. His
left arm over which he has no control was propped up by pillows. His olive skin—once tan from fishing during
long summer days—was now ghost white. A
white paper bib hung from his neck in a rather undignified manner.
I
approached the creek bank not wanting to disturb either the fish or the angler
who was casting his line into the shallow creek waters. As I drew near, a small twig snapped like a
guitar string underneath my feet; small birds scattered above me—disrupting the
tranquility.
Pop shifted his
head in my direction. “Hi,
sa..sa..saweetie pie! Ca..ca..caught 59
fish t’day.”
His eyes danced; a
familiar mischievous smile raced across his face as he demonstrated how he’d
cast his line into Lake Tawakoni. He
knew its choicest spots, for—when the lake was but a river—he’d hunted the area
as a young boy and gathered Indian arrowheads.
“What did ya use
to catch those fish, Pop?”
“Crickets ‘n blood
bait…..da fa..fa..faish nibble sla...sla..slowly..ca..ca..caught…59 fish
t’day! We havin’ fish fry!”
I choked back the
tears remembering that summer day in 1961 when Pop actually caught 59 fish and
brought them home for a fish fry. Since
Pop’s stroke, though, both time and space lost their relevance—happily happily
frozen in the recesses of his mind.
“Fantastic! I’ve been wantin’ some fried fish and
hushpuppies. You iced ‘em down, right?”
“Yep! Wha..wha...where’s Anwar? He..he..he said he’d clean ‘n filet fish.”
“He’s waitin’ for
ya up at the Manor. It’ll be dark
soon—let’s head back inside.”
“Okay,
sa..sa..saweetie pie. Love you!”
So I pushed Pop’s
wheelchair across the winding trails toward Timber Rock Manor. When we arrived in Pop’s room, Anwar was tending to Henry—who was clearly at the
brink of death.
Anwar spooned water into Henry’s mouth and asked,
"Dat frog still in your throat? Youz needs to drink. Please now, Henry," he begged. When Henry accepted some liquid, Anwar
approvingly said, “Wunnerful!” Anwar
massaged Henry’s shoulders, arms, and hands then gently cleaned his mouth with
a small medical sponge. Henry’s eyes
didn’t open, but he uttered a sound that could be either a sigh or moan.
“Edwin,” he said, “Your daughter
brought cha a choc-lit malt. I knows
youz loves dat malt! Why don’ts I eases
ya up into be sos youz can drink it?
Pop
nodded affirmatively, but a frustrating frown crossed his face. Although Pop’s stroke took away his
independence, it hadn’t eliminated the emotional anguish Pop faced each day
adjusting to his inability to do even the simplest things—walking, bathing,
eating, lifting himself into bed, and going to the bathroom. Pop glanced at me; I instinctively knew he’d
rather me not see him vulnerable and physically incapable.
Yet,
I desperately wanted Pop to know that—despite his current condition—he was
still my inspiration and hero. I wanted
to find the word that would express how much I admired his courage even at this
stage of his life, for he’s never once complained since the day his stroke
forever altered his life. I stood next
to his bed struggle with what to say and do at this particular moment.
Then
I remembered that Pop, too, sometimes struggled with what to say and do whever
I was troubled or sad. Often he walked
to the local convenience store; bought two small, nickel-size bags of plain
M&Ms; then we quietly sat together on the back porch sharing our
M&Ms. Eventually, he’d touch my
hand; give me a hug; and say, “I love you.
You’re gonna be alright.” I treasured
those moments of comfort and understanding.
Then
I remembered that I’d seen packages of M&Ms in the vending machine in the
lobby. So, I slipped out the door;
headed to the lobby; and bought two packages of M&Ms. By the time I returned to Pop’s room, Anwar
was gone, but he’d left Pop sitting up in bed.
So, I scooched a chair next to him; tore open a package; and placed some
M&Ms into his right hand. He glanced
down at his hand, then back at me pouring all the candy from his hand into his
mouth and chuckling. I opened my bag
pouring some M&Ms into my hand then directly into my mouth. We continued eating our M&Ms silently
sharing a moment of deep understanding.
Eventually, I touched Pop’s hand; gave him a hug; and said, “I love and
admire you, Pop. Thanks for loving me!”
“I
love you, too, sa..sa..saweetie pie!”
Tears
quickly filled both our eyes. Before
awkwardness ruined the moment, I squeezed Pop’s hand; hugged him around the
neck; then walked down the corridor toward the dim evening light—grateful for
the echoes of his mind where Pop could live in the midst of his memories without
pain.
