Persisted Living

Guess what I did today? I put my money where my mouth is! Somebody take a picture! I don't do that often enough, y'all ... I enjoy giving advice far more than I like taking it. Allow me to explain. I had been talking to someone close to me about that Christmastime blues thing, and she confided that she's been feeling unusually "down" for a few weeks. We agreed that once Christmas is over it would be a good idea for her to see a doctor and get a full physical exam, just to be sure nothing is clinically wrong. And although I firmly believe that unsolicited advice is a mild form of criticism, the "pearls of wisdom" I bestowed upon her next were not meant as such and I knew she would not take them that way. I shared with her what a wise person told me many years ago: when you are feeling down, one of the best forms of therapy is to reach out to someone less fortunate than you, and try to encourage them. It doesn't have to cost anything, and both people can be helped at the same time. Sort of a hidden bonus, as it were. Two for one.

I counseled her to choose an evening this week and, instead of sitting alone in her apartment, go to the nearest assisted living center or rest home. I said, take your Bible and take a small gift if you want, or maybe a Christmas card. Go to the desk or office and ask for the name of a resident who seldom or never has a visitor. Go to their room and introduce yourself, and then just sit down and start asking questions. Spend some time reading from the Psalms if they would like, or read the Christmas story in Luke chapter two, and perhaps pray with them. I told her how, years ago, my friend Cindy and I would go once a week to such a place near both our homes. Cindy, a gifted pianist, would take along a portable keyboard. I brought a hymnal. We'd go to the room of someone we knew, talk for a few minutes, then ask the person the name of their favorite hymn. They almost always responded "Amazing Grace." So Cindy would play and I would sing. Although I'm in no danger of getting nominated for a Grammy, I can stay on pitch ... but I'm not sure it even mattered. Most people living in nursing homes don't hear all that well, and they're certainly not in a position to be picky when it comes to live entertainment.

But hey ... when we did that, the neatest thing would happen! About the time Cindy and I got to the part that goes I once was lost but now am found ... people would begin drifting into the room. Clad in everything from bathrobes to threadbare sweats, pushing walkers and rolling oxygen tanks, in wheelchairs or shuffling along on foot, they would come. They'd stand or sit, usually smiling beatifically, and just listen. You'd have thought Cindy and I were Branson headliners or something instead of average ladies with nothing much to recommend us except for the fact that we were there, presenting eternal truth in song. And without fail, as we went to four or five rooms and repeated our little performance, Cindy and I were the ones who got what I firmly believed was the greater blessing.

As I was telling my special someone to follow my somewhat outdated lead and hie herself over to a nursing home so as to be a blessing to someone less fortunate than she, I began to think about how long it had been since I had done the very thing I was suggesting that she do. It had been a while, my friend ... and today I decided to do something about that. Like most people struggling to get it all done a week before Christmas, I had a long list of errands that had to be run. Menus had to be planned, gifts bought and wrapped, cards mailed, free-shipping web sites plundered, et cetera. But amid all that social-secretary routine I did a little bit of hasty research (until today I didn't even know where the nursing homes are in my community, I am sorry to say), punched in a number, and spoke to a very nice lady. I told her my name. "Uhm," I began. "I was wondering, is there anyone living there who doesn't have very many visitors as a rule, who might enjoy it if my daughter and I came by to visit and maybe read to them or just talk to them for a bit?" The nice lady sighed. "You could be referring to just about everyone in here," she said. "Oh," I said. "Well, is there someone that you think might especially enjoy having a visit today?"

She thought a moment, then said there was one gentleman who has no family and never gets a visit from anyone. I asked if he'd like a tin of cookies or something. "Oh, he's diabetic," she said. "But he loves Cheez-Its." I said I'd show up later, armed with Cheez-Its, and she said that would be great. "Come any time," she said. Erica and I went to Dollar General, procured Cheez-Its and a tiny fake Christmas tree, and headed for the nursing home, which sits at the end of a dead-end road (an exquisite metaphor, no?) not five miles from my house. We parked and went inside. The typical nursing-home smells (to me it's always eau de cabbage mingled with old age) met our nostrils as soon as we were inside the door, but we could quickly see that as assisted living facilities go, this was probably one of the tonier ones. With a little help, we located our target sitting at a table in the dining room. It was nowhere near a mealtime, but we soon learned that he "loves to eat." He told us so at least half a dozen times. I'll call him John, because as it happens that is his name. John T., born September 14, 1923, died ... not quite yet.

We sat down and told John who we were and why we were there, and he seemed to be okay with that. We placed the Christmas tree and his card on the table in front of him, but his eyes were on the Cheez-Its. I handed him the box, which he got into faster than you can say Geritol. He pulled the inner-freshness plastic bag about a third of the way out of the box, and in no time had it open too. He began consuming the Cheez-Its with great gusto. "I love to eat," he told us. We said we were glad he liked the Cheez-Its, and proceeded to have a nice chat with him. We read from the Psalms and he said he was familiar with the passage. In his youth, John was a trumpet and saxophone player. His career included directing a high school band in a town about fifty miles from Columbia. Later when we went to John's room to put his Christmas tree on his bedside table, we saw a large framed portrait of him taken during the '40s. Dressed nattily in a suit, young and debonair, he is smiling broadly, holding a shiny trumpet with obvious pride. Years gone by.

In the spirit of in for a penny, in for a pound, Erica and I decided to cheer up John's roommate, a fellow octogenarian who was napping on top of his made-up bed and simultaneously talking a blue streak. Unlike John's side of the room, Mr. M's space was decorated for Christmas with a wreath and some festive (unlit) candles, and a few cards. I approached his bedside, repeating his name, watching for signs that he heard me. After about a minute he woke with a start and smiled real big when he saw us. He told me to sit in the chair beside his bed where he claims that his wife, whom he married when she was a girl of sixteen and he a young man of eighteen, sits each night and "fusses" at him. I'm not sure how she manages that, as she passed away last April, but he assured me I was not sitting on her. She only materializes in the wee hours, apparently.

Turns out Mr. M. served our country in Germany during WWII, where he was wounded badly enough to be flown to Johns Hopkins for a critical operation. Only problem was, en route to Baltimore, the plane he was being transported on crashed in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. He spent the next year in a hospital there, and has had health problems throughout his long life as a result of his injuries. He told us all about it. Unlike John, Mr. M. is lucky enough to have a devoted daughter who lives nearby. He glowed as he told us about his grandchildren and great grandchildren. We read a Psalm and prayed with him, and as we left he said he thought he might sleep some more. He looked chilly to me but he said he didn't want his blanket, which was folded neatly at the end of the bed.

Erica and I swung back by the dining room on our way out. John was still decimating the box of Cheez-Its, having wolfed down at least half of the orangey squares. "I love to eat," he reminded us. We chuckled as we bade him goodbye, promising to bring him a fresh box of crackers next week. The return to society was quick and painless. As Erica and I merged into heavy traffic, bound for Sam's Club and points beyond, I marveled once again at the resilience of human beings. In the face of pain and loss, loneliness and deprivation, old age, illness, and every doubt and fear that besets us, life persists. Christmastime celebrates the birth of the One who came to give us life eternal, as a free gift. Life as satisfying and delicious as a bottomless box of Cheez-Its. Persistent life. Precious life. And best of all, the promise of a greater life after death.

Comments

[Nicole]

Hey just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas! :-D