terrypetersen

Until death it is all life. (Don Quixote)

My father sleeps the awkward sleep of pain and old age. I kiss him on the forehead and he doesn’t respond. I hope he wakes up later, and sit next to him in the common room of the nursing home. My sister Claire will be here soon, after the accident clears on the expressway. She drives an hour—perhaps to visit the father she knew—perhaps to visit a shell of what he was.

I wait, pulling a folder of writing work into my lap, when a woman in a wheelchair catches my eye. She looks upset.

“There’s something in the back of this chair.”

I hesitate, and then notice her oxygen tubing. It’s probably the handle from the tank.

It is. One hand on her arm, I move the handle out of the way. “Is that better?”

“I don’t know.”

An aide appears with a blanket to tuck behind her. When my dad could still sit, I always wondered why one wasn’t inserted before this kind of irritation started. Then he was moved to a geri-chair that could be adjusted for lying down. No handle in the back, just the difficulties of a worsening condition.

“That should do the trick.” I smile and gently pat her arm. She smiles back.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

She answers with both her first and last name and her personality emerges, a wit hidden a few minutes ago. Touch, perhaps it is more magical than I think. Or—it is simply essential to well-being.

“I like your coat,” she says. “Gray and blue go together well. Hey,” she says to the woman in a wheel chair next to her. “You grab her and I’ll get the coat.”

Her comrade looks surprised.

“Just kidding.”

I laugh, talk to the pair for a few minutes and return to my work. I can’t help but overhear their talk about another resident. “She’s not happy about anything,” one of the women says to the other. “Well, I don’t know what you can do to change her.”

Later the woman I suspect to be the object of  their conversation appears. She battles with the personnel, puts on a genuine show. I wonder what internal demons she fights, and feel even more blessed by the first two women.

The core spirit doesn’t go away because the scenery has been altered. It remains, whether that individual is fighting traffic on the Interstate or exchanging conversation in a nursing home.

Claire arrives, smiling. She lives positive attitude. Traffic was blocked for miles. She tells the story, but doesn’t complain about it.

I introduce my sister to my new nursing home friend.

“Your sister is prettier,” she says. Then when I tell her Claire is a lot younger than I am, she smiles and adds, “Just kidding.”

Claire and I have the opportunity to have time together. Dad’s feet threaten to fall off the chair. Many times. We move them back, as gently as we can. He never rouses enough to know we are there, at least while I am present. I leave before my sister does.

But first, before I face rush-hour traffic and who-knows-what-kind-of-chance-to-lose-perspective, one more kiss on Dad’s forehead, even if he doesn’t know I’ve placed it there. After all, I can’t understand the twists and turns of existence, but “until death it is all life.”

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