Notes from the Home - September 12, 2012

   The hallway outside the activity room was alive with activity Thursday. On one side some residents were lined up to have their blood pressure checked, and on the other side there was a line of residents waiting to take a memory test. It was shaping up to be a forgettable day, so I opted for the memory test. As I waited, a question that had been floating in and out of my mind floated in. Annie was there keeping an eye on things; so I asked her.

   “The maintenance man – the little guy who’s always riding around in a golf cart – what’s his name?”

   “That’s Terry,” she said.

   I thanked her and continued my wait. A few minutes later, I was looking across a table at a middle-age woman who told me her name and the name of the organization she works for. Then we got started. She asked me what day it was, the day’s date, the time, the season of the year, what sort of facility we were in, what floor we were on, and on and on and on. There were thirty questions on the test, and I went thirty-for-thirty.  Needless to say, I was one insufferably proud man as I went down the hall to my apartment.

   When I opened my door, however, I was washed away in the wave of humility that surged from my humble abode. Sure, I knew the day, the date and all the other stuff that lady asked. But did I remember the name of the woman who administered the test? No. Did I remember the name of the organization she worked for? No. But the most bothersome realization came when I tried to recall the name of the maintenance man. I couldn’t. I had no idea. And if I hadn’t asked James a day or two later, I still wouldn’t know.

   Then I started wondering about some of the questions. I knew the date, the year, the day of the week, the time. But what if I hadn’t? Would that be an indication of a failing memory? Or would it be the result of not needing to know? For me, anyway, the rhythms of life are different here. For sixty-four years my life marched to the beat of the workaday world. Dad went to work. In time, I started school, and eventually I went to work. I haven’t worked for five years, but when I lived with Nancy, the tempo of life was usually dictated by her work schedule. Now I’m in an apartment by myself, with no job, and surrounded by people who are retired. The days are all the same. Oh, there are doctor appointments and this and that to keep in mind. But most of the time it isn’t vital to know the day, date or time. Of course, I knew all that stuff. It was Terry’s name I forgot. The one bit of information that was important enough to me to ask about, I forgot. Go figure.

  

   Four of us went to hear the Ft. Benning MCOE Jazz Ensemble Sunday. The event was sponsored by the Columbus Jazz Society and was held outside on the grounds of an Episcopal church. It was a wonderful night for an outdoor concert, at least for those of able to get seats in the shade. But even in the sun it wasn’t as hot as it has been, and the humidity was much, much less oppressive than it has been for a couple months.

   In its first set, the group played a few selections from the big band era, a few tunes from the sixties and seventies and a couple pieces that are familiar to jazz aficionados and few others. After taking a break, the band began its second set shortly before seven o’clock. After they played a song or two, Catherine said something about going home. If Catherine was ready, none of us wanted to force her to stay, and we left.

   I didn’t think of it until I was back in my apartment, but on our way to the concert and on our way back, Catherine talked about Peyton Manning, the Denver Broncos new quarterback. Catherine grew up in Tennessee. Manning played his college football at the University of Tennessee, Catherine said she hoped he would do well against the Steelers that evening. I think Catherine wanted to be sure she got home in time to watch the football game. Then Manning and the Broncos went and beat the Steelers.  There is no justice.

  

   As I went to get my mail today, Lynn was coming back with hers. We said “hello,” and then she said, “You have such a beautiful smile.” I hear that a lot here. A woman who lives down the hall has told me several times that my smile is an inspiration. The first person here to comment on my smile was a man who no longer lives at Covenant Woods. A week or so after I moved in, I was up in the lobby, and the man said, “What a nice smile you have.” I must have looked surprised, because he hastened to add, “I’m not coming on to you or anything.”

   There are some crabby people at Covenant Woods. But there are crabby people everywhere, and I am not the only person here who smiles. Yet, the smile that no one noticed in the Rust Belt seems to wow them here in the Sun Belt. It must have to do with the angle of the sun.

  

   I was looking at some old posts earlier this week and noticed on April 20 the wheelchair odometer had 792 miles on it. On Monday, the odometer reached 1,300 miles. Five months and 500 miles, almost all of which came while I was circling the building. That must say something about me, but I’m not sure what.

The Fear of Football

    When I told my friends in Suzanne Byerley’s Thursday writing class at the Kingsville Public Library that I was moving to Columbus, Ga., Chuck Becker warned me about Phenix City, Al., just across the Chattahoochee River from here.

   “When I was in Ranger school at Ft. Benning,” Chuck said, “we weren’t even allowed to go Phenix City.”

   Not long after I moved into Covenant Woods, I happened to be sitting with Catherine at dinner. She’s a very proper lady of 91, and in the course of conversation she mentioned that she was from Phenix City. I told her what Chuck had said.

   “That’s right,” she said wistfully, “it was a wide-open town.”

   Alas, “was” is the operative word, and Phenix City in 2012 is no longer a notoriously wide-open place. But danger still lurks along the banks of the Chattahoochee – both banks – and, apparently, throughout the Southeast. The danger is football.

   Not all football. When I wear my Steelers T-shirt, no one notices. That’s not true. Joe noticed, but only because he’s originally from Pennsylvania, albeit from Pottsville, on the other side of the state.

   The NFL doesn’t generate much excitement here. In the race for space in the sports pages of the Ledger-Enquirer – home of The Chattahoochee Valley’s Largest News Team – the Atlanta Falcons run a weak fourth to the Georgia Bulldogs, the Auburn Tigers and the Alabama Crimson Tide. In today’s paper there was a story about each of those college teams. The only mention of the Falcons was on the agate page, in the list of the weekend’s pre-season games.

   As the 2012 season nears, have I come to realize that college football here is not for the faint of heart. It started with an e-mail from my brother, Jim. He and Susan, my sister-in-law, are thinking of driving over from Birmingham on Sept. 2, and he wondered if I’d be around. If I was going to be available, Jim said, I’d better hope that Alabama beats Michigan on Sept. 1. Otherwise, Susan, an Alabama native and a staunch Crimson Tide fan, would be a most unhappy woman.

   This was a joke of course, and it was my job as a wit – or at least half of one – to keep it going. I will be rooting for Alabama, I told Jim. After all, if the TV broadcast ends with a raucous rendition of “Hail to Victors” playing in the background, I’ll have to run out and purchase a couch. Then when they visit, Susan can, in the great tradition of Southern ladies, lie upon it with her hand on her forehead and say, “I do declare, life is hardly worth living when Alabama loses.”

   Jim, who apparently never heard the old saw about discretion being the better part of valor, forwarded the e-mail to Susan. “I am no Southern lady when it comes to Bama football,” she wrote back. “You will also find that Georgia women are no ladies either when the Dawgs are down.”

   I took the matter up with James, the maintenance man who has been previewing the high school football season for me – Carver High is the team to watch. I told him what Susan said.

   “She’s right. There ain’t nothing but Georgia fans here, and they get all worked up – all worked up. The men are bad and the women are worse,” he said.

   With that in mind, please pardon my trepidation as the kicker approaches the ball to start the 2012 college football wars, which down here take place both on and off the field. Or so I’ve been told.

  

   The Tide humbled what is known in Ohio as “that team from up north,” and Susan was delighted. Her only complaint was that the University of Alabama has put limits on the use of the cheer: “We just beat the hell out of you/Rammer Jammer Yellowhammer/Give ‘em hell, Alabama!” Political correctness, it seems, is everywhere present.

Notes from the Home September 3, 2012

   Back in April and May, as I was settling in at Covenant Woods, I had hopes of crossing Woodruff Farm Road in my wheelchair and going to Publix. But for most of the day, Woodruff Farm Road’s four lanes carry a steady stream of traffic. And Piggly-Wiggly is just down the asphalt path. A supermarket, after all, is a supermarket is a supermarket. Why make a wild dash to Publix when I can take a leisurely stroll – so to speak – to Piggly-Wiggly.

   But Tuesday at dinner Katherine said she had seen Eddie heading to Publix in her wheelchair earlier. Wednesday, Eddie was getting her mail when I went to get mine. Before I could say a word she reprimanded me for going to Publix.

   “I’ve thought about it, but I’ve never gone over there,” I told her.

   “When we were coming back on the bus, I saw you going down the driveway. Where were you going? You didn’t go out on the road, did you?”

   “No. I go down to the end of the driveway and turn around. I’m not foolish. Besides, I heard you went to Publix yesterday.”

   “Yeah, but when I go to Publix, I go down service road by the old K-Mart. Then it’s a straight shot across. I just wait for a break in the traffic and go.”

   “Well, that’s my plan, too. I just haven’t done it yet.”

   If Eddie can do it, I can do it. And Sunday morning, I did. At eight o’clock there isn’t much traffic, so crossing the road wasn’t a challenge, and I had no intention to buy anything. Like the chicken, the only reason I crossed the road was to get to the other side. But it turned out to be a rewarding little jaunt. A man got off his bicycle near the entrance to the Publix parking lot as I was coming across the street. I said “good morning.” He said “good morning” and kept talking. He looked to be in his mid-seventies.

   “It’s a beautiful day, and I’ve never felt better in my life,” he said.

   He’d had a stroke about three years ago and nearly died, he said. He was overweight and out of shape at the time, but since then he’s been working on correcting those problems. He asked me if I lived at Covenant Woods. I said I did.

   “You know Terry? He’s a maintenance man over there.”

   “The little guy? He’s kind of hunched over?”

   “That’s him,” the man said. “He’s the guy who stayed with me and made sure I got help. He probably saved my life. If you see him, tell him Jerry said hello.”

   Apparently Terry drew the short straw and had to work on Labor Day, and he was pitching garbage when I made my morning trip around the grounds. I told him what Jerry had said.

   “I’ve been here nine years,” Terry said. “And I’ve been in a lot of those situations. I don’t remember each of them.”

   “He doesn’t live here. He was out riding his bicycle when I was on my way to Publix.”

   George thought for a minute. “You say his name is Jerry?”

   “I think that’s what he said.”

   He thought a little more. “Oh, now I remember,” Terrysaid. “It was at the flea market. He almost didn’t make it. He asked me to take him to the hospital. I said, ‘No way. If you go into cardiac arrest I won’t know what to do.’ I called 911 instead, and stayed with him until the EMTs got there.

   “Thanks for telling me,” Terry said. “It’s nice to hear that he’s taking care of himself and doing so well.”

   Talking to Jerry lifted my spirits, and Terry was delighted to get an update on Jerry’s health. For not buying anything, I came back from Publix with quite a lot.

  

   The best thing about being in a wheelchair is discovering how anxious people are to help. The worst thing about being in a wheelchair is discovering how anxious people are to help. A couple weeks ago some of us went to an organ concert at the River Center. Annie was the staff person for the outing, and she brought along her daughter Chelsea, who is in high school.

   When we got there, Catherine, a ninety-one year old resident who been to the River Center many times, began directing me to the seating area for the handicapped. Catherine delivered the directions curtly and with the expectation that they would be followed without question. She pointed to a space, told me to pull into it and she plopped in the seat next to it. The next time I saw Annie, she told me Chelsea had watched Catherine telling me what to do and wondered if she was my girlfriend.

   Friday a small group of us went up to Georgia Aquarium in Atlanta. I was able to wander around on my own for the first two hours. But after lunch, the place was so crowded I thought it best to fall in behind Evelyn and Richard and let them run interference for me. Evelyn is a kind and caring woman except when she’s demanding and controlling. Besides telling me to go here and go there, and to go faster or to go slower, she reached for the wheelchair’s controls a couple times as if I was incapable of guiding it properly. I told Annie if Chelsea had been along on this trip she would have thought Evelyn was my mother-in-law.

   On the bus, heading back to Columbus, Evelyn asked Richard for the time. That was followed by thirty seconds of confused, frustrated conversation that I couldn’t make out. Then, loud enough for everyone to hear, Richard said, “Four thirteen. Four-One-Three-P-M-Eastern-Daylight-Time.”

   “Thank you,” Evelyn said. “But you didn’t have to yell.”

   I was sorely tempted, but all the admonishments Mom and Dad had delivered on gentlemanly behavior prevented me from yelling, “Oh yes he did.” Evelyn and I are still friends, although I will avoid her in crowded places from now on.

   And the willingness of people to help those in a wheelchair is sometimes scary as hell. One day last week while I was out for my evening constitutional, I ran into Richie and William, Covenant Woods’ resident sots.

   “Hey, you’re getting some exercise,” William said.

   “I suppose my joystick finger is.”

   “You ought to go swimming, that’s good exercise,” William said.

   Covenant Woods has a small in-ground pool that is four feet deep, and William and Richie are there most afternoons.

   “I could probably get in without too much problem,” I told him. “But I’d never be able to get out.”

   “We’ll get you out,” Richie said.

   Frightened by the prospect, I moseyed on. The next day, I was telling some people about the encounter, and Sue asked, “Did they say if they’d get out before or after they start drinking?”

   “I didn’t know there was a before,” I told her.

   “You’re probably right.”

  

  

Notes from the Home Sept. 2, 2012

   Back in the day – back in the day when no one said back in the day – Covenant Woods would not have been a retirement community, it would have been an old folks’ home. Most days retirement community seems appropriate. But there are days – last Saturday, for instance – when age and the problems associated with it are all too apparent

     Shortly after one that afternoon, I blew the dust out of my mailbox  and started back down the long hallway to the B building, only to find myself behind a slow moving gentleman whom I don’t remember having seen before. He must be well up in his eighties. He uses a walker, and he is blind.

   There are six sets of windows, spaced twenty feet apart, in the hallway. Between each set of windows there is a bar about hip high. The man held the bar with his right hand and guided the walker with his left as he went down the hallway. When he reached the end of the bar, he stopped, found the windows, and then, tapping the windows as he went, proceeded until the windows ended. Then he found the bar and used it until he reached the next set of windows.

   The hallway opens into a small lounge area. When he got there, the man stopped, fiddled with his walker to get it pointed in the right direction.  Then he walked until he ran into the opposite wall, directly in front of the elevator button, which he pushed. When the elevator arrived, he got on.

   While I was cruising the parking lot a day or two later, I saw Annie, who works with Penelope, the activities director. I asked her about the man. She said he recently lost his wife. Besides using the walls to guide him, she said he counts steps to stay oriented. He was quite an inspiration.

   A little later Saturday afternoon, around quarter past four, I was sitting at my computer, bored and uninspired, when I heard a woman yell, “Help, I’ve fallen.” It was Frances. She must have fallen as she was about to leave her apartment; her door was open, and she was lying face down in the doorway. A woman in the hall was talking to the lady in the apartment across from Frances’, urging her to call the front desk. But the woman in the apartment was having difficulty finding the number. I’ve got the number in my cell phone and alerted the people up front. “Oh, Lord, why did you let this happen to me?” the woman asked as she waited for help. The hall filled up with those wanting to help and with those merely curious. When the aides arrived, I left in order to stay out of the way. But I did see one of the aides a little later; she said Frances wasn’t hurt.

   Heading up the hallway to dinner that afternoon, I met up with Al. He said he’d noticed a small pool of blood beneath the skin on his penis.

   “I don’t know what caused it. I don’t have any trouble urinating,” he said and then added, “I haven’t had a hard-on in twenty years.”

   He used words “penis,” “urinating” and “hard-on” several times each as we walked to the dining room. He never used the common slang terms for “penis” or “urinating.” But a hard-on was always a hard-on, never an erection. I’m not sure what that says about Al. And I’m not sure what noticing such things says about me.

   For all his talk about his health problems, I don’t think eighty-eight year old Al is afraid to die. But he is afraid he might have to live without the ability to do so many of the things he is able to do now. He’s led a full life. “I’ve been around the world – twice,” he says, “And done everything I wanted to do.” Al isn’t concerned with life after death: he isn’t hoping to go to heaven, and he doesn’t fear going to hell. “I’m a hundred and eighty-five pounds of chemicals. That’s all,” he says. “Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.” Hell to Al would be outliving his ability to enjoy life.